Dolly Parton Wouldn’t Sing About These

Last week we took granddog Ivy back to Georgia to be with her family after our dog-sitting stint.  Since she was Dearly Beloved’s walking partner on his long daily jaunts,  it is an understatement to say that he misses her.  The lonely Maytag repairman is a party animal by comparison.

My grandsons fancy me a “sew-er” and line up any mending when they know I’m coming.  This time, a large stuffed animal, its leg dangling, needed surgery.  Its owner, Little Elmo, was delighted at the outcome.   Being a hero to a five-year-old is a wonderful, smoochy delight.

My sewing skills are pretty much confined to mending because of lack of talent.  It’s the buttonholes that foil me.  When I used to make dresses for myself, I’d sew in snaps and put buttons over them so that I wouldn’t have to deal with buttonholes.  I don’t trust that method any more.  Either snaps aren’t what they used to be or more of me is expandable.  One good sneeze out in public could get me arrested.

Dearly Beloved has a pair of jeans he finds especially comfortable and he has put my mending skills to the test.  One knee split long ago and I mended it.  Sometime later, he asked me to do it again.  This time, he asked would I use a patch.

The jeans belong in the garbage.  In the past, with his other “favorite jeans,” I’ve sewn patches inside the knee and then stitched the outside together so that it wouldn’t show.  Not this time.

Wiser these days, I have come to realize that what constitutes a “favorite pair” is any that  Mr. Non-shopper does not have to go out and buy for himself.  The ones he has are some the kids have given him over the years.  The current favs have strings hanging from the bottom and threadbare sections in potentially embarrassing spots, though I doubt he’d be arrested.

I rifled through my scraps and came up with a riotous fabric from some project, as well as some dark denim patches that had a ten-cent price tag on them and are surely older than me.  With these props, I “fixed” the jeans, believing that my efforts would speed along the decent burial they deserve.  

The rear has more of the denim patches dotting the seat.

Side note:  Whenever he used to receive an oddball article of clothing as a gift (usually from his mother who couldn’t keep her sons’ sizes or preferences straight) he would tell the children that “this will be something good to wear by the fire.”  

I thought that at best, these would be relegated to fireside status.

Last weekend when we were getting ready to go to Georgia, he put on the jeans, but I thought it was while he was packing the car and that he planned to change for the drive.

Oh, no.  He wanted to “show these babies off to the boys” when he met them at the bus stop that afternoon.  That meant he also wore them inside when we stopped for lunch someplace in South Carolina.

Yesterday he had his car inspected.  I didn’t see him when he left, but he returned– wearing them.

He wears them on walks,  admitting that he does get some odd looks and funny smiles.  He says they’re thinking, “Now there’s a guy who’s comfortable in his own skin.”  

I doubt that.

He completes his look with a Rastafarian belt which doesn’t match the patches, but does go well with the Bob Marley music on his iPod.  Mainly, it holds up his pants since his waist has shrunk from all that walking.

He has the jeans on again today.  This time he has matched the patch by wearing a red, white, and blue plaid shirt.

To mix my metaphors, I have decided that if you can’t beat ‘em, fight fire with fire.  I have just the equipment. . . my red sweatpants, which he detests.  I found them at the back of a closet shelf.  I’m not sure how long I’ll have to wear them before he retires those ratty-looking jeans.

I’ve heard so much bull on the televised campaign trail that I do have a lingering concern about these red sweatpants.

Just to be on the safe side, I won’t go near any cow pastures.

Anyone ‘Comin Thro The Rye’?

A British friend–the same friend who introduced me to Pimm’s Cup at a most memorable luncheon –wrote that she and her husband are hosting a party on January 25.  I love hearing about what is going on with her and I found this one especially fascinating.

The print on her e-mail was small and I read it as B-U-M-S night supper.  Her menu– Cullen Skink soup, haggis, bashed neaps and taties– didn’t disabuse me of that notion until I googled the various dishes to see what they were.  Turns out it’s a BURNS Night Supper to commemorate the birthdate of beloved Scottish poet Robert Burns.  His admirers have been holding these suppers for over 200 years, but don’t feel too bad if you have never attended one.  Meal-wise, you haven’t missed much; they serve the same thing every year.

As for the haggis, several of the websites I visited advised one to “eat it, don’t think about what’s in it.”  Easier said than done, I imagine, since haggis consists of sheep’s offal, tripe, suet, oatmeal, and spices cooked in a sheep’s stomach.  Traditionally it’s boiled, but I found baked and even deep-fried recipes… as if the cooking method is what is troubling about the dish.

I don’t think A-1, Heinz 57, or catsup are up to the challenge either.

Having a Burns Night Supper without haggis would probably be worse than having a wiener roast without hot dogs.  After all, has anyone penned an eight-verse ode to a weenie.  (Perhaps it is worth mentioning that Burns also wrote six verses in Address to a Toothache, so an appropriate excuse for not eating the haggis might be that you are in need of a root canal.)

Yesterday’s e-mail from my friend sounded a bit anxious.  Some of her guests are “finding all kinds of excuses” not to eat haggis, including one who claims an allergy to onions.  My friend doesn’t understand it.  She said,  ”We used to boil up most of that stuff for our dogs and they seemed to like it.”

The neaps and taties–turnips or rutabagas and potatoes–sound divine by comparison.  I asked whether she’d considered one of the recipes out there for vegetarian haggis, but she fears flipping Robbie in his grave with the vegetarian substitution.  You can see why.  The man was definitely a carnivore.   Here’s his Selkirk Grace which is always recited at the suppers:

Some hae meat and canna eat,
And some wad eat that want it;
But we hae meat and we can eat,
And sae the Lord be thankit.

Even if there is not be a bagpiper in the group, Burns’ music should be a part of the evening and it always ends with Auld Lang Syne, which Burns loved, even if he didn’t write it.  Male guests wear kilts; it’s definitely a tartan night.  I’m not sure about the women.  How about something in a red, red rosy color?

There are speeches, toasts, recitations, songs, and plenty to drink–Scotch, of course, and perhaps wine as well.  Dessert, my friend says, will be shortbread and Cranachan–raspberries, cream, honey, Scotch, and toasted oatmeal are the main ingredients.  For awhile there she was considering clootie dumplings, but dismissed them as being “awfully stodgy.”

Too bad it wasn’t Burns who said that life is uncertain; eat dessert first.

My friend is holding her Burns Night Supper at her home, which was built about 300 years before Burns was even born.  (I don’t think she’d mind my sharing this picture.  She sent it to me last spring when we were trading gardening photos.  Note the thatched roof.)

If it’s too late for you to plan your own Burns Night Supper this year, how about a simpler commemoration? How about a nice bowl of cock a leekie soup and a toast with a raised tumbler of Scotch?  It’s exactly what it sounds like: chicken and leek soup with barley.

At least listen to Eddi Reader’s rendition of a favorite poem.  This is from her album of the songs of Robert Burns.

Mrs. Dude Abides…Barely

Dearly Beloved gave me a birthday break when he let me post his stories about his cattle ranch/college days.  Not that I post regularly anyhow, but having something new without having to write it was fun.

DB was grateful for your compliments and your comments about starting a blog of his own, but I can’t imagine him ever wanting to do so.   His writing these days is mostly in the form of e-mails to family.

His notes to our son and sons-in-law and their responses can sometimes be hilarious to me when he shares them, even though I don’t speak their language.  Phrases and wisdom from The Big Lebowski are common, but repetitive, since there is little quotable material from that movie which isn’t laced with f-bombs.  Such pithy statements  as this aggression will not stand, man… special lady… dabbling in pacifism… adult beverages… the dude abides… and most certainly, the concerns about peeing on the rug. Peeing on the rug was an act of aggression in the movie.

I feel responsible for their obsession, since I was the one who spotted the review of the movie about 14 years ago and thought it was something DB might enjoy.  I remember walking out of the Minneapolis theater with an apology for selecting such an awful movie on my lips when DB, gushed something like, “That was one of the best movies I’ve ever seen!  I can’t wait to tell the guys (son and SILs) about it.“

The movie, written and produced by the Coen Brothers, is supposedly based on Raymond Chandler’s The Big Sleep.  Lebowski became a cult favorite long after it was released and spawned books and blogs about it. There’s Duderonomy,  a Dudespaper, and even Dude conventions.   Thankfully, DB has not gone that route, but Lebowski still has a place of honor in our house.

Some of DB’s notes are about retirement, as in, “I’m having an adult beverage and watching basketball.  How’s work today?”  He also imparts wisdom on marriage and life in general.

Here’s one he shared with me last week:

Subject: Learn from the Master

Tomorrow is the wife’s birthday.  She’ll be 51.

I’ve made a few bad choices on her presents over the years.  The crockpot year, Newark Airport gift shop picture (which she hung over the toilet), and there’ve been others.

This year I’ve hired someone to clean the outside windows, rather than me.  They’ll be here Monday.

She’ll be thrilled.  I’ll give you a report.

          Elder dude

I was thrilled, (a) that the windows were going to be cleaned and (b) that DB wasn’t going to get on that ladder himself.  It was raining last Monday, so the window washer didn’t come.  Looks like this Monday wasn’t good for him either.  Still, if it keeps DB off that ladder, I’m willing to wait.

In the meantime, it’s our inside windows that are looking worse every day.  They’re filled with nose prints.  We have been keeping granddog Ivy for a couple of weeks and she has taken it upon herself to be on full squirrel alert.  She stands, nose to the windows, and when she sees a damnsquirrel she races to the door to go outside and chase them away.

Think I don’t love that?!

DB has enjoyed every minute of her visit.  Having an active dog around, especially one with a personality like Ivy’s, has delighted him.  They go on long walks together.  They play ball.  Ivy sleeps by his side of the bed.  He dreads having to take her back to her peeps.  

Recently, I was seated on the sofa working on my laptop, my feet on the coffee table.   Dearly Beloved was sitting on the loveseat at a right angle to me.  He wanted a glass of water, so he stood and nudged my legs with his knee, saying, “Will you move your legs for a minute so that I can get by?”

I looked up, surprised.  It was much easier for him to go in the other direction. There was a wider path and my legs weren’t blocking it.  But wait… I looked down and saw that Ivy was lying on the floor and knew instantly what he was doing.

“You’re asking me to move so that you won’t have to disturb the dog, aren’t you?”

Mr. Romantic looked around and realized sheepishly that,  ”Uh… yes.  I guess I was.” 

Honestly!  It’s a good thing the man does not wear a toupee.

I’d be tempted to pee on his rug.

The Poke Salad Saga

Here’s another one of Dearly Beloved’s stories from his college days on the cattle ranch.

POKE SALAD

Yes, poke salad is real.  I had never had it unt il my junior year in college.  I was staying at a boarding house in the small town near the cattle farm where I worked.  After my morning classes I would go back to the boarding house and have lunch in the dining room with the locals.  Mr. and Mrs. S. ran the boarding house and turned the dining room into a family style restaurant at mealtimes.  Mrs. S. was an excellent cook and was well known for “down home” meals.

Prior to running the boarding house, Mr. and Mrs. S. ran a small restaurant in town, and Mrs. S. also cooked for the jail where Mr. S. was the jailer, working for the sheriff.  Mr. S. was a lazy man.  I’m not sure why they went into the boarding house business.  Maybe being the jailer was too much like work for Mr. S.  In any event, Mrs. S. did all the work at the boarding house, from cleaning the rooms, buying the groceries to cooking and serving the meals.  She was as industrious as Mr. S. was lazy.

She was slightly plump, wore a hairnet over her salt and pepper hair that was generally in a bun.  She always wore an apron except when she sat in one of the rocking chairs on the wrap around front porch.  This happened most nights after she had cooked three meals for 5 to 15 or so at each sitting, cleaned the house and taken care of the other chores.  She did this all with a smile, but there was a furrow in her forehead that never left.  In the evening, when everything was quiet and her work done, she would take off her apron and almost ceremoniously fold it over her rocking chair’s arm and sit peacefully.

There were five boarding rooms with two or three occupied by regulars and the others by short-timers that would stay for one night up to a month or so.  She was careful not to rent to troublemakers, but there were several who had checkered pasts.  Mr. S. was quick to declare his friendliness with Sheriff C., who lived around the corner, so there was never any real trouble.  Mrs. S. was nice to everyone.  Not so much, Mr. S.

Mr. S. was a big man, well over 6-feet.  He had broad shoulders, large hands, but looked soft, and he was.  He had red hair, a large hooknose and always wore a 10-gallon cowboy hat, except when he was eating.  He had no teeth.  Well, he had some, but never put them in.  Eating was somewhat of a problem, but he accomplished it nonetheless.  He was partial to Mrs. S.’s biscuits with honey and chicken and dumplings.  He constantly smoked Pall Mall cigarettes through an FDR type cigarette holder.  There was nothing else about him that would remind you of FDR, other than he was always sitting.  His favorite TV program was “The Rifleman”, which he never missed.  He was fond of saying “Wooo!” about things he liked, which he would say about most anything the Rifleman did.

After lunch each day, I would change clothes and go work at the farm.  One afternoon I was trying to build a new feed trough for the cattle.  I wasn’t having much success.  The incessant cackling of a bantam rooster increased my exasperation.  Just when I slammed the hammer into my thumb, the rooster ran across the yard.  He was about 20 yards away, but seemed like he was in my ear, cackling louder than ever.  Now it sounded more like a loud laugh.  I turned and in one motion threw the hammer at him.  The hammerhead hit him in his head.  He was dead immediately.

The rooster was wild and had hung around the barn living off of whatever bugs and seed he could find.  Apparently he had not done too good a job of it because he was skinny.  Nevertheless, I thought Mrs. S. could put him to good use, so I put him in a burlap bag and headed to the boarding house.

I arrived several hours before I normally did and Mrs. S. was in the kitchen.  She was delighted when I showed her the rooster.  She had planned for supper to be a redo of lunch.  In addition to Mr. S., there were others who would have supper that also had lunch there.  She was ingenious at leftovers, but there was only so much even she could do.  And she took pride in her meals.

She immediately began work on the rooster and asked me to go outside and pick some poke.  I had no idea what she was talking about.  She said, “It looks like a cross between dandelions and turnips.  It’s wild.  You’ll know it when you see it.”  Outside I went.  I knew it when I saw it, picked a grocery bag full and brought it in.

She said she didn’t need my help any more.  She would call me for supper.  I went upstairs to study.

Dinner came and she had a nice crowd of about 10 or so.  The menu was chicken and dumplings cooked with more butter, pepper and salt than normal.  The green side was poke salad.

When I sat down, Mrs. S. put a finger to her lips signaling me to say nothing.  The normal chatter included compliments about Mrs. S.’s cooking and this night was no different.  Mr. S. let out a “Wooo” when he tasted the chicken and dumplings.  She had worked magic cooking that tough skinny old rooster.  We had homemade chocolate pie for dessert.

Later that evening, I went out.  As I drove away I saw Mrs. S. sitting peacefully by herself on the front porch, her apron folded neatly on her rocker.

The Salt Lick Story

In my previous post, Cowed,  I mentioned that Dearly Beloved had worked on a cattle farm one year when he was in college and has written a few stories about those days.   He wrote them so that someday, if they want, the grandsons might read them.

Blogging is the last thing on his mind, but he did agree to let me share some of his reminiscences here.

Here is one from the year he ran a cattle ranch.

THE SALT LICK

When I was a junior in college, I happened into a job running a thousand acre cattle ranch with about three hundred head, mostly Angus.  I found Angus rather mobile; consequently I spent too much time running them down after they had wandered away through a break in the old barbwire fences.

Early after I had taken the job, in late summer, it was time to get in hay.  This was shortly after the new owner and the ranch manager disagreed over whether the manager would be allowed to cut and sell some of the land’s timber for his own account.  The new owner said no, and the manager quit and took the hired help with him.  I knew nothing about cattle farming, but I knew how to drive a tractor, and soon taught myself how to cut hay.  With some help I learned how to operate the hay baler.  Over a period of a week or so, while also going to school, I cut and baled several hundred bales.  Next was the task of getting the bales in the hay barn.

I enlisted the help of a teenage schoolboy, who lived with his parents on the red dirt road just before it started winding back through the kudzu to the farm house, barns and other buildings.  I had never gotten in hay, but quickly decided it would be better if we had at least one more hand.  I would drive the stake truck; one hand would be on the ground throwing the bales into the truck to the second hand, as the truck moved slowly along.  Schoolboy said he knew of a boy home on leave from the army, prior to going over seas.  He lived with his mother and father in a cabin just over the property line, a mile or so down the rutted winding road through the kudzu and into the woods.

Off we went and the soldier was there with his father.  The soldier was lean and hard-muscled, still there was a gentle look about him.  The father was thin and looked as if he had avoided hard manual work for a long time.  He seemed like an old folk singer that had lost his guitar, but not his bottle.  But what I remember most about the father was his sad eyes.  It was obvious though that he was proud of his soldier son, who said he was going to make the army his career.  You could tell he wanted to please his father.

After some discussion, I decided to hire the both of them for the half-day and we would see how it worked out.  The wages were settled, we all got into the stake truck, back down the dirt road, out of the woods, past the kudzu to the pasture where the hay bales were waiting.

I drove the truck; schoolboy was on the ground throwing bales into the back of the truck; soldier would push them back to the father who would stack them.  This was working out really well and we were moving right along in spite of the mid afternoon heat and hay dust that got in our eyes and noses.

Just when I was most pleased with our assembly line, I heard a SPLAT out the window and behind me on the other side of the truck.  I stopped the truck and ran around to the other side.  There face down, spread eagle and limp, was the father.  Schoolboy yelled the father had fallen from the very top of the bales that were stacked as high as they could go.  Soldier calmly said, “He’s passed out.  He had a lot of “shine” last night.”  Sure enough that seemed to be the case.  His shirt was now wet with sweat and you could smell the alcohol in his sweat and on his breath.  We gave him some water; he mumbled a few words that he was OK, that he just needed to rest a bit.  At that moment, I realized that he was only in his mid 40s at most, yet his teeth; and especially his sad eyes were much older.

Confident he would be OK if he got out of the heat; we helped him under a salt lick overhang, near a big oak tree with leaves just starting to turn fall colors.  The salt lick was next to a brisk stream where the cool clear water came from the Appalachian Mountains.  It was a nice spot.  And the old man smiled peacefully, with the same gentle look that his son had.  The rest of us finished our work, including stacking the bales in the hay barn.  It was a very good day.  The hard work had set well with the three of us.  There’s something special about guys working hard together, doing a good job.

When we got back to the salt lick, the father gave us a rested, “How’d you boys do”?

“Great”, soldier said.

Long shadows from the late afternoon sun were across the pasture. We all sat by the stream behind the salt lick until it was time to go.  I don’t think we said much.  Then I took soldier and his father back to their cabin.  It was a happy ride for the four of us.  When I paid their wages, the father said, “If you don’t mind, I’ll pass on helping you get in the rest of your hay.”  I told him I understood, that I would be back tomorrow after lunch to pick up soldier.

The next day my second period class at college was canceled; so I went by to get soldier early, around 10:00.  I figured he and I could get a lot done before schoolboy joined us in mid afternoon.  When I got to the cabin, everything was still.  I tooted the horn; no one came.  Since I was a couple of hours early I decided that maybe no one was there, but I’d go up and knock before I left.

The cabin was built on the side of a hill that ran down to a creek.  Since they had no plumbing or electricity the cabin was conveniently placed.  I suppose to ward against flooding creek waters, several steps went up on the high side of the hill, before the porch landing.  The creek side of the cabin was entirely on stilts.  Even so, the cabin appeared solidly built. No doubt soldier had a hand in the construction.

I mounted the steps, offered a few hellos, but no answer.  The porch door was open, so I said hello a little louder.  When I did, I heard a soft moan.  I stepped in to the cabin, which put me in the kitchen area.  In the living area, which was in the same room, were four of them, father, mother, young teenage daughter and soldier.  I walked closer, the alcohol smell from the day before was throughout the small room.  They were drunk.  I went over to soldier and called his name.  When he looked at me I knew he was not doing any work that day.  Nor perhaps for a lot of days in his lifetime, because the look he gave me came from the same sad, wistful eyes I had seen on his father.

As the months went by, I had a few occasions to make my way up the winding road past their cabin, but I never stopped or saw anyone.  November came; JFK was killed.  There was a lot going on hard to understand. I decided the next time I was by the cabin; I’d stop and see how soldier was doing and where he was.

At the start of the college Christmas holidays, I took a shortcut to an orphanage to see if it wanted a rogue bull that had wandered into one of my pastures.  I’d stop at the cabin on the way; ask about soldier.  Even better if he was home on leave, he could help with the hard, and somewhat dangerous, work of cornering, and loading the rogue, shorthorn bull.  I thought we both would enjoy it, and soldier was someone I could trust if things got rough with the bull.

I went up the steps to the cabin.  It was obvious they had moved out.

I never saw them again.  I asked schoolboy.  He said he didn’t know about the mother, father and daughter, but soldier had been sent overseas.

The orphanage wanted the rogue bull.  They came by the week before Christmas and got him.

Vietnam became more than just a word.

Many years later, I stopped at the farm, just to see how it looked.  I didn’t drive back to the cabin, but the salt lick was still there.  It was still a nice spot.  The stream was cool and clear.

Cowed!

I’ve mentioned before that Dearly Beloved ran a cattle farm one year when he was a full-time college student.  His stories about that period are alternately funny, sad, and amazing.  It was a memorable year for him.

He has kept the book he used to consult about raising Angus cattle and it holds a place of honor on a shelf alongside a photo of our family at a Cubs game and a purple pencil cup that daughter Pogo made for him when she was in kindergarten.

(He also holds on to at least a half-dozen broken briefcases, his entry numbers from races he ran years ago, and several pairs of old tennis shoes “for working out in the yard.” But that’s beside the point.)

This video of a Utah jazz band playing for a herd of cattle in France is familiar to about 4,000,000+ people, but when someone sent it to me again recently, I showed it to DB, thinking he would like it, too.  The video links are being temperamental, but you can see the ‘official’ version on the band’s website.

He was not impressed.

“That’s nothing.  I used to yell ‘Hoooooo, COW’ and 300 cows would come running.”

I’ve been telling him that he should write a book about that year.  He has written a few stories and maybe I’ll post some if he agrees.  It’s a shame he has no pictures from that time.  I suppose I could video him doing his cow call.

Wouldn’t it be hilarious if Miss Piggy came running.

City Lights, Pretty Lights

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“I’ve learned that no matter what happens, or how bad it seems today, life does go on, and it will be better tomorrow. I’ve learned that you can tell a lot about a person by the way he/she handles these three things: a rainy day, lost luggage, and tangled Christmas tree lights. I’ve learned that regardless of your relationship with your parents, you’ll miss them when they’re gone from your life. I’ve learned that making a “living” is not the same thing as making a “life.” I’ve learned that life sometimes gives you a second chance. I’ve learned that you shouldn’t go through life with a catcher’s mitt on both hands; you need to be able to throw something back. I’ve learned that whenever I decide something with an open heart, I usually make the right decision. I’ve learned that even when I have pains, I don’t have to be one. I’ve learned that every day you should reach out and touch someone. People love a warm hug, or just a friendly pat on the back. I’ve learned that I still have a lot to learn. I’ve learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.”
― Maya Angelou

’tis indeed the season of miracles… a squirrel, a mouse, and a rabbit pictured here and not a curse word in sight. . . !

Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night.

Oh, Fudge!

To say that we are not social butterflies is an understatement.  As mentioned before, Dearly Beloved’s idea of entertaining is to sit out on the front porch and if anyone walks by that he wants to chat with, he’ll invite them up for a glass of iced tea.

We don’t have a front porch.

I, on the other hand, would love to have warm, elegant, memorable dinner parties except for the planning, the cleaning, the shopping, the cooking, the dressing, the cleanup, etc., so the front porch option is fine by me.

Our neighbors Beau and Boo called last week and invited us over for dinner so that somebody (that would be us) could see the Christmas tree he hadn’t wanted to put up in the first place.  He told DB not to dress up, since the menu was going to be bread and water unless he could catch a squirrel.  Hah!  Sort of an iced tea invitation, only we get to go inside.

Then, lo and behold, two other neighbors mentioned having us over and I began to think, “YIKES!  Hostess gifts!”

To digress for a minute… Dearly Beloved and I had our annual Christmas shopping/lunch date last week.  Never mind that we had no shopping plans.  If the car is parked in a mall, it counts as a shopping trip in DB’s book and he’s good for only one such trip per year.  Since we have our annual lunch at the Cheesecake Factory at the mall, the car park qualification was in force even though, technically, we weren’t in the mall because the restaurant has a separate entrance.   DB asked our server to take a picture to send to our kids as proof that “I took your mother out to lunch.”

My friend Beanie had mentioned last week that she couldn’t find the digital candy thermometer her daughter-in-law wanted for Christmas, so I thought that since DB and I were at the mall anyhow, I could look for one… venture inside the mall.

DB parked himself in one of the mall lounge chairs outside the kitchen shop. That, too, required a photo for Mr. Goody Two-Shoes’ report to the kids.  ”I’m shopping.”

I kid you not.

My cellphone rang just as the sales clerk handed me the bag with the thermometer.  It was Beanie, telling me that she’d ordered one via the internet.  I could have returned the thermometer right then, but I brought it home instead, deciding that with this flurry of social engagements, I could make fudge for everyone.  Perfect fudge– with the new digital thermometer.

I started with buttermilk fudge.  I’ve never had it and don’t like buttermilk, but I had some left over from an earlier recipe, so I started with that buttermilk fudge recipe.  I melted the sugar and got the mixture boiling and, with the digital thermometer set to 240 degrees–soft ball stage–and clipped to the side of the pot, went about my business.

DB was the one who eventually called out, “What is that funny noise?” and I ran into the kitchen where a wimpy beep beep wasn’t nearly as loud as the charcoal-smelling, tar-like concoction bubbling on the stove deserved.  I knew it was a failure, but nevertheless, tried to taste it to determine whether or not I even wanted to try another batch.

Although I blew on the stuff before I put the spoon to my lips, the goo on the bottom of the spoon stuck to my lower lip and the rest epoxied my teeth with a rugged brown glaze.  I rushed into the bathroom to chisel the stuff off my teeth.

It was not an easy task. In fact, had I gotten some on my upper lip, my mouth would surely have been super-glued shut.

By the time I got back to the kitchen, I was able to lift the entire pot of brown cement by the spoon standing upright in the middle where I’d thrown it in my haste to get to the bathroom.

Regardless of the digital temperature, the white knot in the center of my lower lip told me that the stuff had reached hardball stage.

No fudge for my hosts,  but they’ll be able to make their own.  I just need to wrap this fancy digital candy thermometer….

Won't budge fudge.

Abridgement

While we were in West Virginia for our By-gosh-we-actually-pulled-this-off Thanksgiving weekend, the whole family visited the New River Gorge Bridge Visitors’ Center, run by the National Park Service.  We had driven across the bridge to get to our destination, but to really appreciate the marvel of engineering, the bridge has to be seen from below.  For instance, here is the view when we were crossing the bridge.  It didn’t feel or sound like a bridge, so as long as I kept my eyes shut or straight ahead (after making sure Dearly Beloved had both hands on the steering wheel) I didn’t get bridge-o-phobia.  

The strip of road visible in the photo below is actually part of the bridge.  The steps are a pathway to an observation deck…

…where I took this picture. To clarify, cars ride atop the bridge.  That ^^^^ section just underneath it is open for walking (it’s even handicapped accessible) should strolling on an two-ft. wide, 876-ft. high catwalk for 1/4 mile strike your fancy.  My fancy remained unstruck.  It’s the fifth highest vehicular bridge in the world.  The Statue of Liberty, the Washington Monument, and the Lincoln Memorial could be stacked atop each other and pass underneath with enough clearance to spare for you to hop aboard.

The gorge was so deep that this is as close as I got to the river:

The hardier members of our group took a second hike, this one on Kaymoor Miners Trail. which took them down to the New River and the ghost town of Kaymoor, one of about 60 towns built along the New River after the (1873) completion of the Chesapeake & Ohio railroad opened the area to coal mining.  Everything in the towns was owned by the coal companies– schools, churches, saloons, pool halls, stores, scrip*, theaters, houses, as well as the coke ovens, tipples, and other structures used in mining.  In reality, there were four Kaymoors- two in the gorge, one on the rim of the canyon, and one where the south pier of the arch bridge is located.

The coal camp towns were so remote that when coal became scarce in a vein, that town was simply abandoned.  The ruins of the ghost town my family visited are now owned by the National Park Service and were reached by a strenuous trail which ended in  a 821- stairstep descent.  (And what goes down, DEFINITELY wants to get back up!)

In 1978, the National Park Service took over about 53 miles along the river to protect and maintain the area.  The cleanup and management efforts have made it a popular site for whitewater rafting.  The ruins of the towns are barely visible now, having been reclaimed by the forests.

A couple of weeks ago I mentioned the supermarket cashier who overheard my conversation about our pending trip to “Nowhere, West Virginia” and how she told me that she was from that area.  A few days ago, I was in her checkout line again. She remembered me and asked how our weekend had gone.  She particularly wanted to know if we’d seen the New River Gorge Bridge. I said that we had and were very impressed with it.

“I was in high school in 1977 when they opened that bridge,” she said, smiling broadly.  “I marched across it on opening day, twirling my baton.”  

I know nothing about this woman’s life other than what is etched on her face.  I hope that one day she will tell her grandchildren of that day.  She can show them the West Virginia quarter, which has a rendering of that bridge.   The next time my own grandchildren visit, I want to take them to the supermarket and introduce them to the lady who marched across the bridge on the very first day it opened.   Her story and her smile deserve an encore.

We build too many walls and not enough bridges.
Isaac Newton

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More about coal mining along the New River Gorge:

Photo website showing some of the towns and buildings.

Kaymoor site with photos of ruins.

*Scrip was the term for the “truck system” whereby non-transferable vouchers were used to pay the workers.  The vouchers could be used only at the company-owned stores.  It was this system which inspired the song, Sixteen Tons, believed to have been written by former coal miner and folk singer George S. Davis.

You load sixteen tons what do you get
Another day older and deeper in debt
Saint Peter don’t you call me ’cause I can’t go
I owe my soul to the company store.

This One?

There is nothing like the beach for one’s health, so that is exactly where I asked Dearly Beloved to take that annoying dog of ours so that I could stay here and sleep through the night and get rid of my creeping crud.

The final straw in her nighttime annoyances routine happened when I had to take her outside at 3 AM and I heard voices from across the street.  Earlier in the week it had been five ladies jogging, but this time, three teenaged boys in hoodies were walking down the block, laughing and talking.  While I thought of calling the police, I did not.  They weren’t being furtive or casing the neighborhood as far as I could tell.  I don’t know whether we have a curfew or not, so the only obvious charge I could think of was “poor parenting.”

The next morning I asked Dearly Beloved to think about getting Miss Piggy out of the house for a few days.  Nudged into selflessness by the sunny, low 70′s weather reports on the coast, he agreed that a trip to the beach–theirs–might be good for me.

Thoughtful husband that he is, DB assembled the supplies he thought I might need before he returned:  he brought down the Christmas decoration boxes from the attic and set up the ironing board for me.

DB and Miss Piggy hit the road, I slid the boxes under the ironing board, then plopped on the sofa, and everybody was happy.

A couple of days after they left, I roused myself, thinking to at least set up my mother’s old ceramic tree with the lightbulb inside.  I picked through the boxes, looking for the “FRAGILE” marked box.  When I couldn’t find it, I called DB.

He said he’d probably left it in the attic–he could picture it in his mind now, straight ahead if I went up the steps.  Normally, I don’t “do” attic stuff, so I said I’d wait until he got back.  However, even I got a whiff of wussiness from myself, so as a matter of pride,  I pulled down the old disappearing stairs to find the darned box.

Those suckers are into their seventh decade and “glide” isn’t a word that came to mind during my efforts.  In previous houses, it was a one-motion thing… pull down the door, unfold the steps, and start climbing.  THIS contraption has a latch at the base of the stairs which has to be undone in order to release the actual stepladder.  There is no folding.

I wasn’t expecting that, so I was pulling on a wooden stairway that refused to move.  In the meantime the entire heavy door contraption is sort of, well… dangling.  Finally I noticed the latch and with some effort, popped it to unleash the stepladder.

By that time, the door had been at so many angles, I didn’t know which one was the correct one.  It didn’t seem to have a set point.  I tried the steps at several different points on the floor before they felt sturdy enough to climb.

I was about 2/3 of the way up when I heard a loud pop and something metal made a spinning noise.  I’m not sure exactly why I climbed UP the Hindenburg instead of going back down. I quickly plopped on the attic floor with my feet hanging into the hole to assess the situation.  It was possible I could be there awhile. Days, even.

I looked around and saw the ceramic tree box right where DB had said it would be and crawled over to pull it toward me.  I noticed a box of old framed photographs and pulled it back to the opening with me also. I lost myself in old family pictures, delaying my er… departure.

The phone rang.  I decided not to chance a quick descent to get it.  In fact, I was none too sure about a slow descent either.

I saw a small metal pulley jiggling on the left side, the source of the POP,  and could see a broken rope hanging down. That didn’t look like something that would make the whole thing fall, so I decided to make a run for it.  At first I wanted to take both boxes, but the mental picture of myself going down with boxes in each hand wasn’t working for me, so I abandoned the idea and carefully climbed down with only the tree in hand.

I set down the box, shoved the steps back into place, then pushed the doorway toward the ceiling.  It rose like an elevator, then stopped… about 18 inches shy of the ceiling.

I wiggled the door slightly, then pushed again.  Nothing.

This is embarrassing, but my solution was to e-mail my knitting/reading group for advice, as none are short of opinions.  The best one this time was, “Call a neighbor.”   However, among the immediate neighbors, it’s usually DB that gets called.

I did, too.  I took photos of the dangling rope, the jiggling pulley, and the gaping attic door and e-mailed them to DB.

He knows me.  He really, really knows me.  He called and told me to make certain that the springs on either side of the steps weren’t catching on anything to impede closure, then asked, “Could you have left a box close enough to the opening that the stairs can’t lie flat?”

Gulp.

“UM… maybe.”

I told him I’d go check on that and get back with him later.

“Ohhhh no,” he said.  “Take the phone.  I want to go with you.”  

Of course the box of pictures was directly in the path of the staircase, so I pushed it to the side, descended the steps, and sure enough the door closed smoothly and tightly.  Never again!

Then I remembered the phone– still lying on the attic floor. I had to open the door, remount the steps, and grab the cordless phone.  DB was still on the line, of course.

When I wrote the post recently about DB’s shopping experience–the one where he kept phoning me from the store for instructions–he called from the beach and said drily, “You know… that’s not the story I expected to read.”

Might it have been this one, DB?

Only one pulley pulling...