My mother's birthday was this week. April 19, 1916. That means she would have been 93. Unfortunately she went away way too soon.
In this old picture Mom is about 26.
Gratitude #83 - Sweet Biddies!
11 years ago
Saturday, April 25, 2009
mom's birthday
My mother's birthday was this week. April 19, 1916. That means she would have been 93. Unfortunately she went away way too soon.
In this old picture Mom is about 26.
my coice
I think I have figured out why cooks like to cook.
Not professional cooks, poor dears, but those amateurs who cook for their families.
The secret: They get to cook what they like (mostly).
I don’t really like peas, I know, it is a character flaw, and my mom would be aghast, but I just don’t like the little buggers (usually). Creamed fresh peas with new small potatoes and step back, but that is different.
Long before Miriam stopped cooking, I would do the grocery store detail. She would go with me and follow along, but the organization of the store was way more than she could understand or handle.
So she would put “frozen peas” on the shopping list. I would “forget” to buy them and then destroy the list in case she wanted to check on me.
One of my daughter took after her father. She loves good cookies, and let me tell you, NO ONE makes better cookies than that fair lass. Not only do they taste good, but every one is exactly the same size and color. I am always amazed to watch her (and to check the samples).
My friend David does not like Rhubarb, so I make it just for me and my dear one. David is gone, but if he was here, he would let me eat it all. Rhubarb is an all or nothing kind of thing. Those that like it have trouble getting enough and those that do not do not.
Same for Asparagus and Parsnips.
I mention Parsnips because that seems to be on a lot of “not me” lists.
Meanwhile, my church group is having a potluck today. I will bring my signature scalloped potatoes, and rhubarb crisp and a loaf of “Mediterranean Black Olive Bread.”
Never tried that one before but so far it looks pretty good.
The recipe says not to even think of using canned olives, but to go to the olive store and buy some real olives.
In rural idaho, an olive store?
Would Sage brush leaves work?
Not professional cooks, poor dears, but those amateurs who cook for their families.
The secret: They get to cook what they like (mostly).
I don’t really like peas, I know, it is a character flaw, and my mom would be aghast, but I just don’t like the little buggers (usually). Creamed fresh peas with new small potatoes and step back, but that is different.
Long before Miriam stopped cooking, I would do the grocery store detail. She would go with me and follow along, but the organization of the store was way more than she could understand or handle.
So she would put “frozen peas” on the shopping list. I would “forget” to buy them and then destroy the list in case she wanted to check on me.
One of my daughter took after her father. She loves good cookies, and let me tell you, NO ONE makes better cookies than that fair lass. Not only do they taste good, but every one is exactly the same size and color. I am always amazed to watch her (and to check the samples).
My friend David does not like Rhubarb, so I make it just for me and my dear one. David is gone, but if he was here, he would let me eat it all. Rhubarb is an all or nothing kind of thing. Those that like it have trouble getting enough and those that do not do not.
Same for Asparagus and Parsnips.
I mention Parsnips because that seems to be on a lot of “not me” lists.
Meanwhile, my church group is having a potluck today. I will bring my signature scalloped potatoes, and rhubarb crisp and a loaf of “Mediterranean Black Olive Bread.”
Never tried that one before but so far it looks pretty good.
The recipe says not to even think of using canned olives, but to go to the olive store and buy some real olives.
In rural idaho, an olive store?
Would Sage brush leaves work?
Friday, April 24, 2009
it was black
My VW pickup was black originally.
That has nothing to do with this story, but when I first made the beetle into a pickup it was black.
One day I was driving home in my little bug-up. I was driving speed limit or so and as I went to pass a big ugly Chevy pickup, it would speed up and not let me pass.
That happened a couple of times, then the chevy went on down the road ahead of me -- for about a mile.
He was going maybe 20 and I was going 45. I went to pass and he did the speed up thing again, but I was going a lot faster and he could not catch up.
Then I saw and felt that he had pulled left against my little VW. I felt the two touch. He was intending to push me off the road. There was a corral and a big barn on that side of the street and I quickly did not like the looks of that.
So, with little thinking I pulled my rig toward him (remember we were in contact) HARD. Because I had inertia, my disadvantage in weight was evened out and I was able to push him back into his lane as I whizzed by.
I looked out the mirror. The pickup stopped and two guys got out to look.
Not being really stupid, I high tailed it for home. End of the story, I thought.
A few months later I was loading carpet at the store I worked for. I had the pad and carpet and a box of tackless strip on the back of the bug-up.
I saw a car pull into the store parking lot, a good distance from me and a guy got out of the car and came my way.
“Is this your rig?” he asked.
“Yea.”
“You owe me a fender.”
“Why?
“You ran into my pickup.” He reminded me what we were talking about.
“Were you the idiot that was driving it?”
“No, my friend was.”
“Tell your friend to not drive into people.”
Now, I am not a particularly brave guy, I might even be a bit of a coward, but I knew I had to at least look and act resolute, so I continued to talk and tie my load down and walk between him and my VW.
After another exchange or two he told me that if he saw my pickup around he was going to torch it. Then he turned and walked away.
When he got in his car he had no choice but to turn it so I could read the license plate number, and as he looked my way I made a point of looking at the plate and writing on the tackless strip box, so he would notice.
What to do? Never had that happen before.
But I went down to the Sheriff’s office and explained the story and his threat, and gave them his license number. “I want you to have record, so that if my rig gets torched, you will know about this conversation.”
The young Deputy grinned a bit and promised to have a chat with the driver. I never heard from them, or the driver, and my VW was not set afire as long as I owned it.
But as I think back I had decided a long time before that if some one tried to force me off the road they would pay. I might be forced, but not for lack of defense, and it was that decision, I think, that saved my body.
Glad it ended up rather humorous memory, it could have been really bad.
That has nothing to do with this story, but when I first made the beetle into a pickup it was black.
One day I was driving home in my little bug-up. I was driving speed limit or so and as I went to pass a big ugly Chevy pickup, it would speed up and not let me pass.
That happened a couple of times, then the chevy went on down the road ahead of me -- for about a mile.
He was going maybe 20 and I was going 45. I went to pass and he did the speed up thing again, but I was going a lot faster and he could not catch up.
Then I saw and felt that he had pulled left against my little VW. I felt the two touch. He was intending to push me off the road. There was a corral and a big barn on that side of the street and I quickly did not like the looks of that.
So, with little thinking I pulled my rig toward him (remember we were in contact) HARD. Because I had inertia, my disadvantage in weight was evened out and I was able to push him back into his lane as I whizzed by.
I looked out the mirror. The pickup stopped and two guys got out to look.
Not being really stupid, I high tailed it for home. End of the story, I thought.
A few months later I was loading carpet at the store I worked for. I had the pad and carpet and a box of tackless strip on the back of the bug-up.
I saw a car pull into the store parking lot, a good distance from me and a guy got out of the car and came my way.
“Is this your rig?” he asked.
“Yea.”
“You owe me a fender.”
“Why?
“You ran into my pickup.” He reminded me what we were talking about.
“Were you the idiot that was driving it?”
“No, my friend was.”
“Tell your friend to not drive into people.”
Now, I am not a particularly brave guy, I might even be a bit of a coward, but I knew I had to at least look and act resolute, so I continued to talk and tie my load down and walk between him and my VW.
After another exchange or two he told me that if he saw my pickup around he was going to torch it. Then he turned and walked away.
When he got in his car he had no choice but to turn it so I could read the license plate number, and as he looked my way I made a point of looking at the plate and writing on the tackless strip box, so he would notice.
What to do? Never had that happen before.
But I went down to the Sheriff’s office and explained the story and his threat, and gave them his license number. “I want you to have record, so that if my rig gets torched, you will know about this conversation.”
The young Deputy grinned a bit and promised to have a chat with the driver. I never heard from them, or the driver, and my VW was not set afire as long as I owned it.
But as I think back I had decided a long time before that if some one tried to force me off the road they would pay. I might be forced, but not for lack of defense, and it was that decision, I think, that saved my body.
Glad it ended up rather humorous memory, it could have been really bad.
Thursday, April 23, 2009
the look down
As high dams go this one is not terribly high -- 325 feet but the view is commanding.
More info: http://www.usbr.gov/dataweb/dams/or00582.htm
This is a dam not too far from where I live.
I visited not too long after 9-11. Since I was a kid, we had always walked across the dam and looked down that long face, but this time this little sign was there along with a very diminutive road block.
I walked a few feet past the sign and WHOOM, a shouting screaming official showed up out of no where to give me a great deal of what ever. Since this is as rural as you can get, it was amazing how quickly he arrived and breathless, almost.
Dumb, yea.
If the dam were to be bombed away, it would flood some farm land, not any population center at all.
Someone said that what we have lost is good sense.
A bridge washed out a year or two ago, and now I can walk and drive across the dam, since it is the only route to a campground and the headquarters for the dam managers.
old news
A few years ago my sister game me a short subscription to the Wall Street Journal.
It was one of those “You subscribe and send a free subscription to a friend” deals. Each morning the paper was on my front walk. Every day I carefully read about things I knew nothing about.
And, in a few months time I had a huge pile of newspaper. The WSJ uses decent newsprint, huge pages, and no color section, which does not burn well. So, now 4 years later I am using that paper to start the morning fire.
And as I start the fire I look at the “ancient” WSJ. This morning there was a glowing piece about one of the big tech companies that was flying high and making tons of money.
The company has been broken up and the owner is in jail. Hmm. How things do change.
I read reports of mergers and plans that have gone sour. Of companies doing great things, but I never heard of the companies. GM and Chrysler were flying high. The future looked good, as far as you could read!
While playing solitaire in a bored moment, I got to thinking of the parallels. You begin a game and it looks pretty good. Things fall in place, the right card is available at the right time.
It all looks so good, then poof, it is over and I did not win.
I look at the world financial affairs, most of which I do not understand, and I have to wonder what will be written 4 or 5 years from now.
One thing I am fairly sure of: There will be more band aids, and few real reforms. There is too much money to be made by the big players the way things have been that the resistance to change is huge.
Probably that won’t affect my cucumber crop this year, though it might mess with my head a bit.
It was one of those “You subscribe and send a free subscription to a friend” deals. Each morning the paper was on my front walk. Every day I carefully read about things I knew nothing about.
And, in a few months time I had a huge pile of newspaper. The WSJ uses decent newsprint, huge pages, and no color section, which does not burn well. So, now 4 years later I am using that paper to start the morning fire.
And as I start the fire I look at the “ancient” WSJ. This morning there was a glowing piece about one of the big tech companies that was flying high and making tons of money.
The company has been broken up and the owner is in jail. Hmm. How things do change.
I read reports of mergers and plans that have gone sour. Of companies doing great things, but I never heard of the companies. GM and Chrysler were flying high. The future looked good, as far as you could read!
While playing solitaire in a bored moment, I got to thinking of the parallels. You begin a game and it looks pretty good. Things fall in place, the right card is available at the right time.
It all looks so good, then poof, it is over and I did not win.
I look at the world financial affairs, most of which I do not understand, and I have to wonder what will be written 4 or 5 years from now.
One thing I am fairly sure of: There will be more band aids, and few real reforms. There is too much money to be made by the big players the way things have been that the resistance to change is huge.
Probably that won’t affect my cucumber crop this year, though it might mess with my head a bit.
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
family
The summer I was born. My mom, my father and me.
Wow, wish I had that pickup! It was almost new!
starting fires
We live in an official “little” house (900 to 1200 square feet) and heat our little house with a very small wood burning stove.
So I build a lot of fires One a day on average.
Matches come 250 in a box and it takes about a box to do a season. This week the old box was empty, so I went to buy matches.
I have nothing (much) against the Chinese (“Eat your food Davy, remember those starving Chinese children”) but they don't know how to make really good matches.
Our usual grocery store only has chinese matches, as does the big chain store. From before I learned that one of our small Idaho only food store indeed carries real Diamond Matches.
So we went shopping, and since they are hard to find I asked (Imagine that) and talked to the assistant manager and told him how much I appreciate him having real matches. He agreed that the chinese did not work as well.
So I bought 3 boxes. By the time I go back again, who knows what will be the state of the match industry.
-------------
With all of that I am pretty experienced at making a good warming fire that does not smoke.
There are barometric issues here, I guess, but today nothing would work right I filled our little house with smoke. I had to open the front door (lucky Leo was not here), and turn on the upstairs bathroom fan.
So there went ten years off my life, more or less.
In the summer I put a screen on top of the chimney. Starlings are the dumbest birds there are, and one will inevitably go down the chimney. It is stainless steel and slippery and there is no place to go but down.
In our old stove the chimney opened right into the firebox, so in time the bird is in the firebox and you can let the beast out.
Our new stove has baffles, so if the bird gets in the chimney, the only way out is to take the chimney apart. That is a dirty nasty job. So as soon as heating season is over, I put that screen in place.
But if I forget to take it off in the fall, it works fine -- for a while, then it gets hard to start a fire, it smokes and will not “draw”. I am reminded to go get the ladder and take that screen off.
I could pay Idaho Power for electric heat, but that would be way too simple.
So I build a lot of fires One a day on average.
Matches come 250 in a box and it takes about a box to do a season. This week the old box was empty, so I went to buy matches.
I have nothing (much) against the Chinese (“Eat your food Davy, remember those starving Chinese children”) but they don't know how to make really good matches.
Our usual grocery store only has chinese matches, as does the big chain store. From before I learned that one of our small Idaho only food store indeed carries real Diamond Matches.
So we went shopping, and since they are hard to find I asked (Imagine that) and talked to the assistant manager and told him how much I appreciate him having real matches. He agreed that the chinese did not work as well.
So I bought 3 boxes. By the time I go back again, who knows what will be the state of the match industry.
-------------
With all of that I am pretty experienced at making a good warming fire that does not smoke.
There are barometric issues here, I guess, but today nothing would work right I filled our little house with smoke. I had to open the front door (lucky Leo was not here), and turn on the upstairs bathroom fan.
So there went ten years off my life, more or less.
In the summer I put a screen on top of the chimney. Starlings are the dumbest birds there are, and one will inevitably go down the chimney. It is stainless steel and slippery and there is no place to go but down.
In our old stove the chimney opened right into the firebox, so in time the bird is in the firebox and you can let the beast out.
Our new stove has baffles, so if the bird gets in the chimney, the only way out is to take the chimney apart. That is a dirty nasty job. So as soon as heating season is over, I put that screen in place.
But if I forget to take it off in the fall, it works fine -- for a while, then it gets hard to start a fire, it smokes and will not “draw”. I am reminded to go get the ladder and take that screen off.
I could pay Idaho Power for electric heat, but that would be way too simple.
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
last trip
This was the last camping trip of the year, in ;07, out in my beloved desert, with David and Miriam.
It will be time go camping a LOT soon.
Gardening and camping, what a life!
tomato planting day
It is time for serious gardening now. Yesterday I worked up the four beds that will hold the tomatoes. The beds are 4 by 8 and I divided them into two 2 by 8 beds.
Some years ago I picked up a couple rolls of concrete reinforcing wire, cut them 6’ sections and then tied the ends together to make a wire cylinder about 2’ in diameter and 5 feet high.
With the center divider in the beds, I can screw clips on to cages in place (along with well placed steel posts). That gives the tomatoes a LOT of growing room, yet makes picking easy, and is compact.
So, today is tomato planting day. Our “last frost date” is three weeks away, so I am only a few weeks before that.
I will also plant the pepper plants today, then make a tent to cover them until it warms up.
Terry, my super neighbor, will make sure things are watered while I am gone. And marvel of marvels we have not had frost since the apricots bloomed. We may get a fruit crop again!
---------------
I read the other day of a woman who told her husband that she finally got what she wanted for Christmas: April!
----------------
We never could grow a garden here without adding a lot of water. I pay for water out of the canals, whether I use it or not. Last year I used that system to water the garden. Not bad, but not perfect either.
Perfect is drip irrigation, which puts the water right where it is needed, and does it gently.
Some years ago I went to the work and expense (I had a job then) of putting in a drip system. Yesterday, after a lot of thinking, I decided to go ahead and get the impulse sprinkler ready to go, but also reinstall the faithful drip system -- in all of the beds.
Even if I use city water, a drip system is so efficient that it is “on budget.” The potatoes and corn/beans/squash will still be watered with canal water.
If I choose I can use a hand sprinkler attached to a hose to water. Or use my wonderful Haws sprinkling can.
And all of this work clears my head.
Some years ago I picked up a couple rolls of concrete reinforcing wire, cut them 6’ sections and then tied the ends together to make a wire cylinder about 2’ in diameter and 5 feet high.
With the center divider in the beds, I can screw clips on to cages in place (along with well placed steel posts). That gives the tomatoes a LOT of growing room, yet makes picking easy, and is compact.
So, today is tomato planting day. Our “last frost date” is three weeks away, so I am only a few weeks before that.
I will also plant the pepper plants today, then make a tent to cover them until it warms up.
Terry, my super neighbor, will make sure things are watered while I am gone. And marvel of marvels we have not had frost since the apricots bloomed. We may get a fruit crop again!
---------------
I read the other day of a woman who told her husband that she finally got what she wanted for Christmas: April!
----------------
We never could grow a garden here without adding a lot of water. I pay for water out of the canals, whether I use it or not. Last year I used that system to water the garden. Not bad, but not perfect either.
Perfect is drip irrigation, which puts the water right where it is needed, and does it gently.
Some years ago I went to the work and expense (I had a job then) of putting in a drip system. Yesterday, after a lot of thinking, I decided to go ahead and get the impulse sprinkler ready to go, but also reinstall the faithful drip system -- in all of the beds.
Even if I use city water, a drip system is so efficient that it is “on budget.” The potatoes and corn/beans/squash will still be watered with canal water.
If I choose I can use a hand sprinkler attached to a hose to water. Or use my wonderful Haws sprinkling can.
And all of this work clears my head.
Monday, April 20, 2009
dirt
In England, people like me would be called “small-holders.”
Not too much land, not even enough to generally be thought of as a farm, but enough to keep the owner busy. When we lived in Washington State the small-holders were Italian who grew onions mostly. They would make a respectable living on a few acres of land.
I am not trying to make a living, just a life.
“To live content with small means; to seek elegance rather than luxury, and refinement rather than fashion; to be worthy, not respectable, and wealthy, not rich; to study hard, think quietly, talk gently, act frankly; to listen to the stars and birds, to babes and sages, with open heart; to bear on cheerfully, do all bravely, awaiting occasions, worry never; in a word, to, like the spiritual, unbidden and unconscious, grow up through the common.” ~ William Henry Channing
I guess that sums it up pretty well.
I’ve been depressed lately. Not big time, but big enough to mess with my head.
Yesterday I got back into the garden. Got my hands in dirt.
I made a living on my knees and now that I am mostly a gardener, I do that mostly on my knees too. At that range even the dirt looks different. At the end of the day my back was tired (pay off for winter laziness), but my mind was at ease.
Dirt. Amazing stuff. Drives grandmothers nuts and calms grandfathers!
--------
Last night I dreamed I was elected president (of something or other). It was kind of a big deal people around me were worrying and fussing.
And the thought struck me, in my dream of course, “Now I won’t be able to wear my regular old clothes.”
The other day I was remembering and thinking. I don’t remember ever seeing either of my high school principles in anything but a suit, white shirt and tie. They seemed to think that shirt and tie were important. We were not even allowed to wear Levi’s.
It is amazing how important small things can be, or seem to be.
Not too much land, not even enough to generally be thought of as a farm, but enough to keep the owner busy. When we lived in Washington State the small-holders were Italian who grew onions mostly. They would make a respectable living on a few acres of land.
I am not trying to make a living, just a life.
“To live content with small means; to seek elegance rather than luxury, and refinement rather than fashion; to be worthy, not respectable, and wealthy, not rich; to study hard, think quietly, talk gently, act frankly; to listen to the stars and birds, to babes and sages, with open heart; to bear on cheerfully, do all bravely, awaiting occasions, worry never; in a word, to, like the spiritual, unbidden and unconscious, grow up through the common.” ~ William Henry Channing
I guess that sums it up pretty well.
I’ve been depressed lately. Not big time, but big enough to mess with my head.
Yesterday I got back into the garden. Got my hands in dirt.
I made a living on my knees and now that I am mostly a gardener, I do that mostly on my knees too. At that range even the dirt looks different. At the end of the day my back was tired (pay off for winter laziness), but my mind was at ease.
Dirt. Amazing stuff. Drives grandmothers nuts and calms grandfathers!
--------
Last night I dreamed I was elected president (of something or other). It was kind of a big deal people around me were worrying and fussing.
And the thought struck me, in my dream of course, “Now I won’t be able to wear my regular old clothes.”
The other day I was remembering and thinking. I don’t remember ever seeing either of my high school principles in anything but a suit, white shirt and tie. They seemed to think that shirt and tie were important. We were not even allowed to wear Levi’s.
It is amazing how important small things can be, or seem to be.
Sunday, April 19, 2009
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