The Birds Applauded

   

First I  have to say,  I wish I could take credit for coming up with the title of this blog.   After all, it is MY birds I'm going to be paying homage to,   and since I'm doing the typing....I could easily just lead everyone on.  I have to confess, my  friend Diann came up with it....in passing.....she worked it into the conversation.  Which can only tell you the conversations I have with friends and/or family aren't necessarily normal bits of verbal exchanges.  How do you work facts like birds applauding  into anything, verbal or otherwise?  Kinda like this:

My personal household buddy and I have a few zillion flocks of birds we feed on a regular basis.   Please allow me to state we have only named two of them, so we aren't nearly as deranged as our daughters would lead people to think we are.   These birds have become somewhat lazy we think, and depend on us to provide them with food so they don't have to do  the aviary thing of foraging and carrying their groceries.  They like the luxury of hanging out on or in the bird feeders we have thoughtfully provided them with, filled with the finest of bird foods,   imported all the way to  our backyard from..... some  bird food carrying store.  It's the caviar  of grains,  the lobster of sunflower seeds.  OK, it's the cheapest we can buy in bulk.  But, we  can tell they enjoy it as though they were eating the most gourmand worms nestled on gold plated dishes. Whoa!  Starting to scare myself,   I'll stop.

So, having cold weather in our part of the country for weeks on end this winter,  we have neglected to keep our feathery friends supplied with seed.   By "we" I mean Bob.  Our feeders all requited a ladder in  order to reach them.  I personally do not do ladders, but that's another story.

Most of the time they'll  light  on  the feeders, take in  the fact they're empty.....look toward  the window,  give us a rude wing gesture and fly away.   However, apparently the recent spring blizzard caused them feel  to feel a bit panicky because they stirred up quite a racket on all the feeders hanging near our kitchen window.   As we watched, they had the equivalent of a street fight going on.  They shoved each other off pegs of some of the feeders and threw snowballs at each other on the larger ones.  They dive bombed  new arrivals,  had midair collisions as they jockied for position and scratched and clawed to find a stray seed.  It was pathetic!  In all the confusion and fuss some would occasionally stop and peer at us through the window 

with tears in their eyes.   A few pounded their little wings against their heaving chests in frustration,  their heads drooping from the weight of their despair. Been reading a lot of books....can you tell?Anyhooooo.....Mr. Softy couldn't take it anymore, so he dressed to do battle with the elements, and hastened out the door, wrapped head to toe in his warmest armor to skirmish with the 80 mph wind driving the snow sideways.   He fought the door of the shed to retrieve his trusty ladder, grabbed the heavy pail of bird food and filled those feeders to the brim.  I stood at the window encouraging him with shouts of "bravo" (and the occasional,  "you are stupid, stupid, stupid for doing that!") and tossing confetti in the air.  Well, it wasn't confetti...it was rice because I happen to be preparing dinner at the time....what a mess!  I tend to get very enthusiastic about things.

He wasn't even back in the house before the birds returned,  texting to their friends that the feeders were full.   We were very happy for them and I was delighted with my hero that he took it up on himself to care enough to confront Mother Nature, who having a PMS day, just to make our little friends happy.  As Diann, my friend said;  the birds applauded him as well.

Little Sod House On The Prairie

  Imagine if you can, living in an old sod house covered with plaster.  This house  holds some favorite childhood memories and bustled with activity many years ago.  Now it stands quietly crumbling and falling in on itself as the prairie it sprung from takes it back.  When we visit it now it really, truly is a shell of its former self.  The walls dividing the three rooms are cracked and disintegrating as testimony that the heart that once held it together stopped, eons ago.  Animals have burrowed about, leaving traces of their activities in the rooms my grandmother kept so homily and warm.   It’s been empty for almost half a century, so the fact any of it remains is a bit of a mystery.  I dread the day when we stop by and find only a pile of what was once a lively home, silenced by time, toppled by abandonment and surrendered to the wind.  It saddens me to think of it.

I wish I had paid more attention to my grandmother when she talked about her and grandpa meeting when the wagons their families were traveling in happened on one another.  They left the plains in one state, heading for the prairie in another.  I was a teenager when I asked her about how she and grandpa met and fell in love.  I think, because I was a teen, I probably listened just long enough to be polite and let my brainless self drift somewhere else as she was reminiscing, because I don’t recall much of what she said.

 I do remember they built the sod house (pictured above) and at some point, “remodeled” by covering it with plaster and adding roof and a small porch -like feature to protect them from the northern wind when going in or out of the back door.  The only door ever used.  I don’t think the front door was ever opened, even in the summer time.

The largest room was the kitchen, which made sense since it was the only place everyone gathered at one time.  It seemed roomy when I was a kid, but I’m sure it was probably rather small.  It was a sod house after all.  However, based on pictures I’ve seen of other soddies, it was a bit of a ‘mansion’ for this type of dwelling.   The kitchen was equipped with an old wood burning stove, which heated the whole house, a sink with,  my grandmothers pride and joy….a handpump mounted to one side. A tin cup sat near it  for everyone to drink from.   On one wall was a free-standing  cupboard/cabinet and the door to a large pantry….another one of her prized possessions.  Looking back,  I don’t believe I ever realized before how little it took to please her.  They were poor farmers, and I guess their expectations weren’t terribly high.  Heaven only knows what raptures she’d have danced in if she’d had a real bath tub instead of a laundry tub to bathe in. There wasn’t a refrigerator as there wasn’t any electricity.  So, how come none of us ever got deadly ill from food poisoning?  Grandma milked cows, so there was fresh milk every day as well as the other dairy products that sprang forth from the milking.  Cottage cheese, butter, buttermilk (a favorite of all the kids except me) and yogurt.  Kidding!  There was no yogurt. 

 

Of course grandma had a large garden and she canned almost everything they ate. What wasn’t kept in her pantry was in a root cellar not far from the house.  Even despite severe threats and probably a spanking or two,  all of us kids liked to enjoy the coolness of the cellar in the summertime and count the number of jars lining the shelves.  The cellar also was necessary  to take shelter in during tornado season.  I only remember being herded off to the cellar one time when  a tornado was spotted near by.  My mother was deadly afraid of snakes, and she refused to go into the cellar with the rest of us.  She preferred taking a chance with Mother Nature over a possible rattlesnake.  

Speaking of snakes, family lore includes one unfortunate rattler who happened  to be curled up on a shelve in grandma’s pantry.   Apparently seeing the snake when she walked into the pantry, she ran for grandpa’s shotgun and blew the snake to smitherins along with quite a lot of her canned goods and the back wall of the pantry.  Now, I simply can’t imagine my gutsy mother ever taking action like that.  Not when a reptile was involved.   She probably would’ve taken on a  bear with a butter knife before she’d have gotten in firing range of a snake.

Clustered in the opposite end of the kitchen was a leather couch that pulled out into a bed, a stand that held a kerosene lamp and a large radio. The featured item in the room was the  large, round table.  That was the infamous gathering place for everyone, regardless if there were two people or twenty-two.  I don’t recall the table getting larger, just more chairs appearing around it.   I would sell my soul to have any pictures of how that home looked inside, but I don’t believe I’ve seen any.

Off one end of the kitchen was a guest room, and this seemed very strange to me, even as a kid.  The grandparents had a bed and a wardrobe closet in the living room.  The living room (to my knowledge) was never used as such, even though there was a sofa, end stands and kerosene lamps in there.    The guest room was used only for company.   How very odd!

No matter what activity was taking place around the table, everything came to a screeching halt and silence was demanded  when radio favorites like “The Lone Ranger,”  “The Shadow Knows,”  and “Boston Blackie” came on.

Enough for now.  I believe this was the first blog on childhood memories where nobody was injured.  I’ll have to relate some adventures we had of falling off the windmill, jumping out of haylofts and forgetting about siblings we had tied up in outbuildings another time.  Lots of reasons for the old soddy to have held memories near and dear to us. 

Bathtubs Do Not Make Good Rowboats

I honestly wish I could say we had an occasional sane and practical moment when we were growing up.  Really, I do wish I could claim that.  I even desperately tried thinking of one.  A moment, that is.  I block off all random thoughts in my brain while shuffling around in an attempt to pull one out…a moment, that is…and all I get is a steady droning hum with a sporadic “chirp” tossed in.    

Here’s a quick replay for some of you older kids like myself who may have forgotten what I’ve blogged about lately.  Childhood.  A mother with super-human endurance.  Four kids whose ages spanned two years apart (my aunt who is eight months older than me, two brothers and, of course me,)  plus two younger brothers separated by 18 months in age.  Living in the country.  Few restraints in outdoor activities.  Actually,  there were guidelines laid out by our parents stating what we could and couldn’t do.  However, we tended to take their comments more as mere suggestions rather than direct orders.  More than once we discovered our mistaken judgment was followed by some hard core discipline.  Did I mention before some of our activities weren’t clearly thought out before we’d undertake them? 

Case in point:  When you find an old, cracked bathtub in a pile of junk, it’s best to leave it be.  It’s been tossed there by someone for that reason.  It’s junk.  But, to four kids with time on their hands and overactive imaginations; it’s a boat.  Plain and simple.  Can’t look at something like that and not think it’s meant to go in the water, since it once held water.  I think that logic may have been our ‘Waterloo’.  Oops, sorry….I couldn’t resist that one.

It took all four of us to drag that old tub to our house, which, happened to have a large irrigation ditch on one side and a smaller irrigation ditch on another side.  Was this the perfect place for us, or what?  (We lived there three years and this is the place all four of us older kids drew our fondest memories from.)  “The Ditch Camp”, near the “Eagles Nest.” Life was great!  Okay, back to my story.   We had to some how repair this old cast iron contraption so it would float, but it wasn’t going anywhere with cracks and holes in it.  One of us came up with the idea of using the bucket of tar our dad kept in one of the out buildings.  Great idea!  So, we slapped tar all over the inside of this tub, several layers deep.  This was done with great enthusiasm and total belief we were quite clever.  You’d have thought we’d give the tar some time to dry.  Nope!  Didn’t seem necessary.  After dragging the tub to the bank of the big ditch, we immediately began to argue over who would take the first ride.  My brother Dick out argued us other three by insisting we should do it by age.  Which meant, he as the oldest got to make the maiden voyage?  We grumbled, but allowed it was fair.  The three of us held the “boat” while he scrambled in.  It floated!  With great ceremony he paddled away….with whatever we deemed workable for oars….to the cheers of the crew that was running alongside on the bank of the ditch.  He drifted quite a ways before we all tuckered out and had to pull him and the erstwhile bathtub out of the water.  We dragged the “boat” home, thoroughly pleased with ourselves before noting how yucky we all were with tar smeared all over ourselves.  Wouldn’t you just know none of that tar washed off in the water?  How were we to know that….we were just kids? 

I can still hear my mothers angry screams when she saw the four of us covered in tar.   Have you ever had kerosene applied to your body with an exceedingly stiff brush?  Not something I would recommend.  Starting with the first of us who was cleaned this way by one angry woman on through the next three kids, there was a lot of yelling by her and even more crying by us.  She was one mad mother who didn’t care a lick about what creative genius’ we were.  For any of you who never had tar on you, this is something plain old soap and water doesn’t take care of.  Apparently, at that time….kerosene was the only thing that did the trick.  Every spot on us that was black with tar was quickly turned into bright red skin, at least where we were lucky enough to still have skin.  I think she rubbed a great deal off of all four of us.

You would think a lesson was learned there, wouldn’t you?   Janny and I were nothing, if not tenacious.  We yearned to try boating in the tub ourselves.  Memories of why that tub wasn’t blown to pieces by our dad have escaped me, but for whatever reason, Janny and I were able to reclaim it.  We had an afternoon when my brothers weren’t around, so the two of us dragged the old tub to the ditch and slid ‘er into the water.  Janny held on to balance it while I climbed in.  As soon as she let go it immediately flipped over, trapping me under the tub.  The ditch was full and running at the time, so the water was dragging me and the tub downriver, all the while scrapping my rear on the bottom of the ditch while I was clawing at the edge of the tub attempting to get it off me. 

You’d think this scenario would’ve been bad enough, but unfortunately, we had put the tub in the water not far from THE WATERFALL.  Yes, this was meant to be all in caps, because the waterfall was something we had been warned many times to stir clear of, and apparently sufficient fear had been instilled in us because so far a little cruise over the waterfall hadn’t been added to our ‘to-do’ list.  Nor, did we want it now.  Allow me to clarify.  This waterfall was a two level concrete barrier of some sort that the ditch water ran off of with a bunch of rocks and boulders at the base of it that made a large current.  I don’t recall what its use was for, but it lead to terrifying ramifications in our minds, probably put their by the folks.  The current was dragging me very close to it and Janny, in her fear of THE WATERFALL, stood and screamed while I was seeing my life flash before my young eyes.   Terror gives even a young idiot extra strength apparently, because without a bit of help from the screaming Janny,  I was able to get the tub off of me before mom or a potential ride over the fall arrived.  I think I would’ve preferred taking my chances with the waterfall.  It was a very angry mother….again….who took us to task over that little mishap.  I’m sure at this point in our lives we more than likely had calluses on our butts, but she still found some spots that reacted to a whipping with sorrowful cries and whimpers. 

We never saw the old bathtub/boat again.  It had only been launched and ridden one time and sunk another and we never even had the chance to christen it and give it a name.  But, we were left with fond memories and a new philosophy.  ‘Bathtubs do not make good rowboats.

        Kay                               Steve                           

 

Dick

Don't have a picture of Janny scanned

in to my computer,  so she will have

to remain a mystery at this stage.

 

Outhouse.....Part Two. Eagles Nest, Just Starting

Janny and I when we were just starting to explore our adventuresome side.  We look  neat and tidy,  so I'd say it was a good day. We're about four years old here.        

This is a post script to my last blog for those of you who wondered whether Janny and I ever took a ride in that barrel ourselves.  Nope, ‘fraid not.  Not that we didn’t want  to give it a go, but my mother made it pretty clear in her own fashion (aka: spanking) the barrel ride was unacceptable and dire punishment awaited the one who choose to question her flexibility on the subject.  We may have been  unwittingly stupid,  but  we weren’t dumb  when we took sufficient  time to ponder the practicality of our actions.  Besides, the barrel and any other  large round objects disappeared from the premise. 

As it was, we didn’t have long to question the forbidden fruit known as “THE BARREL” (yes,  said in capital letters,) because we had a new adventure in about this same time frame to direct our attention to.   It all started very innocently as most of our undertakings tended to do.

We had been eyeing a phenomenon on the landscape about a quarter mile from our country house for some time.  Time in our world could have been any where between an hour to several weeks.  Kids have a different perspective of time than adults do.    A huge hill with one side covered by a sandy brown bluff, it rose from the land around it like an Egyptian pyramid.  Or the early Indian homes on Mesa Verde. In hindsight I’m sure the only reason we hadn’t already explored this particular marvel on the flat land where we lived was a niggling  thought in our young heads  that we may have been directed not to go there.

Janny and I about the age we began to explore the world,  or at least our small section of it. Janny may look a bit lady like in  her skirt, but it's all pretense.  She was as much a tomboy as I was. We were about 10 or 11 at this time.

After devising a plan of how to best make the hike to this marvelous wonder we packed a lunch and off we went.  It loomed larger and larger as we drew near it and in breathless wonder, we looked at each other and said, “We must climb this!”  That agreed on, we excitedly began to look for the best place to start the climb.  While  scouting the base (a kid does not simply look, they ‘scout’) looking for a likely foothole, we both noticed a large bird circling directly above us. We both decided it was a chicken hawk and continued our quest.  Than we noticed the bird was circling lower.  Now, we knew chicken hawks and we were smart enough (yes, I am throwing the word “smart” around rather loosely again) to know it was to large to be a hawk.  Beyond that,  our knowledge of large birds was limited so we took the path of least resistance.  We ran just as fast as we could back to the house.  When we were able to tell my mother, between gasps for breath, about the prehistoric bird that followed us home…..I believe I have mentioned before we had rather creative imaginations…we knew by the expression on her face we were in trouble again.

Seriously, we may have had a thought we weren’t suppose to go to the bluff,  but neither of us could remember being told an EAGLE lived there!  We not only would have remembered that, but the temptation to go there would have called out  to us much sooner than it did.  There was an eagle with a nest there?  How much cooler could it get than that?

The first chance that presented itself, we were off again,  lunch in hand and I believe weapons to protect ourselves.  More than likely, slingshots….but, hey!  Made us feel we could take on a flock of eagles if need be.  Now, the real fun would start.

For starters, the source of our excitement and quest had to have a name.  It became known as “The Eagles Nest.”  I didn’t say we were creative at coming up with names; just in our sources of amusement.  “The Eagles Nest” was always said with undertones of ominous,  thunderous musical tones (in our minds.)  Also, a certain amount of reverence as this was the place that captured our imagination and energy for quite some time.

"Eagles Cliff" from the road leading to the house.  Also shown is the face of the bluff.  Sadly, no trace of the nest remains.

Be advised the pictures I’m putting on here may seem to indicate this spectacular bluff wasn’t as majestic as I’m describing.  Believe me, to children, they were as towering and stately as anything John Wayne ever climbed in his efforts to get away from outlaws, Indians or husband-seeking-females in his movies.  Plus, we believed ourselves to be equally as brave in our pursuit to reach our objective near the center of that large cliff.  The eagles nest!  Yes, there was a purpose more than just climbing the face of the bluff.  We would make it to the large nest and return with a……feather.  We knew the nest was large because we could see it from the ground. There was a question about a feather, because we didn’t know if Eagles left them lying around.

My two older brothers somehow discovered what we were up to and decided they had to not only join us in our mission, but turned it into a competition by insisting they’d make it to the nest  before we silly girls did.  Now, there was motivation to drive us past any fear we may have had about traversing some of the steeper slopes of the cliff.  Oh heck, we were idiots….we didn’t actually have any fear.  

So, it was on.  No rules; anything was fair game.   At one point, Janny and I took the easy way  up the hill to the face of the bluff, and from atop it she lowered me on a rope so I could see the nest.  What an exciting moment.  It WAS huge and it was nestled back in the face of the cliff a ways so I couldn’t be dropped into the nest.  I had to try swinging myself back and forth, attempting to get to it.  I think all I did was basically spin in circles while Janny yelled to hurry up because she was having trouble hanging on to the rope we had tied from around my waist to a large rock.  It is true, God does take care of drunks and stupid, reckless  children.

After repeated failed attempts, we never did make it  to the nest, nor did my brothers.  We did make it  far enough along a trail that inched along the slope about half way up.  We toed our way along a ledge about the width of one foot with quivering excitement and the knowledge we were probably the first people ever to walk along that slope, we discovered  words etched into the face of the bluff, “ Kilroy was here, 1940”, or  something like that.  We were completely devastated to discover someone else had made it to that location.  We spent about 15 seconds being distraught before continuing on with our mission. We had decided that “Kilroy”, or whoever, hadn’t made it any further and more than likely died a perilous death right on that spot.

There were no deaths before the completion of that particular mission, but there was an injury.  Dick, my oldest brother - by 2 years, -  fell off the cliff and broke an arm.  Sadly to say, the folks didn’t appreciate our tales of the heroic measures we had suffered in our attempts to bring home an eagles feather. (See?  We actually did keep a purpose in mind.)  Dick was saved from dishwashing chores for quite some time,  we barely escaped with our lives (from mom) and it goes without saying,  we were barred from any further adventures across the field where our beloved “Eagles Nest” beaconed to us. 

Years later brother Steve and I would return to “Eagles Nest”with our spouses.  One should never, ever return to any place that held a special place in your heart as children.  You’ll only be disappointed.  As our mates laughed at the small bluff they heard so much about, Steve and I stood quietly, staring up the face of that cliff. Not only did we feel the nostalgic pull of one of our revered childhood adventures and how deeply we felt about it, but at the same time we experience disappointment that it wasn’t the glorious, rugged, monstrous mountain we had left in our memories.  Steve  rather mournfully questioned, “Maybe it’s been eroded and washed away by rain over the years?” “Mmmmm”, I replied.   “Perhaps.”

View From The Top of The Outhouse

Outhouse memories may seem like a rather strange subject matter, but not if you had experiences,  other than the obvious,  with outdoor toilets of yesteryear.   I’m completely comfortable  with sharing some of my recollections of having fun on top of a wee little building.

I should let any readers know why one would elect to reminiscence about an outhouse.  With some ‘older kids’ from my era, no explanation would be necessary.  However, if any younger members of my family read this blog page, which some of  them have been known to  do…..probably with a lot of cringing involved,  they would not get the whole ‘fun on an outhouse’ thing.

I grew up in under rather poor circumstances.  Well, I probably shouldn’t say we were poor…..because we actually were only lacking money.  There’s a lot more to enjoying life than a bit of cash and material doo-dads.  My dad generally worked as a hired hand for farmers or ranchers when I was growing up.  That was a labor intensive job which was not known for paying very good wages but had the benefits of living in a house…generally small and without any amenities such as running water,  window screens,  heat source and often, no electricity.  Sometimes it included a cow so we could have fresh dairy products, courtesy of my mother’s endeavors.   It also meant moving around a lot while he looked for that proverbial climb out of poverty.

Looking back, I’m sure the parents felt for every step forward there was two steps back.  As kids, we didn’t feel their frustration and despair.  We were having self-made fun and creating our own entertainment.  This is where the fore mentioned outhouse comes into play, both literally and figuratively.  Do I hear whistles of relief from those of you who thought I was never going to get to the point?

My family loved to sing, although none of us were very talented at it.   We’d sing together and play our various instruments (badly) that were handed down from either other family members or recovered from a junk yard. Don’t know who decided I should play a wheezing accordion or where it came from.To this day I hate the sound of anything that resembles that of  an accordion, as I’m sure my whole family did.  However, I was very game about most anything where music was involved so I would add my screeching (singing) and wheezing (accordion) to the pack. 

Sometimes evening would end on a quiet note because nobody was in the mood for singing.  Except possible a kid or two.  This friends, is where the outhouse comes into play.

I have an aunt who is only 8 months older than I am (my grandma & grandpa apparently decided on one last burst of energy and passion that resulted in her.  Bad for them; great for the two of us.)  I had 5 brothers and Janny, who was like a sister because she spent so much time with us.  Together, we could ward off boredom in a zillion ways.   My mother always insisted the two of us were more trouble than any pack of boys and could think of twice as many ways to get in trouble.  And that was only counting the things she knew about!

One of our favorite things to do on a dark, summer evening was to climb on top of the outhouse for a song fest.  You have to realize,  many years ago, life in the country was (as a general rule) very safe for  kids so parents didn’t worry if you were entertaining yourselves outside at night. We would sit or lay up there admiring the stars while singing…..we thought….in perfect harmony, the latest songs of the day.  I doubt it was our imagination that coyotes sang along with us in the distance. Probably more than one chicken in the coop stopped laying eggs for several days just from the sounds emitted in the night air, but hey!  We were convinced we were great!  That, however, was about the only tame thing we did involving the outhouse.

I happened to have a mixed blessing.  I can’t smell.  Never could.  Sometimes it definitely worked to my advantage and caused me to be a bit careless.  Like all kids,  we’d sometimes play hide & seek.   At one particular place we lived for awhile, had a brand new outhouse over a very deep hole.  Yes…that became my hiding place.  Not just inside the little building, that would be too easy and the first place the “seeker’ would look.  I’d crawl through one of the holes (a two-seater, it was grand!), place my feet on some pieces of wood holding the building together while clutching a couple more pieces with my fingers.  A very precarious position to be in considering what I would’ve landed in if I’d lost my  hold or a foot slipped.  Fortunately kids have the distinction of not only being brave but enjoy a lack of reasoning powers to get them through the day.  If I’d been capable of thinking that trick through, I’m sure I wouldn’t found a different hidey-hole  (pun intended.)  May I say nobody ever thought to look for me there?  Nor did I tell any of them until later where it was and why they couldn’t find me.  None of them recovered from that bit of news.

Thanks to Janny and I, one of my younger brothers grew up to be a champion spitter.  No, this isn’t something he aspired to, but something he became out of survival.  For some strange reason I can’t even  began to fathom, we one day decided it would be great fun to toss my brother, Doug, up on top of the  outhouse. He was probably only 4 or 5 at the time.  Too young to fight for his life.  After we got him up there,  he’d be crying because, lets face it…..he really didn’t want to be up there in the first place….we’d give him instructions that we’d get him back down IF he could hit one of us on our head with a wad of spit.  Yes, I know.  I am a bit ashamed all these years later.  But, only a little bit because I still remember what great sport this was!  Well, Janny and I would go into the outhouse, that yell,  “Go!” as we burst out, both of us running as fast as we could while poor little Doug would be on top,  crying, and spitting. This wasn’t a one time thing, because frankly, even the smartest of 4 or 5 year olds have to have time to catch on to a new talent.  I’m sure he probably reverted to wetting his pants because he didn’t want anywhere near that outhouse, but I can’t prove that.  He’d never admit to it and the parents are deceased.  Gradually he graduated from crying and screaming to being just darn angry.  When he was angry he could spit better.  Over time he’d become furious when we’d overtake him and toss him on the outhouse so his ability to spit became lethal.   The day arrived when this feisty little guy could not only spit a wad on the back of our heads but get us again when we turned around.  We cheered him on while wiping spit out of our eyes and praise him for being a prize spitter among all spitters.  Somehow it didn’t encourage him nor keep him from getting angry and run screaming into the house to tell on  us.  After many threats and hours of standing in separate corners (my mothers favorite mode of punishment) we finally decided our moments of glee from being spit on by Doug just wasn’t that great of fun.  It was time to move on. 

 This picture is Janny &  I during our early creative years.  In back in the object of our "experiments",  Doug and the little guy in front is younger brother Larry.  He had other problems to overcome, the least being Janny and I.

One day, Janny and I were gazing at the marshy swamp at the base of a hill,  Perched near the top of this hill was…..yeepers, you guessed it.  The outhouse!  This is where we were reclining when we hit on an idea.  If we were to roll down the hill in a barrel, would it stop before it went into the swamp?  After a short argument of “you try it,” to “No, you try it,”  we decided either of us trying it could be folly without a test run.  Who happened to wander over to see what we were doing?  Yeah, that little kid that apparently had forgotten the bad things that could happen to him when he was in our vicinity.  Janny and I locked eyes as the idea hit both of us at the same time.  Sigh!  Poor Doug!  Today it’s almost impossible  not to feel sorry for him and what we put him through.  But,come on….could you have resisted such an easy target? 

We just happened to have the barrel we had been contemplating using nearby.  So with little ceremony but great glee we lifted Doug up, stuffed him into the barrel, with him crying and screaming (that kid ALWAYS seemed to be doing those two things,)  and gave the barrel a shove down the hill.  The screaming got louder, but the barrel did stop before it got to the swamp.  Great news, but was it a fluke?  Just luck that it stopped before rolling into the swamp?  We decided another test run was in order.  So, we janked a blubbering  Doug out of the barrel, rolled the barrel back up the hill, scooped  him up and stuffed him inside the barrel once again.  Off it went….more screaming and crying….more of Doug was bouncing out of the barrel,  but…yay!  Once again it stopped before hitting the water.  We were ready for a 3^rd run at it but, Dougs screams had evidently been unquestionably louder because this time mom came running.

The punishment that followed was much harsher than a length of time standing  in our respective corners.  Suffice to say  sitting down to  supper was probably a bit difficult because our bottom cheeks were still smarting.  Back than, little thought was given to smacking the kids where they most needed it.  It also worked because except for a few minor incidents, I don’t think we ever used Doug as our entertainment and/or experiment again.  He was slow to get over a few of the playdates he had with us.  In fact, he’s not speaking to me today!  He needs therapy perhaps to get over his childhood.   Mine, however, was great!  Every child  should have an outhouse at one time or another…..if nothing else, just for  the memories it can evoke.  

 

 

Loping Backwards To My Roots

I'm  homesick.  Everyone gets the yearning to return to where they once lived, or to see family that lives far away or just  that homesick kinda sick that they can't contribute to anything else.  So, one puts it in a homesick category.  Like, "I'm homesick for grandma's apple pie.  Or,  "I'm homesick for the mountains."   Possibly,  "I'm homesick for the body I had when I was 30."  Just that rather insipid longing  for what we had once but don't have right at this moment.  Or haven't had for quite some time. 

 
In my case,  I'm homesick for the state I came from.  Not the whole state;  just part of it.  Mostly the part where I lived when I had my babies.  My babies are now 44 and 41, so it's been awhile ago.  I was momentarily homesick for the town where I went to high school until I remembered I didn't necessarily like high school.  That isn't the towns fault, it was just

 because I was a teenager.  I think there are few adults, once they pass the age of 29,  who can  look back on their teens and say,  "Wow!  Those were great years!"  Seriously, being a teenager is one of the most difficult things most of us will ever have to go through.....except maybe childbirth and raising teenagers.   Or maybe passing a kidney stone.  Or eating cold gravy.  GROSS!

Where was I?  Oh, the town  where I first tee-peed a tree, tried my first cigarette, had my first drink.  Well,  make that a sip because I didn't get further than that.  Was not a fan of alcoholic beverages in my teens.  I think that started when my children became teens.  Than I suddenly found drinking necessary for my survival.....or  theirs.  Depends on how you want to look at it.   Lots of 'first' during those gawd-awful teen years,  but most don't bear repeating.  No, they weren't that bad.  Just not interesting enough to even make a good story out of.   There's always the option of colorful exaggeration but,  that's just a lot of work.  

This story was going somewhere.....but, where?  How do you lose a train of thought if you didn't have it to start with?  I never get on a train;  I just kind of nab hold of the rear of the caboose and hope to grab something.  Metaphorically speaking.   Topic is homesickness.  Back on track. (Track?  Train?  Caboose?? Is there a trip in my future?)  

We moved from Colorado to  South Dakota in 1978.  It's now 2009 and suddenly I'm homesick for the Rocky Mountains.  The Black Hills suddenly are not working for me.  We lived in Denver for something like a total of 15 or 16 years and now I feel like going  'home'.   That's just stupid and weird!  I go insane every time we get within 50 miles and driving in the midst of 2 million cars all trying to drive us off the road.....or, at least I assume that's what is happening.  It's so hard to see through the cloud of exhaust fumes, I can't say that for sure.  Before we're in the city we're longing for the comfort of our  own familiar  clogged traffic with the rude and crazy drivers.  We can still see the hills even on the worst of days,  whereas I don't believe we've seen the mountains on a semi-clear day in Denver in years.  

Blogging works!  I'm no longer homesick.......I'm completely happy where I am.

Favorite garden stars

Strolling around Cyberland

One would think a 'blogger' would have a high interest either in their own life or computers.  Initially, I had neither.  My life, for the most part has been pleasant....but, not spectacular.  To make the leap to interesting I'd have to do a whole lot of creative embellishing.  AKA:  Fibbing.

Computers existed in my world for a very long time as a necessary evil.  I did what I needed to do on them in the  work force, and when you spend a lot of time working with numbers, you're talking boring.  Mind-numbing boredom.  The "please, just kill me now," kind of tediousness.  After a day of watching a blinking cursor (back when they were REALLY annoying) happy hour didn't include rushing home for more of the same.  

It was only after I retired ten years ago (alright,  ALRIGHT!  I didn't retire....I just got really ticked off and quit!)  the home compute became something more than a machine that required regular dusting.  I began to notice my house partner/husband seemed to enjoy the computer.  He even seemed to be having fun.....so I started hanging over his shoulder to see some new wonders of the cyberworld.  No, not porn.....but a game called Tetris.  Tetris was my downfall.  I started playing it and became obsessed.  Hours and hours flew by while my eyes blurred and crossed playing that primitive game.  Dust not only collected on everything in the house except the keyboard my fingers touched.  Meals consisted of whatever could be tossed together while a tetris block fell.   The dishes piled up,  laundry turned to dust, the dog whimpered over her empty food dish and I think, all though it's never been proven.....my husband may have left me for a year or two.  The seasons changed without any  notice from me and the phone went unanswered.  Ok, that last one is an exaggeration.  I've never met a phone call I didn't like....unless it's a telemarketer.  I'll even talk to politicians. Hmmmmm,  let me get back on track.  Oh yes, the computer. 

So, my computer savy hubby decided he had to redirect my limited computer skills to other technical venues.  He knew a challenge was in the making, but he's a brave fella who will try anything.  I probably should inject a bit about his computerization.  (Did I make up a word?)  He burst forth out of his mothers womb toting a PC.   Well, maybe it was only an idea of what he thought the future held.  He's always been the ultimate gizmo/gadget guy and I remember his first stirring of wanting his own computer came about  when one computer took up  a large room.   He'd ramble on about mega things, kilo dingies, and other thingamajigs and what they'd same day be able to do until my eyes would glaze over and I'd put my head on auto-pilot so it would nod at him every 24 seconds.  His spiels would sometimes get terribly long!

My foray into computerlanddom zipped past typing in numbers to electronic mail. Woo hoo!  No more postage stamps!  Not that I ever used a lot of stamps because my correspondence chip was always rather small.  (And I blog?)  Than I became friends with Mr. Google and Ask Jeeves.  Bouncing  back and forth between the two of them made me feel a bit like I was cheating on one or the other, so I settled on Mr. Google and have been faithful every since for any of my browsing needs.   And some days, my needs are many.  Keeps my spam filter busy.

My life took on a complete and total change when I discovered, SOCIAL NETWORKING.   

That's another story I'll continue another day.  Right now I think I need to throw the laundry out and let my computer cool down.