Monday, January 28, 2019

You Did NOT Say That!

Like most women who've had a couple of kids, I gained a few pounds. This was before the days of fat shaming and people using their right of free speech to speak their mind no matter how offensive their words.

My husband and I are farmers and naturally live in a rural area. The central gathering place in small towns (think population 200 or less) is the co-op. Farmers' cooperative: A place where you can buy fertilizer, ag chemicals, bulk fuel, and seed. At the Farm Store, you can find tires, batteries, nuts and bolts, and sprayer fittings, as well as candy bars and cans of pop.

In addition to the merchandise, an area at our Farm Store has been set aside for guys to hang out and drink the free coffee. Sometimes they play dominoes at the tables.

A small town is where everyone knows everyone else and their dog. Neighbors are people who will do your chores if an emergency calls you away from the farm. People notice if you miss church and call to see if everything is okay. They notice if you trade pickup trucks or tractors. Forget about trying to keep any of your business private. Your neighbors know what your wheat and corn yielded or if your cattle are out practically before you find out yourself. They cry with you when hail destroys your crops or tornadoes blow your house away. They are also aware of unusual activity around your place and call to see if strangers had any legit reason to snoop around in your shed. You really can't resent the fact they know your entire life because you know theirs as well.

One day I accompanied my husband to the Farm Store. He disappeared into one of the offices to talk about the price of fertilizer with a salesman. The place was strangely deserted with none of the loafers sitting around the domino tables. No employees were hanging about looking for something to do either. I said hi to my friend behind the counter. I was literally standing in the middle of the store by myself. Due to this odd circumstance, only the clerk witnessed what happened next.

A neighbor (I'll call him Johnnie) came out of one of the other offices and started toward the retail sales counter. When he noticed me, he stopped and made a point to say, "Well, I see you haven't lost any weight, Lisa." I nearly burst out crying. I hadn't gained any lately either.

The clerk, whose mouth had dropped open upon hearing him, ducked behind the counter like it was a sandbagged foxhole. She peeked over the edge so she wouldn't miss the carnage. I refrained from committing any violence, but only because he was also a valued business associate.

About that time my husband finished jawing with the other salesman and walked up to me. Trying to pretend it was a joke I said, "Guess what? Johnnie here noticed I haven't lost any weight."

He looked back and forth between us with a wounded expression. I could tell he felt sorry for me but didn't know what to say in front of the other guy. Johnnie left, and the clerk slowly stood up. She looked as near to tears as I felt.

"I can't believe he said that!" she gasped. I couldn't get my mouth to work, so I shrugged and feigned indifference.

Occasionally, we mentioned the incident and wondered why he made such a rude personal remark. Nearly two years later he and my husband were talking crop business on the phone. I went into the office and sarcastically muttered that he should ask "Johnnie" if he had told any other women they were fat. My remark reminded my husband of the occasion, and he said into the phone, "You know, my wife still has hurt feelings over you telling her she hadn't lost any weight."

There was a long silence while I pantomimed that hubby shouldn't have taken my remark so literally and Johnnie consulted his memory banks. Finally, he said, "That was a compliment."

My husband couldn't even think of a response.

In the most backhanded flattery I've ever received, he continued. "Really, it was. No one likes a skinny cow."

Drawing inspired by the Skinny Cow cartoons of Werner Wejp-Olsen.


Monday, January 21, 2019

Mint Juleps

Grandma Selma raised spearmint. It grew in a two-foot wide strip of dirt between the foundation of her house and the sidewalk. Mint is a perennial which spreads by runners which live just under the surface of the soil. The walkway prevented the plants from escaping and taking over the yard. Mint will grow in the shade, but it thrives in sunlight unless it gets too dry.

When we purchased our home, she graciously allowed me to transplant a few sprigs with a warning to keep it contained. I needed some greenery on the barren north side of the garage. Just in case it tried to get away, I made a border of bricks, burying them at an angle about 6 inches deep.  The mint transplanted well and stayed where I put it the first year.

The following year the vigorous underground runners crept up to the bricks, grew right over the top of them and took root on the other side.  The next year I chopped some out and gave it to my dad. The mint grew as fast as the recipe for Herman Friendship Cake. The more I pulled out and gave away, the more it spread until eventually a 10 X 20 area of my flower garden was knee deep in fragrant mint.

And it was durable! Kids, dogs, cats, nothing hurt it. We had a flock of ducks that liked to waddle through the patch catching the insects that were attracted to the plants. My dad used it as a mosquito repellent. In the early summer evenings, before he checked on his cattle, he would rub a handful of leaves on his arms and neck to keep the pesky bloodsuckers away.

After baking in the sun all his life, his skin must have been tougher than mine. I tried his all-natural bug dope once when I was mowing. I ended up staying in the house with what amounted to a chemical burn from the volatile oils in the leaves.

I gave up trying to corral the mint and let it grow, occasionally tricking my friends into taking some starts. Just for fun, I made mint jelly. You are supposed to serve it with lamb. Since I didn't know how to prepare lamb, I gave the confection away to anyone who would take it.  Dropping a few leaves in boiling water makes an all-natural air freshener. It is easy to dry and store for use in the winter. Just pick it before it blooms.

I received a phone call from a lady who identified herself as the wife of our meter reader. She had learned through him that we had a bed of spearmint. (I bet his shoes smelled like mint every month because he had to wade through it to get to the meter.) She explained that their daughter was getting married in a few weeks and that she and the bridegroom wanted to drink mint juleps at the reception. This lady and her husband had mint juleps at their own wedding.

She went on to say that they had checked into ordering mint leaves from a florist. Unfortunately, if they had to pay floral prices, they wouldn't be able to afford the drinks. Getting to the point, she asked if I would consider selling them some mint leaves.

Sell them? Lady, you can HAVE some. Would you like some plants so you can grow it yourself? Her husband must have told her how much mine had spread over the years, as she quickly assured me all she wanted was fresh leaves.

Oh, wait. I can't give this lady any of my mint, especially if it is going into beverages. My conscience wouldn't allow it. I sheepishly told her about the kids, and dogs, and ducks. Especially the ducks.

Undaunted, she assured me there was no problem.

No, really, ma'am. You don't understand about ducks. Ducks poop everywhere they go. Even if they haven't pooped on the mint, their feet are dirty, and they have walked on it. Really, I can not let you have any leaves.

Her daughter must have really had her heart set on drinking mint juleps at her wedding because I was informed any foreign substance would wash right off.

A couple of weeks later my meter reader, along with his wife, daughter and future son-in-law, showed up and picked mint while I stood by wringing my hands and wondering if duck poop caused salmonella or botulism. Did people catch typhoid fever these days? Apparently, my fears were unfounded. I didn't hear of an outbreak of food poisoning.

I planted the first spearmint starts in 1976. During the extreme drought of 2010 through 2012, a lot of the plants died. I still have a few plants in the shade of the garage and have been encouraging those to spread. By next summer it should fill in the gaps enough to start trying to give it away again. 

If anyone in my area wants to make a mint julep, I no longer have ducks.  :*)

Monday, January 14, 2019

Driving Lessons

My grandfather always drove a pickup with standard transmission and a stick shift. He was one of those old farmers who drove real slow and drifted onto the wrong side of the road while he checked out the crops. He didn't drive much faster on the highway, but he did stay on his side of the pavement. 

Since his pickup had four gears, he used all of them even though he seldom drove more than 30 mph.  Also, he had large feet and was in the habit of resting his size 13's on the clutch pedal. He burned out a clutch on the average of once a year.

He and my dad rented a pasture to graze their cattle. It was a picturesque spot with a creek running through it. His in-laws, my great-grandparents, lived in a modest house on the property.  It was a lovely spot for a picnic or wiener roast.

I was twelve years old on one of the times everyone in the family had gathered there. He took me for a ride in the pasture where he aimlessly drove in circles and figure eights. I knew we weren't counting cattle because they had all moseyed off to another section of grass. He went through the gear sequence a couple of times without ever topping 10 mph. 

With no warning, he took the pickup out of gear, coasted to a stop, and got out. 

"Okay. When you can change gears without making a screeching noise bring it back to the house."  He turned and walked off toward the house with his long legs eating up the ground while I sat in stunned silence.

Wait. Come back. You were giving me a driving lesson? All sorts of uncharitable thoughts whirled through my mind as I contemplated running after him demanding to know why he hadn't mentioned that I was being schooled or that there would be a pop quiz. Instead, I reluctantly slid across the bench seat and adjusted it forward until I could reach the pedals.

I had been driving the car ever since I got tall enough to see over the steering wheel at age ten, but this was a different situation. The car drove itself while I steered and gave it some gas.  Driving the pickup involved an intricate ballet of using two feet to manipulate the brake, clutch, and gas. One hand finessed the stick shift into the proper gear while the other stayed on the steering wheel. 

I already had a pretty good idea that I didn't want to shift from a forward gear into reverse. But how was I supposed to find the gears? Fortunately, the shifting pattern was printed on the knob of the stick. Gritting my teeth and hoping I was shifting into low, I moved the lever up and to the left, gave it some gas and eased out on the clutch pedal. The pickup lurched a little but didn't die on the spot or let out any audible complaints. 

I was a natural at this driving stuff. Before long I was running through the gears although I knew perfectly well from comments my dad had made that one shouldn't use the higher gears at low speeds. 


HA!  Take that, Old Man. Joyfully, I steered toward the gate and eased out onto the dirt road. Everyone was looking at me a few minutes later when I turned into the driveway. I was feeling pretty cocky by then. I was running out of driveway when it occurred to me I didn't know how to make the pickup stop, at least not gracefully. I put my foot on the brake and it died. 

Oh, well. At least I didn't run into my great-grandparents ancient 1940's sedan. I got out of the pickup and sat down at the bonfire. Grandpa didn't say a word to me about my driving, and I didn't say anything to him either.

Years later, sitting around with my cousins, reminiscing about the grandparents, I related this story. My two oldest boy cousins perked up and said he had pulled an identical stunt on them when they were about the same age.

Monday, January 7, 2019

Sesame Street Live

Sesame Street, on PBS, had been entertaining children for more than a decade before mine were born. Even the roadshows pre-date my kids, who are now in their mid-thirties.

In January 1986, we took our children to Sesame Street LIVE!  The venue was the Coliseum at Wichita. What I remember is that it was expensive. We couldn't help but notice that most of the adults were grandparents treating the kiddos to the show. 

Our seats were lousy.  They were on the left-hand side of the arena at floor level.  

When it was time for the show, all the performers ran through the audience on their way to the stage. Now our seats were fantastic.  Grover patted my two-year-old daughter on the hand.  WOW!
Daddy didn't have his camera ready.  👎

The theme of the show was Save Our Street.  
Here is a link to the commercial:    https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EtqPve_oUmM

The colors faded after 30 years in the scrapbook.

Mr. Meanie was threatening to tear down Sesame Street to make way for a parking lot. An animated sign lit up at the audience response to a vote on the question.









The kids loved Oscar Grouch, and their grandma made a penny bank at ceramics class.
























 


The clothes hamper was the perfect place to pretend to be in the Grouch Can.





Love of all things Sesame Street extended to eating utensils. Now their children think they are fun to eat with when they come to this grandma's house.