I was told that the old bridge we all knew as Horseauger's Bridge is no longer spanning the River. I guess it finally needed to be replaced. Rumor has it that the bridge is now in a nearby field.
Visiting that spot will not be the same. I remember making the turn as we head toward home and stopping in the middle of the bridge. Dad would get out and walk to the edge of the bridge and lean through the framework of the bridge to gaze into the water. He had to look for fish. Sometimes he would take but a few seconds, but lots of times he would take several minutes. When he was satisfied with looking at the spot where big fish were likely to be, he would walk to the other side of the bridge and look for sucker minnows. If he spotted a big school of minnows the right size, he would have to come back and seine for them. He used the minnows for bait. Eventually we would move on toward home.
In my youngest years, the bridge had planks that ran crosswise to the traffic. These planks were held in place on the ends of the planks, but the center of the planks were not fastened. This caused the boards to make a load noise as the weight of the tires moved along over the planks. It is a sound I can hear in my head as I write about it. I cannot explain it. Well, when I was about fifteen they added a few rows of planks on top of the old ones. These planks ran the same direction as traffic. It was probably necessary, but it ruined the nostalgia of the spot.
Kayak Bandit
Showing posts with label Verndale. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Verndale. Show all posts
Saturday, August 23, 2008
Saturday, August 2, 2008
Sewing Rags
My aunt Mary had a loom. I suppose she made other things, but I remember the rugs that she made on this loom. I was interesting how she would feed the varied supplies and shift levers and tamp things into place as she created these rugs.
Aunt Mary was related to me because my grandmother and Mary were sisters. And another way she is related is that her husband is a son of my grandfather's brother. In other words, two Dearholt sisters married Hess'. One Hess was the nephew of the other.
Back to Mary's rugs. Mary would make the rugs using homemade yarn. When someone wanted a rug made, Mary would make the rugs and keep half for herself and half would go to the person that made the yarn.
My mom taught me to sew the yarn. I loved doing this. We would use old clothes. First, you would cut away all the hems around the outside of the big pieces of cloth. Then you would figure out which way the remaining cloth would make the best strips and cut nicks into the edge about one inch apart. Next, you would tear at each of the nicks and the cloth would make these strips one inch wide.
The sewing came next. You needed to sew the ends together to make a continuous one inch strip. You would place one end over the other and fold a third of the overlap from each side to make three double layers. Next you sew onto the beginning of the overlap and sew to the end of the overlap, reverse to the beginning and then sew forward to the end again. When you got to the end, you would stop sewing just as you were about to go off the edge. This allowed you to sew from one joint to the next without raising the presser foot.
It was fun to keep going with more and more yarn pushed off the back of the sewing machine onto the floor. Some times the pile would get all the way up to the level of the sewing table.
After sewing the ends together, we had to tug at each place the sewing machine ran off the one seam onto the next to break the string. We would roll the end product into a big ball of yarn.
A few years ago, my mom pulled one of these old worn rugs from a drawer and presented it to me. She explained that it was the last one known to exist. She felt I was the person that deserved to keep it since I had sewed more rags into yarn than anyone else. It is one of my prized possessions. The last I know, my cousin Dorla ended up with aunt Mary's loom.
Aunt Mary was related to me because my grandmother and Mary were sisters. And another way she is related is that her husband is a son of my grandfather's brother. In other words, two Dearholt sisters married Hess'. One Hess was the nephew of the other.
Back to Mary's rugs. Mary would make the rugs using homemade yarn. When someone wanted a rug made, Mary would make the rugs and keep half for herself and half would go to the person that made the yarn.
My mom taught me to sew the yarn. I loved doing this. We would use old clothes. First, you would cut away all the hems around the outside of the big pieces of cloth. Then you would figure out which way the remaining cloth would make the best strips and cut nicks into the edge about one inch apart. Next, you would tear at each of the nicks and the cloth would make these strips one inch wide.
The sewing came next. You needed to sew the ends together to make a continuous one inch strip. You would place one end over the other and fold a third of the overlap from each side to make three double layers. Next you sew onto the beginning of the overlap and sew to the end of the overlap, reverse to the beginning and then sew forward to the end again. When you got to the end, you would stop sewing just as you were about to go off the edge. This allowed you to sew from one joint to the next without raising the presser foot.
It was fun to keep going with more and more yarn pushed off the back of the sewing machine onto the floor. Some times the pile would get all the way up to the level of the sewing table.
After sewing the ends together, we had to tug at each place the sewing machine ran off the one seam onto the next to break the string. We would roll the end product into a big ball of yarn.
A few years ago, my mom pulled one of these old worn rugs from a drawer and presented it to me. She explained that it was the last one known to exist. She felt I was the person that deserved to keep it since I had sewed more rags into yarn than anyone else. It is one of my prized possessions. The last I know, my cousin Dorla ended up with aunt Mary's loom.
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
Bridge Racing
The bridges of our farming community were almost all made the same way. They were not very long because our streams and rivers were not very wide. They could almost always be spanned from bank to bank. At the edge of each bank was a concrete wall called an abutment. The bride sat on top of these two abutments.
The bridge itself was made of many pieces of steel all riveted together in a crisscross arrangement. The sides of the bridges were rather high above the height of the roadway. Starting at the abutments, the sides went up at a steep angle. Once they got to the right height, they were level until they met the equal angle coming from the other abutment.
The really cool thing about this style of bridge was the flat surface on the top of the angle section and the level section. Both sides of the bridge were exactly the same. I found that this exactness of sides was perfect for competition. One boy could not complain that his side was longer or higher or more rough. I do not remember ever disputing the exactness of the race course.
Now parents had a problem with this form of competition. We solved the problem by never mentioning that we raced from one side of the river to the other by running across the bridge railing. I marvel at how simple it is to solve major problems.
I suspect, in retrospect, that the only way we would likely have gotten caught was if one of us died when we fell to our death. The one that died would be immune from punishment, and the survivor would not admit to racing. Simple. Yep, Stevie was just climbing up there. We all told him to stay off. With the problems associated with funerals, I doubt any of us would have gotten punished. I am not saying I would do it again. Actually, if asked to bridge race, I would say forcefully - - "Heck No!!!"
It is amazing the things we survived. This is not the worst thing we thought up to do. I hope my mom does not read this. She might still give me a good switchin'. Even at age eighty four. Did I mention that I was her favorite?
Kayak Bandit
The bridge itself was made of many pieces of steel all riveted together in a crisscross arrangement. The sides of the bridges were rather high above the height of the roadway. Starting at the abutments, the sides went up at a steep angle. Once they got to the right height, they were level until they met the equal angle coming from the other abutment.
The really cool thing about this style of bridge was the flat surface on the top of the angle section and the level section. Both sides of the bridge were exactly the same. I found that this exactness of sides was perfect for competition. One boy could not complain that his side was longer or higher or more rough. I do not remember ever disputing the exactness of the race course.
Now parents had a problem with this form of competition. We solved the problem by never mentioning that we raced from one side of the river to the other by running across the bridge railing. I marvel at how simple it is to solve major problems.
I suspect, in retrospect, that the only way we would likely have gotten caught was if one of us died when we fell to our death. The one that died would be immune from punishment, and the survivor would not admit to racing. Simple. Yep, Stevie was just climbing up there. We all told him to stay off. With the problems associated with funerals, I doubt any of us would have gotten punished. I am not saying I would do it again. Actually, if asked to bridge race, I would say forcefully - - "Heck No!!!"
It is amazing the things we survived. This is not the worst thing we thought up to do. I hope my mom does not read this. She might still give me a good switchin'. Even at age eighty four. Did I mention that I was her favorite?
Kayak Bandit
Monday, July 21, 2008
Snapping Turtles
I am not very proud of my role in this story I am about to relate to you. I was quite young at the time and also times were different when I was a youngster.
I was a Huck Finn of sorts. I spent a lot of time on the Leaf River as well as Wing River. Our township drew it's name from the Wing River. The Horseagers lived right by the town hall meeting house. The road to town took a sharp turn and crossed the river here, and logically the bridge was know as Horseager's Bridge.
Mrs Horseager was a widow. She had a nephew my age that would come up from the Twin Cities to stay for the summer. I can't remember his name, but we hung out together on the river. I had a homemade boat that you could push up and down the river with the aid of a duckbill pole. The pole gets it name from the foot on the end of the pole. The foot opens as you push and retracts when you pull back. This allows you to push against mud and the pole will not sink into the mud more than you can pull it back out.
Upstream from the bridge was a wonderful fishing hole for northern pike. On this occasion, we had pushed our way up to fish and were returning when I spotted a very large snapping turtle swimming slowly along the bottom in about six or eight feet of water. I had a spear ready because there often were suckers in this stretch of river and they were very good smoked. My dad could make shoe leather taste good in his smoke house, so I don't know whether it was his recipe or the suckers that made for good eating.
Recently I had heard some old timers talking about snake meat. They agreed that snake meat tastes a lot like turtle. In general, I took it to mean that turtle was good eating. The turtle was swimming with his long neck fully extended. I took careful aim and speared the turtle in the neck. When I got the turtle to the side of the boat, he was huge and his head and mouth were very scary. My friend pushed the boat to shore and we drug the turtle up to the wood pile. Here it gets rather gory. We just wanted to dispatch this turtle so we could eat it. It was not easy. It did everything it could to keep it's neck pulled back into it's own shell. We kept trying to do the opposite so we could make a clean chop with the axe. We took much longer to complete this than I want to admit.
Once we succeeded, we left the turtle to succumb as a chicken always does. The turtle did not cavort around like a chicken. It just started crawling toward the river. This was so unnerving. We would pick it up and put it back on the grass, and again it would start crawling toward the river. Our patience ran out and we drove a nail through one of it's feet and hung it on the side of the woodshed. We left it and returned to the river. As evening descended, we parked the boat and checked on the turtle. To our amazement, it was still struggling. We agreed that we would leave it over night and clean it to eat in the morning.
In the morning, it appeared that life had left the turtle, but as soon as we started to handle it, it again started moving. We were very perplexed. The short version of a very long story is that eventually we gave up trying to clean this turtle. We dug a big hole and buried it.
What I marvel at is why we did not recruit someone to help us deal with this. As we began the whole ordeal, we had good intentions. But for goodness sakes, why we ended up wasting it, and dishonoring it's life, troubles me to this day. To come clean with the whole story would have been to tell that we got a second, but slightly smaller turtle later. I cannot remember if it was the same day or not. It sticks in my mind that they were nineteen and seventeen pounds.
I am intrigued by snapping turtles. They are virtually unchanged since prehistoric times. They catch their food by forcing their mouth open to a point that it locks open. Their tongue has an appendage that looks just like a worm. When a fish tries to feast on the worm, the turtles mouth snaps violently shut. The fish has no chance.
I doubt this story makes a lot of sense. The whole thing is hard for me. I just thought I would try to relate it to you for what it is worth.
Kayak Bandit
I was a Huck Finn of sorts. I spent a lot of time on the Leaf River as well as Wing River. Our township drew it's name from the Wing River. The Horseagers lived right by the town hall meeting house. The road to town took a sharp turn and crossed the river here, and logically the bridge was know as Horseager's Bridge.
Mrs Horseager was a widow. She had a nephew my age that would come up from the Twin Cities to stay for the summer. I can't remember his name, but we hung out together on the river. I had a homemade boat that you could push up and down the river with the aid of a duckbill pole. The pole gets it name from the foot on the end of the pole. The foot opens as you push and retracts when you pull back. This allows you to push against mud and the pole will not sink into the mud more than you can pull it back out.
Upstream from the bridge was a wonderful fishing hole for northern pike. On this occasion, we had pushed our way up to fish and were returning when I spotted a very large snapping turtle swimming slowly along the bottom in about six or eight feet of water. I had a spear ready because there often were suckers in this stretch of river and they were very good smoked. My dad could make shoe leather taste good in his smoke house, so I don't know whether it was his recipe or the suckers that made for good eating.
Recently I had heard some old timers talking about snake meat. They agreed that snake meat tastes a lot like turtle. In general, I took it to mean that turtle was good eating. The turtle was swimming with his long neck fully extended. I took careful aim and speared the turtle in the neck. When I got the turtle to the side of the boat, he was huge and his head and mouth were very scary. My friend pushed the boat to shore and we drug the turtle up to the wood pile. Here it gets rather gory. We just wanted to dispatch this turtle so we could eat it. It was not easy. It did everything it could to keep it's neck pulled back into it's own shell. We kept trying to do the opposite so we could make a clean chop with the axe. We took much longer to complete this than I want to admit.
Once we succeeded, we left the turtle to succumb as a chicken always does. The turtle did not cavort around like a chicken. It just started crawling toward the river. This was so unnerving. We would pick it up and put it back on the grass, and again it would start crawling toward the river. Our patience ran out and we drove a nail through one of it's feet and hung it on the side of the woodshed. We left it and returned to the river. As evening descended, we parked the boat and checked on the turtle. To our amazement, it was still struggling. We agreed that we would leave it over night and clean it to eat in the morning.
In the morning, it appeared that life had left the turtle, but as soon as we started to handle it, it again started moving. We were very perplexed. The short version of a very long story is that eventually we gave up trying to clean this turtle. We dug a big hole and buried it.
What I marvel at is why we did not recruit someone to help us deal with this. As we began the whole ordeal, we had good intentions. But for goodness sakes, why we ended up wasting it, and dishonoring it's life, troubles me to this day. To come clean with the whole story would have been to tell that we got a second, but slightly smaller turtle later. I cannot remember if it was the same day or not. It sticks in my mind that they were nineteen and seventeen pounds.
I am intrigued by snapping turtles. They are virtually unchanged since prehistoric times. They catch their food by forcing their mouth open to a point that it locks open. Their tongue has an appendage that looks just like a worm. When a fish tries to feast on the worm, the turtles mouth snaps violently shut. The fish has no chance.
I doubt this story makes a lot of sense. The whole thing is hard for me. I just thought I would try to relate it to you for what it is worth.
Kayak Bandit
Sunday, July 20, 2008
Swimmin Hole
I grew up in Minnesota, on a farm in the country. One of our favorite things to do was to go to the nearby swimming hole. We had a very nice swimming hole named "The Nine Mile". It got it's name from the name of the bridge. I suppose the name of the bridge came from how far the bridge is located from where the Leaf River joins the larger Crow Wing River.
Most evenings after the farm work was done, the neighboring families would go swimming. There were the Bakers, Daughterys, Whites, Crockers, Wells and others. The big tough guys, of which I was not a member, went straight for the top of the bridge. They would climb up the sloped end of the bridge to the top of the topmost big beam and stand over the deep water until everyone dutifully looked their way. Tough guys were mere mortals if no one was watching. If too few people were watching, they would start a conversation with someone far away so they had to make much noice to have the conversation, thereby drawing attention to themselves standing up there ready to jump.
The younger ones of us usually swam out and back from the sandy beach just downstream from the bridge. The moms usually spread a blanket on the sand and watched the very young. As for me, I spent a lot of time swimming in the deeper side of the water across from the sandy beach. I loved to swim slowly along near the bottom of the river watching ahead of me for fish and other things of interest. A couple times I saw a northern pike, but mostly I would see suckers and shiner minnows.
Another thing to do was to try and walk across the bottom of the river. To do this, you had to find a large enough rock to give yourself some weight. If you tried without the rock, you would be swept along with the current. With the rock, you could progress deeper until your head was about to go under and take a deep breath. You kept walking along until it shallowed out on the other side or you ran out of air. Running out of air was no problem, you could let go of the rock and spring to the surface.
I have many fond memories of the time we spent at the old swimmin hole.
Kayak Bandit
Most evenings after the farm work was done, the neighboring families would go swimming. There were the Bakers, Daughterys, Whites, Crockers, Wells and others. The big tough guys, of which I was not a member, went straight for the top of the bridge. They would climb up the sloped end of the bridge to the top of the topmost big beam and stand over the deep water until everyone dutifully looked their way. Tough guys were mere mortals if no one was watching. If too few people were watching, they would start a conversation with someone far away so they had to make much noice to have the conversation, thereby drawing attention to themselves standing up there ready to jump.
The younger ones of us usually swam out and back from the sandy beach just downstream from the bridge. The moms usually spread a blanket on the sand and watched the very young. As for me, I spent a lot of time swimming in the deeper side of the water across from the sandy beach. I loved to swim slowly along near the bottom of the river watching ahead of me for fish and other things of interest. A couple times I saw a northern pike, but mostly I would see suckers and shiner minnows.
Another thing to do was to try and walk across the bottom of the river. To do this, you had to find a large enough rock to give yourself some weight. If you tried without the rock, you would be swept along with the current. With the rock, you could progress deeper until your head was about to go under and take a deep breath. You kept walking along until it shallowed out on the other side or you ran out of air. Running out of air was no problem, you could let go of the rock and spring to the surface.
I have many fond memories of the time we spent at the old swimmin hole.
Kayak Bandit
Friday, July 18, 2008
Oh, That Tractor
Have you ever lost a tractor? I have.
It all started when I was late to get the cows home from the pasture for milking. Most days you do not have to go get the cows, but some days, only known to why to the cows, they choose to stay out in the field. This day was one of them. We had them in a pasture that we did not often use. I was far away in the northeast corner of our farm.
To get to the spot where the cows were, you had to cross the swamp. Today I was not in the mood to cross the swamp on foot. A brainstorm. Since dad was away, he would not know that I had used the tractor to fetch the cows. After all, dad had this spot where he crossed the swamp. I had driven the tractor across that spot myself. And sure enough, the crossing went fine.
So I crossed the swamp and continued to where the cows should be. No cows. So I widen my search until I find them out in the swamp. I called for the cows, but they will have nothing to do with leaving the swamp. After a frustrating while, I chose to drive the tractor into the swamp after them. It seemed that if the cows were supported okay on their small feet, a tractor would also do fine.
The cows were slow to start moving. You know how cows are. Instead of hurrying out of the way, they just stand there with that cow look until the danger stops for them. Well, when I stopped for the cows to get moving, that was as far as the tractor would go. It was sitting there on slippery grass, but would go nowhere. Reverse did not help.
So, I shut the tractor off and followed the cows home. The milking went fine.
The next day, I went to school. As I got off the bus, returning home, my dad wanted to know where the tractor was. So I told him. He was not happy. I could see that he believed it was mired down. I tried to explain that it was not mired at all, but just sitting on slippery grass. To this day, I still can visualize the look of disbelief in his face.
Dad and Larry went and retrieved the tractor. All went fine, but to hear them tell how badly the tractor was stuck, was, and still is hard to accept. I wanted, but did not get, credit for shutting it down before I mired it.
Kayak Bandit
It all started when I was late to get the cows home from the pasture for milking. Most days you do not have to go get the cows, but some days, only known to why to the cows, they choose to stay out in the field. This day was one of them. We had them in a pasture that we did not often use. I was far away in the northeast corner of our farm.
To get to the spot where the cows were, you had to cross the swamp. Today I was not in the mood to cross the swamp on foot. A brainstorm. Since dad was away, he would not know that I had used the tractor to fetch the cows. After all, dad had this spot where he crossed the swamp. I had driven the tractor across that spot myself. And sure enough, the crossing went fine.
So I crossed the swamp and continued to where the cows should be. No cows. So I widen my search until I find them out in the swamp. I called for the cows, but they will have nothing to do with leaving the swamp. After a frustrating while, I chose to drive the tractor into the swamp after them. It seemed that if the cows were supported okay on their small feet, a tractor would also do fine.
The cows were slow to start moving. You know how cows are. Instead of hurrying out of the way, they just stand there with that cow look until the danger stops for them. Well, when I stopped for the cows to get moving, that was as far as the tractor would go. It was sitting there on slippery grass, but would go nowhere. Reverse did not help.
So, I shut the tractor off and followed the cows home. The milking went fine.
The next day, I went to school. As I got off the bus, returning home, my dad wanted to know where the tractor was. So I told him. He was not happy. I could see that he believed it was mired down. I tried to explain that it was not mired at all, but just sitting on slippery grass. To this day, I still can visualize the look of disbelief in his face.
Dad and Larry went and retrieved the tractor. All went fine, but to hear them tell how badly the tractor was stuck, was, and still is hard to accept. I wanted, but did not get, credit for shutting it down before I mired it.
Kayak Bandit
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
All Wound Up
When I was young, it was fun to play in my grandparent's attic with my cousin Chuck. There were interesting things to snoop through. But the very most fun was the old wind up phonograph. Here are the words to one of the songs I remember:
There'll be Smoke On The Water
On the Land and the Sea
When Our Army and Navy over-take the En-e-my
There'll be Smoke on the Mountain
Where the Heathen Gods Stay
And the Sun that is Shinin'
Will go Down on that Day.
Here is one we all remember. Oops I am dating myself. So maybe you don't remember.
Way down upon the Swanee River,
Far, far away
That's where my heart is turning ever
That's where the old folks stay
All up and down the whole creation,
Sadly I roam
Still longing for the old plantation
And for the old folks at home
Chorus:
All the world is sad and dreary everywhere I roam
Oh darkies, how my heart grows weary
Far from the old folks at home
I sure wanted one of those phonographs. When we first started playing it, the top of the phonograph was about the same height as me. I would stand on my tip toes to put the record on the turntable. Then when we got it wound up, we would turn it on by throwing this one lever. The song would start out just fine, but by the end of the record, the tune would start to slow down.
Yep, just another day in grandpa's attic.
Kayak Bandit
There'll be Smoke On The Water
On the Land and the Sea
When Our Army and Navy over-take the En-e-my
There'll be Smoke on the Mountain
Where the Heathen Gods Stay
And the Sun that is Shinin'
Will go Down on that Day.
Here is one we all remember. Oops I am dating myself. So maybe you don't remember.
Way down upon the Swanee River,
Far, far away
That's where my heart is turning ever
That's where the old folks stay
All up and down the whole creation,
Sadly I roam
Still longing for the old plantation
And for the old folks at home
Chorus:
All the world is sad and dreary everywhere I roam
Oh darkies, how my heart grows weary
Far from the old folks at home
I sure wanted one of those phonographs. When we first started playing it, the top of the phonograph was about the same height as me. I would stand on my tip toes to put the record on the turntable. Then when we got it wound up, we would turn it on by throwing this one lever. The song would start out just fine, but by the end of the record, the tune would start to slow down.
Yep, just another day in grandpa's attic.
Kayak Bandit
Sunday, July 6, 2008
Blueberries & Grandma's Chicken
One of my favorite memories is going picking blueberries with my grandparents. Grandpa knew all the right places to find the blueberries and grandma could pack the best picnic lunch in the whole wide world.
We would hike across the field from our home to Grandpa Hess' home. When we got there, grandma would be busy setting out all the things she knew we would need. She would pack a bunch of jars of water and arrange them in a cardboard box with towels between each of them. And then there was the big tin box that had all sorts of yummy stuff crammed into it. The house always smelled of fried chicken. It is likely because she always brought chicken for the picnic.
Grandpa would likely have already backed the car out near the gate. He would keep asking if he could start putting things into the car, but no, not until it was all lined up on the cupboard. Then when grandma was sure she had remembered everything, we all were assigned to carry something to the car. She would take the thing that needed to go in the bottom of the trunk herself. We would bring our burden to her to stack just so. Then we would all get into the car, but wait, she had forgotten her sun bonnet. Her bonnet was very wide with a pretty band around the outside. The band went through the hat on both sides with long tails to tie under her chin. She would come a runnin through the gate and into the car. We were off!
When we got to the blueberry picking spot, Grandpa would take off without any of us. He did not even take a bucket to pick his berries. He was too impatient to wait until grandma fashioned a belt for each of us. the belt went around us with the bail of a lard pail inside the belt. She would always show us to keep it slightly to one side so it did not slosh the berries so badly when we walked. Shortly grandpa would return to advise us which direction to head to find the best berries. Grandma would rig him up with a larger lard pail and we set off to the berry patch.
I can still remember how good those first berries always tasted. I bet we each ate a cup of berries before the first one hit the lard pail. Can you picture little Stevie all smeared up with blue berry juice. It is too bad we did not get a picture of that.
After we had picked all we wanted, we would return to the car. Grandma would spread out this giant tablecloth under a shady tree. We would all sit in a circle and enjoy chicken, date roll ups, and fresh bread. Grandma would mix up a drink that I would always call Kool-Ade. Grandma would be very insulted and correct me and say it was not some cheap Kool-Ade. This was real nectar. The difference was lost on me, but I can still remember how much of a big deal it was for me to understand that grandma did not serve that lousy Kool-Ade.
It did not take much to fill us up with all the berries we had eaten. Grandpa would likely want to take a short nap in the shade before we headed home. Grandma would leave us with grandpa and go for another bucket of berries. Good times.
Kayak Bandit
We would hike across the field from our home to Grandpa Hess' home. When we got there, grandma would be busy setting out all the things she knew we would need. She would pack a bunch of jars of water and arrange them in a cardboard box with towels between each of them. And then there was the big tin box that had all sorts of yummy stuff crammed into it. The house always smelled of fried chicken. It is likely because she always brought chicken for the picnic.
Grandpa would likely have already backed the car out near the gate. He would keep asking if he could start putting things into the car, but no, not until it was all lined up on the cupboard. Then when grandma was sure she had remembered everything, we all were assigned to carry something to the car. She would take the thing that needed to go in the bottom of the trunk herself. We would bring our burden to her to stack just so. Then we would all get into the car, but wait, she had forgotten her sun bonnet. Her bonnet was very wide with a pretty band around the outside. The band went through the hat on both sides with long tails to tie under her chin. She would come a runnin through the gate and into the car. We were off!
When we got to the blueberry picking spot, Grandpa would take off without any of us. He did not even take a bucket to pick his berries. He was too impatient to wait until grandma fashioned a belt for each of us. the belt went around us with the bail of a lard pail inside the belt. She would always show us to keep it slightly to one side so it did not slosh the berries so badly when we walked. Shortly grandpa would return to advise us which direction to head to find the best berries. Grandma would rig him up with a larger lard pail and we set off to the berry patch.
I can still remember how good those first berries always tasted. I bet we each ate a cup of berries before the first one hit the lard pail. Can you picture little Stevie all smeared up with blue berry juice. It is too bad we did not get a picture of that.
After we had picked all we wanted, we would return to the car. Grandma would spread out this giant tablecloth under a shady tree. We would all sit in a circle and enjoy chicken, date roll ups, and fresh bread. Grandma would mix up a drink that I would always call Kool-Ade. Grandma would be very insulted and correct me and say it was not some cheap Kool-Ade. This was real nectar. The difference was lost on me, but I can still remember how much of a big deal it was for me to understand that grandma did not serve that lousy Kool-Ade.
It did not take much to fill us up with all the berries we had eaten. Grandpa would likely want to take a short nap in the shade before we headed home. Grandma would leave us with grandpa and go for another bucket of berries. Good times.
Kayak Bandit
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Roller Skating
Do you remember back to when you were a kid. One of my memories is skating. We did not have a roller rink in our home town of Verndale, Minnesota. When we went skating we had to drive to Wadena.
I starte
d skating when I was about ten. At ten years old I would pull myself along the railing. I hated coming to the end of the straight-a-way because I had not learned to turn. All the good skaters would make this graceful turn at both ends of the rink, but I would have to rely on the wall to keep myself from falling down. So, when I came to the curved portion, I would follow the wall to the square corner. I would stop and realign myself along the end of the rink. There were often other skater stopped here to visit. They were out of the way of the main flow, but usually in my way. I was a skinny little runt, so I could squeeze through if I was patient.
Okay, so now I got to the second straight-a-way. Here I had to time getting into the flow without getting smashed into by some big jock that was skating backward or something. Those big jock types were always skating backward in front of the cutest girls. Man did I want to know how to skate backward.
Eventually I got a little better. I could go full tilt all the way around the floor. The only thing I had to be careful of, was making sure both skates were in contact with the floor all the way around the curve portion. If I did not have enough steam going into the curve, and had to lift a skate, it was only the outside one. You know, the one foot push and coast stroke.
Some times the mean announcer would call for everyone off the floor. Once we were all off, he would announce a reverse skate. Crap. What was a guy to do. It was so unnatural to turn clockwise after learning to turn counter-clockwise. I had to try though. Those guys that were able to skate backwards and flirt at the same time had no trouble at all. If there was jealousy before, it had just gone another notch higher.
I never did like having to skate reverse, but I did get a lot better at the turns on the end. Eventually I was able to maintain a good speed and keep putting one skate in front of the other. I was so proud of myself when I learned this. The down side to a good night of skating for a boy was when they announced couples only. I paid good money to be able to skate. But no, only those that had a partner could skate. I just had to sit down, how boring.
Then one evening, someone planted an idea in my head. Why not ask a girl to skate? Who me? Are you crazy? Tell me more. Why, it is not that hard. Every girl here wants to partner skate more than you do. You see, you go up and ask them if they would like to skate and at the same time be heading to the floor. That way they will answer yes. It takes the tension away if you make it seem natural.
But wait just a minute. How do I skate with a girl? Do I have to hold her hand? What if our skates bang into one another? So, you do not want to skate with a girl? Why yes, but how? So my friend explained that you take ahold of her left hand with your own left hand. And then you start skating nice and slow. The girl will match your skating pace and you put your right hand behind her back and take ahold of the inside of her right elbow.
It was amazing how the couple skates changed from dread to something to look forward to. It was not that you were discouraged from skating as couples during an all skate. It was that, well, during an all skate, us guys were seeing how fast we could make the turn at the ends. It was a big thing to make our skates growl from the force of the fast turn.
Those were some really fun times.
I wrote this earlier with plans to publish it on the 27th, but discovered letterboxer, Lady B, is a roller skating instructor from Beaverton, Oregon. Lady B is coming to a letterboxing party at my house tonight, so I moved the publish date up in her honor.
Kayak Bandit ‘(*!*)’
I starte
d skating when I was about ten. At ten years old I would pull myself along the railing. I hated coming to the end of the straight-a-way because I had not learned to turn. All the good skaters would make this graceful turn at both ends of the rink, but I would have to rely on the wall to keep myself from falling down. So, when I came to the curved portion, I would follow the wall to the square corner. I would stop and realign myself along the end of the rink. There were often other skater stopped here to visit. They were out of the way of the main flow, but usually in my way. I was a skinny little runt, so I could squeeze through if I was patient.Okay, so now I got to the second straight-a-way. Here I had to time getting into the flow without getting smashed into by some big jock that was skating backward or something. Those big jock types were always skating backward in front of the cutest girls. Man did I want to know how to skate backward.
Eventually I got a little better. I could go full tilt all the way around the floor. The only thing I had to be careful of, was making sure both skates were in contact with the floor all the way around the curve portion. If I did not have enough steam going into the curve, and had to lift a skate, it was only the outside one. You know, the one foot push and coast stroke.
Some times the mean announcer would call for everyone off the floor. Once we were all off, he would announce a reverse skate. Crap. What was a guy to do. It was so unnatural to turn clockwise after learning to turn counter-clockwise. I had to try though. Those guys that were able to skate backwards and flirt at the same time had no trouble at all. If there was jealousy before, it had just gone another notch higher.
I never did like having to skate reverse, but I did get a lot better at the turns on the end. Eventually I was able to maintain a good speed and keep putting one skate in front of the other. I was so proud of myself when I learned this. The down side to a good night of skating for a boy was when they announced couples only. I paid good money to be able to skate. But no, only those that had a partner could skate. I just had to sit down, how boring.
Then one evening, someone planted an idea in my head. Why not ask a girl to skate? Who me? Are you crazy? Tell me more. Why, it is not that hard. Every girl here wants to partner skate more than you do. You see, you go up and ask them if they would like to skate and at the same time be heading to the floor. That way they will answer yes. It takes the tension away if you make it seem natural.
But wait just a minute. How do I skate with a girl? Do I have to hold her hand? What if our skates bang into one another? So, you do not want to skate with a girl? Why yes, but how? So my friend explained that you take ahold of her left hand with your own left hand. And then you start skating nice and slow. The girl will match your skating pace and you put your right hand behind her back and take ahold of the inside of her right elbow.
It was amazing how the couple skates changed from dread to something to look forward to. It was not that you were discouraged from skating as couples during an all skate. It was that, well, during an all skate, us guys were seeing how fast we could make the turn at the ends. It was a big thing to make our skates growl from the force of the fast turn.
Those were some really fun times.
I wrote this earlier with plans to publish it on the 27th, but discovered letterboxer, Lady B, is a roller skating instructor from Beaverton, Oregon. Lady B is coming to a letterboxing party at my house tonight, so I moved the publish date up in her honor.
Kayak Bandit ‘(*!*)’
Monday, June 23, 2008
Driving With Grandpa
My Grandpa Hess was a warm, wonderful man. I remember fondly the times we shared. As most old people do, he had some interesting truisms. My favorite is on my letterboxing website. "You will not get stuck if you just keep moving." Another one was his admonition to someone shoveling grain into the granary. "Don't worry at all about the toe of the shovel, concentrate on filling the heal and the toe will take care of itself."
Visiting at grandpa's home was special. He had a windmill. A lot of things happened at the windmill. The obvious, was the water would get pumped up into a trough that led to the cattle tank. When the wind blew steady for quite a while the tank would become full. Grandpa had a knack for knowing how close to full the tank was. When it was nearly full, grandpa might ask me to go to the windmill and release the lever which in turn stopped the windmill from turning. Even though the wind would blow whether or not the pump was turning, grandpa did not want to wear out the bearings on the windmill.
Another happening at the windmill was washing grandpa's 1950 Chevrolet. Grandpa was very pleased with his car and kept it clean. It was exceptionally clean compared to our car. Why, dad would drive our car across a rough field to get a closer look at a herd of deer. Or deliver a greasy part to Ole's repair shop. If grandpa needed to haul something, he would put it in the trunk wrapped in a gunny sack.
Often, I would help wash his car. We would suds it up real good and then throw buckets of water onto the car to rinse the suds off. When the car had adequately dried, Grandpa would let me sit in his lap and drive the car. He would choose a short route for me to drive, ending in parking it inside the garage.
Even though I was accustomed to driving tractors, a car was a big deal. And doing anything with grandpa was special.
Kayak Bandit '(*!*)'
Saturday, June 21, 2008
I Can Pee Better Than You!
Since, as long as there have been towns and cities, there has been competition between city slickers and country bumpkins. I happen to fall in the latter category. And, truth be known, I am a bumpkin.
There have been numerous times that I did not measure up to city standards. How was I supposed to know that you have to cross a street near the intersection, for instance. By the way, why do they call that infraction "J Waking?" Could it be the way us farmers perceive a jay? After all, city dwellers, jays do strut around in a random fashion. And which farmer gave the city folks permission to use our verbiage? Did you notice I used the word verbiage? Pretty impressive word for a bumpkin, wouldn't you say? I hope I spelled it correctly.
Well, my cousins lived in town. They would come to the farm for visits. They were exposed to things in their town of Silver Bay, that we were not. I remember how interesting their lives were. But, they liked coming to the farm for equal and opposite reasons.
My memory of cousin Chuck always intrigued me. You see, I remember challenging him to compete with me to see who could pee and make the stream of pee hit the fence wire. I do not know how I learned not to pee on a fence. I do not think I ever did. Also note that the fence we were attempting to pee upon was an electric fence.
The way I remember it, is that my aim was not as good as Chuck's aim. He won the competition. His reward for winning was a jolt of electricity through a sensitive part of the body. Congratulate him if ever your paths cross.
Admittedly, the question crossed my mind whether this could lead to serious reproductive harm. In time the question was answered with the birth of his wonderful girls. Speaking of these girls, I traveled back to Minnesota about fifteen years ago to visit Chuck and his family. We had a wonderful visit.
Chuck stayed true to his Christian upbringing. He raised his daughters to be Christian too. Because I was aware of his faith, I was taken aback when he said to me as we were preparing to leave, "Take care you old turd." His daughters were shocked to hear their dad say "turd", which was obvious to me from there harmonious "Dad???"
Chuck replied to his daughters by adding "Well he is a turd. Do you realize that your uncle Steve tricked me into peeing onto an electric fence?" I was so embarrassed that he would discuss this in front of his family. I was always too embarrassed to discuss this with him, even when no one else was around.
I collected myself enough to ask (since he had breached the subject) if his memory was the same as mine. I said that I remembered tricking him twice. My very honorable cousin, Chuck, admitted that it was twice.
Chuck, I am glad that you were not injured by my prank. I hope you can forgive me.
Kayak Bandit '(*!*)'
There have been numerous times that I did not measure up to city standards. How was I supposed to know that you have to cross a street near the intersection, for instance. By the way, why do they call that infraction "J Waking?" Could it be the way us farmers perceive a jay? After all, city dwellers, jays do strut around in a random fashion. And which farmer gave the city folks permission to use our verbiage? Did you notice I used the word verbiage? Pretty impressive word for a bumpkin, wouldn't you say? I hope I spelled it correctly.
Well, my cousins lived in town. They would come to the farm for visits. They were exposed to things in their town of Silver Bay, that we were not. I remember how interesting their lives were. But, they liked coming to the farm for equal and opposite reasons.
My memory of cousin Chuck always intrigued me. You see, I remember challenging him to compete with me to see who could pee and make the stream of pee hit the fence wire. I do not know how I learned not to pee on a fence. I do not think I ever did. Also note that the fence we were attempting to pee upon was an electric fence.
The way I remember it, is that my aim was not as good as Chuck's aim. He won the competition. His reward for winning was a jolt of electricity through a sensitive part of the body. Congratulate him if ever your paths cross.
Admittedly, the question crossed my mind whether this could lead to serious reproductive harm. In time the question was answered with the birth of his wonderful girls. Speaking of these girls, I traveled back to Minnesota about fifteen years ago to visit Chuck and his family. We had a wonderful visit.
Chuck stayed true to his Christian upbringing. He raised his daughters to be Christian too. Because I was aware of his faith, I was taken aback when he said to me as we were preparing to leave, "Take care you old turd." His daughters were shocked to hear their dad say "turd", which was obvious to me from there harmonious "Dad???"
Chuck replied to his daughters by adding "Well he is a turd. Do you realize that your uncle Steve tricked me into peeing onto an electric fence?" I was so embarrassed that he would discuss this in front of his family. I was always too embarrassed to discuss this with him, even when no one else was around.
I collected myself enough to ask (since he had breached the subject) if his memory was the same as mine. I said that I remembered tricking him twice. My very honorable cousin, Chuck, admitted that it was twice.
Chuck, I am glad that you were not injured by my prank. I hope you can forgive me.
Kayak Bandit '(*!*)'
Monday, June 16, 2008
The Waltons
I often talk about my childhood. I was raised in a Christian home on a farm in Minnesota. There were nine of us kids born to two loving parents. Believe it or not, they stayed together through life's struggles.
Many people are intrigued by the large family and farm life. I often am asked if our family was like the "Waltons". I want to scream when asked this. I am insulted that anyone would suspect we were that shallow. The farm life depicted by that show rarely shows the depth and complexity of real farm life. It feels like the precursor of the political correctness that is destroying our social fiber today.
It is not that we were impolite to each other. We were not. We did not pour honey on top of our politeness.
This might be a quote from the Waltons, "Why, Mrs Hess, I would so very much love to have the honor of just one little taste of your wonderful fried chicken."
We would have said, "Please pass the chicken." Notice that we did say please.
Dad always asked God's blessing on the meal. Mom would be scurrying around getting the food on the table, but we would wait until she sat before any of us started eating.
During the meal, we would often compliment the food. We were encouraged to say nothing bad about the food, even when we did not like it. If we did not like something enough that we did not want to eat it, we were expected to quietly move it to the side of the plate. In that case, someone would often ask if we were going to eat it. Another would likely ask for it, most often my dad.
I am most proud of how we were able to resolve differences. We rarely let something fester. If we were upset with someone, we were encouraged to talk it out right away. It was the philosophy of not going to bed angry. I remember some potato fights with my sister Barb, right sis?
All in all, I would not ever, never, no way trade my life. I am so very happy to have the two loving parents that God afforded to me.
Kayak Bandit '(*!*)'
Many people are intrigued by the large family and farm life. I often am asked if our family was like the "Waltons". I want to scream when asked this. I am insulted that anyone would suspect we were that shallow. The farm life depicted by that show rarely shows the depth and complexity of real farm life. It feels like the precursor of the political correctness that is destroying our social fiber today.
It is not that we were impolite to each other. We were not. We did not pour honey on top of our politeness.
This might be a quote from the Waltons, "Why, Mrs Hess, I would so very much love to have the honor of just one little taste of your wonderful fried chicken."
We would have said, "Please pass the chicken." Notice that we did say please.
Dad always asked God's blessing on the meal. Mom would be scurrying around getting the food on the table, but we would wait until she sat before any of us started eating.
During the meal, we would often compliment the food. We were encouraged to say nothing bad about the food, even when we did not like it. If we did not like something enough that we did not want to eat it, we were expected to quietly move it to the side of the plate. In that case, someone would often ask if we were going to eat it. Another would likely ask for it, most often my dad.
I am most proud of how we were able to resolve differences. We rarely let something fester. If we were upset with someone, we were encouraged to talk it out right away. It was the philosophy of not going to bed angry. I remember some potato fights with my sister Barb, right sis?
All in all, I would not ever, never, no way trade my life. I am so very happy to have the two loving parents that God afforded to me.
Kayak Bandit '(*!*)'
Thursday, June 12, 2008
Rubber Band Gun Standoff
I have an older brother. I was in awe of him. He drove a Ford Fairlane, two door that had the police car interceptor, eight cylinder engine. It could throw gravel for a country mile. Like I said I was in awe.
I wasn't the only one that was in awe of Larry. Half the girls in our town and the neighboring towns would have given their last pair of bobby sox for just a smile from Larry. He was our high school Snow King, for goodness sake. He was the football team's fullback.
One day Larry came home with his girlfriend. This was the first time he had brought Wanda to our home. I am not sure how long they had been dating, but it was a really big deal for a guy to formally introduce his girlfriend to his parents. Larry must have tipped off my folks, because dad had combed his hair. No man would comb his hair needlessly. Why, he could always put a hat on if he needed to go outside. Ya know what I mean?
For several days leading up to this big event, I had been working on a new and improved rubber band gun. My grandpa gave me his last inner tube made from red rubber. All of us knew they made the best bands for a gun. I carefully cut the bands a uniform width. I used up the whole inner tube making my bands.
Now that I had plenty of bands I decided to make my rubber band gun shoot multiple shots. I worked hard making the notches just so. I stretched the bands in place and was standing there admiring my own work. Boy was I proud of my invention. The very first repeating rubber band gun in the world.
Well my pride of this invention collided with Larry's pride of his girlfriends beauty. You see, I wanted Larry to watch me demonstrate my gun and he was determined to introduce Wanda to my folks. When Larry would not give me the courtesy to watch, I warned him that I would shoot him if he did not watch. I aimed the gun at him and, to his peril, he tried to brush by me. I shot him in the stomach. From his reaction, I could tell it hurt. He started for me, but I stood my ground, gun aimed. After all, I had many more shots left. He recognized I meant business when I said "there's plenty more where that came from".
He was no dummy. He took Wanda inside. As he headed in, I took off. I suspected he would clean my clock if I hung around. Boy it is amazing what a young man will do when he is in love. They completely lose sight of what is important. A brother should always take time for a younger brother. Even when the younger brother is a brat. Larry, I am sorry I was a brat. And no, mom did not make me say that to you. I mean it.
Kayak Bandit '(*!*)'
Saturday, June 7, 2008
First Dance
Have you ever been on a hay ride? No, not a fake one in the back of a U Haul trailer or something. I mean the real thing. You have to start with a wagon that hauls hay.
Okay, now you load some straw onto the wagon. It needs to be enough straw to cussion the bad bumps in a country road. Oh, and notice that it is straw instead of hay. Straw is the stalks from crops of grain. It is left over after the grain is harvested. It is so very soft compared to hay. Yeah, I know it is called a hay ride. Deal with it.
The next requisite is horses. No one appreciates the sound of a tractor on a cold moon-lit night. The sound of horses hoofs going clip clop is just fine. Other sounds you hear on a good hay ride are the creaking of the wagon, The visiting of the chaparons up front. They know not to be too intrusive, so they sit up front with the driver and chat. If they stop chattering, they could very well be looking back. You must behave for these infrequent lulls in conversation. And then there are the giggles of the girls. All girls have to giggle. God made them to giggle.
If you are smart, you will make a nice little nest in the very middle of the wagon. That way as the ride goes on and people are struggling to stay on the slippery straw, you can offer to let the cute girls move closer so there is enough room for everyone. I don't intend going on any more hay rides at age sixty, so I don't mind giving up my secret.
If you play your cards right, you may even get invited to listen to records afterward. Toni invited me and her older sister invited my friend Dennis to stay after this one hayride. Dennis and I were the same age, Toni was one year younger and Toni's sister was a year older. Everyone knew that guys were supposed to be older, so what was Dennis thinking?
In our house we had Tennesee Ernie Ford and Hank Williams, but these sisters had every record you could imagine. We listened to a lot of records. Eventually, you guessed it, they played a slow song. Toni said we had to dance to this. I was petrified. I think the song played out and I still had not gotten up the courage to dance. That was no problem for Toni. She started it again and insisted I dance. I did. To this day, I can remember vividly the feeling of holding Toni as we danced.
I moved from Minnesota to Oregon and lost touch with my first dance partner, but not the memory.
Kayak Bandit '(*!*)'
Okay, now you load some straw onto the wagon. It needs to be enough straw to cussion the bad bumps in a country road. Oh, and notice that it is straw instead of hay. Straw is the stalks from crops of grain. It is left over after the grain is harvested. It is so very soft compared to hay. Yeah, I know it is called a hay ride. Deal with it.
The next requisite is horses. No one appreciates the sound of a tractor on a cold moon-lit night. The sound of horses hoofs going clip clop is just fine. Other sounds you hear on a good hay ride are the creaking of the wagon, The visiting of the chaparons up front. They know not to be too intrusive, so they sit up front with the driver and chat. If they stop chattering, they could very well be looking back. You must behave for these infrequent lulls in conversation. And then there are the giggles of the girls. All girls have to giggle. God made them to giggle.
If you are smart, you will make a nice little nest in the very middle of the wagon. That way as the ride goes on and people are struggling to stay on the slippery straw, you can offer to let the cute girls move closer so there is enough room for everyone. I don't intend going on any more hay rides at age sixty, so I don't mind giving up my secret.
If you play your cards right, you may even get invited to listen to records afterward. Toni invited me and her older sister invited my friend Dennis to stay after this one hayride. Dennis and I were the same age, Toni was one year younger and Toni's sister was a year older. Everyone knew that guys were supposed to be older, so what was Dennis thinking?
In our house we had Tennesee Ernie Ford and Hank Williams, but these sisters had every record you could imagine. We listened to a lot of records. Eventually, you guessed it, they played a slow song. Toni said we had to dance to this. I was petrified. I think the song played out and I still had not gotten up the courage to dance. That was no problem for Toni. She started it again and insisted I dance. I did. To this day, I can remember vividly the feeling of holding Toni as we danced.
I moved from Minnesota to Oregon and lost touch with my first dance partner, but not the memory.
Kayak Bandit '(*!*)'
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