My Civics Class 1941 https://rockingwithdannie.blogspot.com/2024/07.html

The most memorable teacher of my high school days was my civics teacher, a man named Kroeger. He had a distinct accent, German , we thought, but made the lesson absolutely clear; and with good reason. He had immigrated to the US to escape the rise of Nazism in Germany.

  

Each day we were tested on the previous day’s lesson. We groaned and protested, but  nothing changed–Mr. Kroeger continued to pound the details of our government into our heads, always stressing that it would be our responsibility as adults to not only vote, but also take part in community affairs.

It was the fall of 1941 and inspire of the daily tests, we liked Mr. Kroeger.  We were pleased that he had chosen our county because of its system of government, but mostly because he was a likable person. His lectures on our freedoms fell a little flat on kids who had never experienced anything else.

Then, the attack on Pearl Harbor happened, and our level of patriotism shot up as we  considered the posibility of Nazism or Fascism setting foot in our country.

Mr. Kroeger did not return the next year. Whether his contract wasn’t renewed. or he simply moved on, or, since we were at war, fighting Nazism’s take-over of Europe. he may have enlisted. Its something I’ve wondered about for years.

 

I am grateful for that class, although today I use Google more than my memory.

Two Friends

https://rockingwithdannie.blogspot.com/2024/07/two-friends.htm

I  have been asked to post  this  spoof   again

I have a friend named Bessie Mae, who  comes over and drinks coffee with me each morning.We sit around the table with our coffees and talk about our ailments—I’m ninety and she’s eighty—so we have a lot to talk about. 

Anyway, sometimes we talk about other things, like our kids and recipes, and stuff like that.  So one morning we got to talking about a recipe for a sherry cake. Let me tell you, that is one delicious cake, but I’ve never made one myself because I don’t keep sherry in my pantry—at least not real sherry, and that’s what the recipe calls for.

Well, the more we talked about how good it was, the hungrier we got for that cake, so we decided we’d run out to the liquor store out on the highway—well of course I don’t mean we were going to really run out there—we’re not that lively anymore. In fact, we don’t walk too well, but you know, it gets pretty boring just sitting around all the time, even if you do have a new ailment to talk about every day, so we decided we’d just make a little trip to the liquor store—in Bessie Mae’s car, of course. I don’t drive nowadays. 

It’s not because I can’t—I just didn’t want to fool with taking a driving test again. My gosh, I took one a few years back—well, I reckon it was about seventy years ago, but anyway, I’ve parked my car for awhile. I may change my mind about taking that test, though. It’s just that I don’t hear too well and might irritate the trooper if I kept on driving after he said stop.

Oh well. Back to our trip to the liquor story. I got my walker, and Bessie Mae got her cane—she’s younger than I, remember, and she’s one lively lady. I think it’s because of her red hair. Anyone with hair that red just has to be lively.  Come to think about it, I don’t remember her hair being red when she was younger 

Oh well, back to our trip to the liquor store. It wasn’t far, so we made the trip without any problems. One guy kept honking at us, but we didn’t pay him any attention. We just figured he was trying to get Bessie Mae’s attention on account of her hair. She has that effect on guys, you know. 

Well, anyway, here we were at the store, so we parked---well actually we parked several times. Bessie Mae kept ending up kinda catawampus with the lines. But she finally got parked straight enough so nobody would bump in to us—she’s had her left fender repaired three times because of the careless way people park. 

We had a little trouble at the door. I can tell you it’s not easy to hold a walker and open one of these heavy doors some stores seem to like nowadays. And then the darn thing kept trying to close before I could get out of the way. 

So there we were, and I can tell you that there were so many bottles we didn’t know which way to turn, No one paid us any attention, until my walker knocked a couple of bottles off a shelf. That’s when a clerk came over and offered to help us.

When we told him we needed a bottle of sherry so we could make a sherry cake, he tried to tell us we needed cooking sherry. When we told him the recipe called for real sherry, he just shrugged and pointed to another aisle and said “Take your pick, ladies.” and walked away.

Well, I thought he could’ve been more helpful, but that’s the way it is nowadays. Anyway, we found the sherry without any more help, but we had no idea there were so many kinds. Finally, Bessie Mae picked out a bottle she thought was pretty and said “Let’s get out of here,” so we paid and left. No body asked us to come back, which I thought was a little rude, but it really didn’t matter, because I had no intention of ever visiting that place again.

I think Bessie Mae was a little annoyed, though, but she didn’t let it affect her driving. She obeyed the speed limit and didn’t get distracted by all those people that honked and waved to get her attention. They all seemed to be in a hurry and looked like they were out of sorts about something, so we were glad to get back home and take a little sip of that sherry.

That cake can wait until another day.

Caring Animals

http://rockingwithdannie.blog.spot.com/2024/7/caringanimals.html 

 Recently, I read  a Peta post that  stated “all  animals have  the capacity  for thought, intuitiveness, empathy and  decision-making That’s an intriguing statement so I checked it out. .” Examples were given. 

 One,  my favorite, tells of a fat, pot-belly pig,  named LuLu  saving  the life of her owner,  who had  fallen to  the floor with a  heart attack. LuLu managed  to squeeze  through the doggie door, cutting her  belly  in the  process, then running  to the  road and laying  down in  the middle until  someone stopped. Then she led  the person  to the heart attack victim, saving her  life. 

  So, animals see our dangers and  decide what action  to take. And it’s not jist domesticated animals....Wild animals are the same. Scores of  stories  telling about unusual rescues appear each  year, especially of porpoises, and even whales, rescuing people who would   have drowned otherwise.

Another story, also from Peta, tells of a pride of lions helping police rescue a kidnapped girl. Police were closing  in on  the kidnappers, forcing them to move. The cries of the 12 year old kidnapped girl caught the attention   of the lions, so they investigated. Their arrival  caused the men to run away, leaving the girl with the  lions. Then the lions did  a  surprising thing– they  sat in a circle around  the girl until the police  arrived. Then they quietly disappeared back into the forrest.

 On the home front, on a cold, icy day, a  family friend needed   to  go out to  his farm and  break the ice on the water trough, so his cattle could drink. The ice was worse at the farm, causing him  to  slip  and fall. He twisted and turned, but could not get enough traction to get to his feet 

He was  beginning  to worry about his predicament when  Wimpy, his herd bull, appeared  at  his side, lowered his head so our friend could  get  a tight grip, and was lifted  to his feet.

Then, there was a recent story about a dog running fouir miles to get help for a man trapped   in    his wrecked  car.

Animals are truly wonderful, but don’t expect such caring treatment when you meet a wild animal on  a hike. They can be vicious.

Silly Memories https://rockingwithdannie.blogspot.com/2024/07/silly-memories.html

  A while back, my care-giver and I were  chatting  and I discovered  that   her  grandfather was an old classmate of mine  back in our two-room  school days. That was  the most exciting thing  that   happened that day, and brought  back a ton of memories.

One day  his  older  sister cane to school wearing a brand new, store bought dress with  a sixteen-gore  skirt...the latest fad at that time.   I renumber it well. It was a blue printed cotton that was selling  for $2.98 at J.C. Penny’s.  I know,  because I checked  it out  he next time  I went to town.

That  was beyond my reach financially,  so I broached the  subject of a sixteen-gore skirted dress to my mother who made all my clothes on  her Singer sewing machine.  She never used a pattern,,,just laid  out  the material and cut.

I was disappointed  rthat she wouldn’t tackle more than eight gores, but settled for that. Today the old Singer is at  rest by a wall in the guest room.

s https://rockingwithdannie.blogspot.com/2024/07/s.html

 Summer was snake-time out on the  farm. We had a lot of snakes, but  only one was poisonous–the copperhead. Easily identified by   their copper color and flat heads, their bite  is very painful and needs immediate medical attention, possible hospitalization and therapy.

Snakes have no ears  and depend upon “hearing” vibrations in the  ground to alert them to danger. 

Scientist now   know they can also ‘hear’ air-borne sounds.

They are rather shy creatures, so when alerted, they  slither away to  a safer location. Usually, but not always. These that stayed hidden  were the ones Mother and I watched for when we did the chores. We carried  a sturdy stick and killed quite a few.

 After I left home, my parents tore down the old house and built  another. Stacks of old lumber made it as far as the backyard fence and remained there for some time. 

At that  time, they had two dogs that got perturbed at some of the nighttime roamers that came into their yard and would set up quite a racket. One night they seemed especially disturbed, but Dad could see nothing needing his attention so he expected a snake had ventured into the yard, and shushed the dogs and went back to bed.

        The next morning, after thinking about the commotion, he decided it was time to investigate that pile of lumber, so he began moving it aside with a long- handled hoe. And when he had finished, he had killed eleven copperheads.

         Another time we were visiting and the smaller children were playing on the front porch. One of them came in, big-eyed and excited, and said there was a snake out there in a bush by the porch. My hubby got his .22 and shot that fellow out of his resting place far up among the limbs of the tall bush. Nothing to get excited about–just another copperhead.

 

      A few years back, we cleaned three  barns preparing for an auction. They were full of stacked lumber, hay, tools and accumulated junk.  We dug–no, I dug, while my husband sorted through the treasures I uncovered, and decided what to sell and what we couldn't do without. I figured I was the experienced copperhead person and would be careful. Husband just didn't take that copperhead haven stuff seriously. So I was very careful and was amazed to disturb no snakes. After the auction and the buyers were carrying away their purchases, two big copperheads came out of their last hiding place and  met their end before they made it to safety.

–

       Then there's rattlesnakes.  A friend who lives in a different area–a rocky, hilly place, was enjoying the fresh spring breezes with her windows opened wide. She walked back to her bedroom and did a double-take. She was staring eye-to-eye with a big rattler sunning itself outside on the window ledge.  Nothing between them but a window screen. So far as I know, she's never opened a window for fresh breezes since.

 

         My last snake experience was in my house. One evening I glanced down the hall as I walked by and saw something that looked like a belt lying far down toward the end...yet not quite like a belt, and anyway, there was no reason for a belt to be lying on the floor. Nobody was living at that end of the house. Those thoughts took about two seconds to fly through my mind––then the belt wiggled and in that special, quavery voice that comes out when things  are getting out of hand, I called my husband.
 "Huh?" he responded from his recliner.
       "Snake," I squeaked.
 That got him on his feet to come over and make sure I knew a snake when I saw one. After all, he knew I was an experienced snake killer. I was the gal that without fear, had tackled three barns of junk in snake-land, so the panicky call was a bit puzzling.
  Well, this was different. Out in the open you can walk away and hope you never meet again. In your house, if you walk away, you can be sure you'll meet again. Your house has become the snake's house, so  this  snake needed watching. 

 

It was on the move and it had two choices when it reached the end of the hall––the room directly ahead or the one on the right, which happened to be our son's room packed wall-to-wall with junk. If the snake entered that room. we'd never find it. And there was no way I was going to live in a house with a resident snake.
  Luckily for us, the snake went straight ahead, so hubby fetched a snake handling tool and with the fellow cornered, the situation was resolved and I still have a home.

   

   A lesson was learned– an open outside door, even one into the garage, is an invitation for a snake to come a-visiting. So even if you're going to be out only a minute of two, close that door. Most likely the snake that ventures in will be a harmless one, but once in, you either remove the fellow or live with the excitement of having a snake slither from beneath the couch or out of your closet, or....

 

Then  there was the time an  early norther blew in  and we decided to build a fire in the fireplace to take the chill off the room,. The kindling was lit, a couple dry logs  were  added and we soon had nice little fire. I was gazing  into the flames when I saw something waving from the back side of a log that hadn’t yet caught fire. I blinked and pointed. Snake! I hollered.  My husband grabbed the little green snake and dumped it out into the yard , where it slithered away. I expect it never again hibernated in a woodpile.

 

 

 

Snakes on the Farm https://rockingwithdannie.blogspot.com/2024/07/snake-time.html

When I was  a  kid, we lived on a farm  in what  my classmates teasingly called  “hoot owl” country.   I don’t remember  often hearing that lonely hoot,  but we must have been the heart of copperhead land.  They loved the deep sand and post oak region then.. and now. We had no rattle snakes but could usually count on seeing a cop are posonperhead every day or two...if we were outside.

Mother and I carried a sturdy stick. If you couldn't pound the rascal to death, you could at least scare it away. Dad, with his high topped work shoes, and overalls, didn't bother with arming himself. We knew most snakes are helpful, but copperheads  bites are poison and very painful.   A  bite  calls for immediate medical treatment, possible hospitalization  and therapy.

So,  we tried to reduce population at every opportunity.

  Often when walking to school, a copperhead would slither across the road, and we had to let it go its way, hoping it wouldn't be waiting for us some dark night when we were walking home from a school program. Carry a flash light? We didn't have such a luxury back in the good ole days.We had kerosene lanterns for real emergencies, but what kid in its right mind is going to carry a lantern  to a school function, regardless of the dark, copperheads, and   spooky things. Knowing that snakes “heard” ground vibrations and usually fled possible  danger, we  stomped our way home  Scientist have now proven that snakes  can hear air-borne sounds. 

 After I left home, my parents tore down the old house and built a another. Stacks of old lumber made it as far as the backyard fence and remained there for some time. They had two dogs that got perturbed at some of the nighttime roamers that came into their yard and would set up quite a racket. One night they seemed especially disturbed, but Dad could see nothing needing his attention (by this time their living facilities included things like porch lights and flashlights), so he expected a snake had ventured into the yard, and shushed the dogs and went back to bed.

        The next morning, after thinking about the commotion, he decided it was time to investigate that pile of lumber, so he began moving it aside with a long handled hoe. And when he had finished, he had killed eleven copperheads.
         Another time we were visiting and the smaller children were playing on the front porch. One of them came in, big-eyed and excited, and said there was a snake out there in a bush by the porch. My hubby got his .22 and shot that fellow out of his resting place far up among the limbs of the tall bush. Nothing to get excited about...just another copperhead.


      A few years back, we cleaned three   barns preparing for an auction. They were full of stacked lumber, hay, tools and accumulated junk.  We dug...no, I dug, while my husband sorted through the treasures I uncovered, and decided what to sell and what we couldn't do without. I figured I was the experienced copperhead person and I would be careful. He just didn't take that copperhead haven seriously. So I was very careful and was amazed to disturb no snakes. After the auction and the buyers were carrying away their purchases, two big copperheads came out of their last hiding place and  met their end before they made it to safety.

       Then there's rattlesnakes. A friend who lives in a different area...a rocky, hilly place, was enjoying the fresh spring breezes with her windows opened wide. She walked back to her bedroom and did a double-take. She was staring eye-to-eye with a big rattler sunning itself outside on the window ledge  Nothing between them but a window screen. So far as I know, she's never opened a window for fresh breezes since.

         My last snake experience was in my house. One evening I glanced down the hall as I walked by and saw something that looked like a belt lying far down toward the end...yet not quite like a belt, and anyway, there was no reason for a belt to be lying on the floor. Nobody was living at that end of the house. Those thoughts took about two seconds to fly through my mind––then the belt wiggled and in that special, quavery voice that comes out when things   are getting out of hand, I called my husband.
        "Huh?" he responded from his recliner.
       "Snake," I squeaked.
       That got him on his feet to come over and make sure I knew a snake when I saw one. After all, he knew I was an experienced snake killer. I was the gal that without fear, had tackled three barns of junk in snake-land, so the panicky call was a bit puzzling.
       Well, this was different. Out in the open you can walk away and hope you never meet again. In your house, if you walk away, your can be sure you'll meet again. Your house has become the snake's house, so  this  snake needed watching. 

It was on the move and it had two choices when it reached the end of the hall––the room directly ahead or the one on the right, which happened to be our son's room packed wall-to-wall with junk. If the snake entered that room. we'd never find it. And there was no way I was going to live in a house with a resident snake.
        Luckily for us, the snake went straight ahead, so hubby fetched a snake handling tool and with the fellow cornered, the situation was resolved and I still have a home.

       A lesson was learned– an open outside door, even one into the garage, is an invitation for a snake to come a-visiting. So even if you're going to be out only a minute of two, close that door. Most likely the snake that ventures in will be a harmless one, but once in, you either remove the fellow or live with the excitement of having a snake slither from beneath the couch or out of your closet, or....

Then  there was the time an  early norther blew in  and we decided to build a fire in the fireplace to take the chill off the room,. The kindling was lit, a couple dry logs  were  added and we soon had nice little fire. I was gazing  into the flamed when I saw something waving from the back side of a log that hadn’t yet caught fire. I blinked and pointed. Snake! I hollered.  My husband grabbed the little green snake and dumped it out into the yard , where it slithered away. I expect it never again hibernated in a woodpile.

 

Schools of my day were vastly different from those of today,  But we learned  to add and subtract, and to multiply and  divide. We wrote curviest and had history and civics lessons.

These insignificant math talents come in handy when the cashier’s  computer is down and she doesn’t know how to make change. But  of little  use when involved with  bytes and megabytes. 

 The two-room schools were actually one  long  room divided by a  folding partition. Each had a huge iron wood-burning stove.

All the school of those  days  were similar in appearance, with large windows that could be  opened  for fresh air along each side, a front  and back door and a steep roof.  We still see them occasionally.

We nick-named the room for the first  five grades the “little room.” It was taught by a young woman named Jewel Frazer, and  affectionally caller Miss Jewel. By the next year she had married a young dairyman from a nearby community and requested we call her Mrs. Ellis. It just wasn’t the same.

James Harper taught the remaining four grades and was responsible  for the school’s activities and problems. The high  point of the year was the annual Interscholastic  League held in Weatherford. Mr. Harper helped his students chose the events they wished to enter and helped them prepare for the  contests. 

 He  drove a two-seated car that was only a few years old so when the big day arrived he  crammed  in  eight or nine contestants  and headed  for Weatherford. 

 The  athletic events  were held at the ballpark  on South Main, now the site of  the Ninth Grade Center. We parked  nearby and wiggled  our   way  out of the car.   It became our home base and held things such as lunches and  jackets.

We  girls  entered only the races. Our school was small, so we barely had enough  runners  (four) for the  relays.  Our boys participated in more athletic events but shied away from the literary competitions  which  were held at the high school  on Palo Pinto Street more than a mile   away. Somehow we managed the distance and schedules and went home with a handful of ribbons. 

 Another big day,  especially  for the “little rom” was Inspection  Day. That was the day set for the County School Superintendent's visit. It caused a flurry  of  activity. Erasers were taken outside and pounded until they were dust-free. Blackboards  were cleaned, wastebaskets emptied and the floor  swept.

One of the responsibilites of the Superintendent was to visit each school  to check their progress  and help with the  any problems. His name was Ivan Stone. I believe  his secretary’s name was Mozelle  His office was on the third floor of the courthouse. It was a huge room, maybe using the entire floor. At one end  were  shelves  holding  thousands of books that  were loaned to the county’s  schools. They were  also available to others,  a real boon to  book lovers,  since at that time, Weatherford  had  no library.

In1939, the little country schools were  merged  with larger schools in their  district  that  taught all eleven grades. In my  day thats all it took to graduate. That was also the year schools started the twelve year system.

The end  of an era.

In Defense  of Onions

It’s a real stinker. It’s thin outer peel clings to your hands; falls to the floor, and into open drawers Slicing  into it makes your eyes burn and tears flow. It's sulphur content is responsible for the discomfort.

These are small problems compared the benefits.  Onions are chock-full of nutrients yet low in calories. They are loaded witonionsh antioxidants,  have anticancer compounds, and regulate blood sugar and lower blood pressure They  also have antibacterial properties, boost digestive health, strengthen  bones, and may help  prevent osteoporosis. It challenges the old  adage “an  apple a day  keeps he doctor away,”   but who is willing to meet meet the challenge of eating  an onion each day!

Onions have  been around for a long time  Medieval doctors used them to treat headaches, heart  disease, and mouth sores.

Somewhere I read that Vidalia onions were discovered  in Texas.  Unable to find any more mention of  Visalia’s  and Texas, I decided it was a mistake...until I came  across “The Legend of the Texas  Sweet Onion.”

As the story goes, back in the 40s, the  Bermuda Islands grew a well-liked onion. and  were finding it difficult to meet the demand for its seed. And Texas farmers were struggling to meet the demand for this sweet onion.

In those days, the Texas Agricultural Experiment Station was using crossing techniques to improve various  vegetables, but had neglected the onion, the main Texas crop, because it was difficult to cross.

 In an attempt to meet the farmers’ demands, they contacted New Mexico's Director of its Experimental Station and found he had imported a high yielding variety from Spain from which he had selected a strain for New Mexico and named Bravo.

Texas tried this Bravo in a test field and when the neighbors saw the results they asked for all the available seeds.  

Finally, after more ups and downs and more cross breeding, the Texas bred Granex was created  and became famous world-wide under different names. 

In 1952  a Georgia farmer bought Texas Granex plants for  his farm and the Georgia Vidalia was created after being discovering in Texas. The Georgia  Vidalia and the Texas Grannex are the same although Georgia claims theirs is better because of the  low sulphur content of their soil. Because of this,  the State has limited it’s counties qualified to grow and market Vidalia onions

Now that  you know there are low-sulfur onions in the markets, pay a little  extra and   be a  happier cook.

A Bad Year For Gangsters

A Bad Year For Gangsters

In the 1920s and 30s crime was keeping all law officers,  including the FBI, busy During Prohibition, bootlegging (illegally supplying alcohol) ran wild. When  the law was repealed, those  most dedicated to a life of crime turned to bank robbing.

lBy 1945  some had become notorious.Two especially bad ones were   BonnieParker and Clyde Barrow. They and their gang operated  mostly in Texas and killed nine  law officers and  a few civilians.  They were killed in Lousianna in 1934. Years after their death, they were romanticized in a ballad sung by British singer George Flake.

Charles (((Pretty Boy) Floyd was another to meet his fate in 1934, He was a back robber and  somewhat  popular with  the public because he often destroyed mortgage papers while committing the robbery.  This relieved many borrowers from further payments. He was killed in  a shootout with the FBI.

John Dillinger was also a bank robber.. His two escapes from jail made him a popular subject  for the media, In 1934 he was killed in Chicago by the FBI  after being identified by his escort who who a red  dress.

Babyface Nelson (((Lester Joseph Gillis also known as George  Nelson) got  the nickname “Babyface” because of  boyish features and small size. He was hunted as both a bank robber and murderer. His main claim to fame was his association with John Dillinger. He died in1934 in a shootout with the FBI. 

With the death of  these five  criminals, the nation felt relief, but the reign of gangsters was not over.  Ma Barker reportedly ruled her sons’ gang ruthlessly and was killed  inn 19935.  Machine Gun Kelly was still alive, but in jail  He and his gang were kidnqpers, among other crimes, and were successful in collecting ransoms from two different kidnappings.  He was captured and jailed .After 21years there, he died of a heart attack.

Congress took action in 1934 and passed the National Firearms  Act   banning machine guns  and  other firearms adapted to automatic fire.

Thanks to the Lloyd Sealy Library for furnishing this information from its records of the Great Depression.

    

Old Friends Are Like Gold....both are worth hunting for

.https://rockingwithdannie.blogspot.com/2024/06/friends-are-like-gold.html 

This sweet lady was the baby sitter for our first child...eighty years ago .She was one of six children who lived next door during  www11 and had plenty of experienced from caring for her youngest sibling,  a little  boy a few years older than our child.

When the war ended,  our families  parted, promising to stay in touch,   but failed to  do so,   as is often the case. So the years went  by and the Internet  and  Google entered my life. so did nostalgia, so I played with my new tools and began a search for anyone with their last name. And I found someone, ‘way up north, the oldest daughter of the family, now listed as the spouse of a fellow with the winning horse in a notable horse show  She had married the ensign she was dating while we were neighbored–a nice ending to a wartime romance.

Further googling took me to my long ago baby sitter,  all grown up with five daughters and living  in  California.     Several phone conversations  folowed as we shared the years gone by.

Another high point was getting to visit with Alice and Louis, her parents and our good neighbor of long ago, at their 50th wedding celebration. 

I love Google.

                

,

Bees,  Kids and a Tub 

 

This old tub survived years of washdays on the farm and finally retired to the barn. Years later it  moved to the city where it ended up in my back yard. It lay there for years, upside down so it wouldn’t catch rainwater and become a haven for mosquitos.

Then one year the back yard  was chosen for the annual Easter egg hunt. When the youngsters  were turned loose to hunt the hidden eggs they rushed to all the most likely places before spying the old tub lying nearby, slightly tilted with one edge a few inches off the ground.

The little egg hunters rushed in a  herd to the tub. When someone lifted it there were no eggs– instead a hive of angry honey bees.  The kids learned their little legs couldn't outrun an angry bee and got a few stings. All were soon forgotten as the hunt for more eggs  continued. The bees quickly regrouped into a tight swarm  and left to form another hive in a safer place. 

Bees are important pollinators and today they are in trouble because of something called hive collapse.The cause is unknown, but a widely used insecticide is suspected. Can we help? Maybe. Buying organic fruits and  vegatables could help, but the price is often prohibitive. Another way is to contact your congressperson. We  can also encourage the growth of wild flowers such as blue bonnets, cone flowers, sunflowers and goldenrod.. Also lantana, butterfly weed and redbud,  to name a few.  The bee requires a balanced  diet just as we humans do.

Assuming that you’ve forgotten your nigh school biology just as I have,  the  hive consist of three classes of bees: the queen, whose only duty is to lay eggs, the male bees called drones and the worker bees, all female. Besides foraging for pollen which they carry home in little  baskets on their legs, and nectar  which is carried in special glans, sometimes making ten  trips daily, these little females also serve as guards at the hive’s entrance and have hive  cleaning duties. It’s no surprise the  they seldom live longer  than six months.

The more I learn about a hive’s society the more  I  admire  the little  bee–.even its grim custom of  forcing the drones out of the hive when cold weather arrives.

 SUN-RIPENED TOMATOES

https://rockingwithdannie.blogspot.com/ 

      After tasting a slice of yesterday’s purchase of a clump of beautiful red tomatoes, and finding it to be half ripe and tasteless, I took a  trip across the internet to discover what has happened to the tomato of the past.

      First, the seed have been modified. Second machines are generally used in harvesting.  These cut the plants; shakes off the tomatoes, both large and small–green, barely pink and rotten. All are rolled onto a conveyor belt and carried down to human hands for sorting. It takes a tough tomato to survive all that. A ripe  one can’t.

    My memories went back to my childhood in the years of the Great Depression when my dad had to switch from being a cotton farmer to a truck farmer. In fact, he had to leave his cotton crop, unpicked, \in the field, because the selling price wouldn't pay for the cost of having it picked.

     Today's generation may find the term "truck farming" a bit puzzling, but it's an old term from the 1800s referring to carrying fresh vegetables to market in carts and wagons. This continued through the 30s,"and 4os. with many Model T cars adapted for hauling a load of produce–a forerunner of pickup trucks.

     The earliest tomatoes to go on the market brought the highest prices, so my dad planted his seed early in a special bed he built.  It had a roll-up canvas cover to protect the young plants from a spring freeze.

      Rains don’t always come at a convenient time, so those plants had to be watered by hand with a syrup bucket with holes punched in the bottom for a sprinkler.  And the water was pumped by hand, one bucket-full at a time. 

      Finally, the plants were ready to be planted in the field. A big field. Dad dug the holes; I dropped the plants, hundreds of them, and Mother covered the roots of each one. Some years this system was disrupted by a drouthy spring. Then, water was hauled to the field on a horse-drawn sled, and water poured in each hole.

      There was a risk attached to trying for an early crop—Texas weather! Hail or a late spring freeze. There was little a farmer could do to protect a field of young plants from hail, but there were many times we covered the plants with paper tents from old magazine pages. Row after row of plants spaced four feet apart, all needing to be protected from freezing temperatures with paper tents.

      After all this troublesome process, the plants begin to bloom and set fruit, and, finally ripen, and be picked by bucketfuls to be carried to a shady spot for sorting and packing.

     Our house had a long south front porch, and that was where we sorted and packed the tomatoes for hauling to market. Ripe tomatoes were set aside to be packed in baskets for local sales—one day of shipping and they would have turned nto a juicy mush. Scared tomatoes were not packed for sale. Those were commonly called "cat-faced." I never saw one that resembled a cat in any way, but I suppose someone did at some time. A little rain shower would cause a split in the skin and those were also set aside.
    Tomatoes were not tumbled helter-skelter into baskets. They were carefully packed in paper lined bushel or half-bushel baskets, starting with the ones with just a blush of pink, and packed in rings, gradually getting riper as the basket was filled. All perfect. Something to dream of, nowadays, as we visit the produce section of our supermarkets, and pick over ethylene-gassed choices.

     That’s the way it was done on our farm ninety years ago.
      If you've never picked tomatoes, you may not know that contact with the vines turns your hands a dirty-looking green. And I'll bet you don't know that the best way to remove it is by tubbing a ripe tomato over your hands like soap. Why not wear gloves?. Welll folks, gloves cost money, and a damaged tomato didn’t.  In those depression  days every penny was saved. So, no gloves.

         Ah, the good ole days with plenty of sun ripened tomatoes.

 

 

the Rocking Chair : Hollywood

the Rocking Chair : Hollywood: �� You may find this hard to believe, but in 1922 the morals of the movie industry were considered highly questionable after several risqu...

Hollywood

😉

You may find this hard to believe, but in 1922 the morals of the movie industry were considered highly questionable after several risqué films and a number of widespread scandals including murder and rape. At that time the public and many religious, civic, and political organizations were exerting so much pressure for decency laws, that 37 states were complying by introducing almost one hundred censoring bills. 

In hope of rehabilitating Hollywood’s image, and rather than face a mishmash of censoring, the Motion Picture Production Code, popularly known as the Hays code, was created and spelled out what was acceptable and what was unacceptable content for movies meant for U.S. audiences. 

For more than thirty years Hollywood adhered to these rules, and the producers had to cut many scenes before getting a stamp of approval to release their film, but by the '40s, the Production Code was already weakening.

      As American culture began to change and television arrived on the scene with no restrictions, the Production Code gradually lost its strength until finally in 1968 it was abandoned, and was replaced by the MPAA rating system. 

Pre-code: "Don'ts" and "Be Carefuls", as proposed in 1927.*

The Code enumerated a number of key points known as the "Don'ts" and "Be Carefuls":

Resolved, That those things which are included in the following list shall not appear in pictures produced by the members of this Association, irrespective of the manner in which they are treated:

         1.   Pointed profanity – by either title or lip – this includes the words "God", "Lord", "Jesus", "Christ"    (unless they be used reverently in connection with proper religious ceremonies), "hell", "damn", "Gawd", and every other profane and vulgar expression however it may be spelled;
          2.    Any licentious or suggestive nudity – in fact, or in silhouette; and any lecherous or licentious notice thereof by other characters in the picture;
         3.    The illegal traffic in drugs;
         4.    Any inference of sex perversion;
         5.    White slavery;
         6.    Miscegenation (sex relationships between the white and black races;
        7.     Sex hygiene and venereal diseases;
        8.     Scenes of actual childbirth – in fact, or in silhouette;
        9.     Children's sex organs;
       10.    Ridicule of the clergy;
       11.    Willful offense to any nation, race or creed;

And be it further resolved, That special care be exercised in the manner in which the following subjects are    
 treated to the end that vulgarity and suggestiveness may be eliminated and that good taste may be emphasized;

       1.     The use of the flag;
       2.     International relations (avoiding picturizing in an unfavorable light another country's religion, history,  
               institutions, prominent people, and citizenry);
      3.     Arson;
      4.     The use of firearms;
      5.     Theft, robbery, safe-cracking, and dynamiting of trains, mines, buildings, etc. (having in mind the effect   
              which a too-detailed description of these may have upon the moron);
      6.     Brutality and possible gruesomeness;
      7.     Technique of committing murder by whatever method;
      8.     Methods of smuggling;
      9.     Third-degree methods;
     10.    Actual hangings or electrocutions as legal punishment for crime;
     11.    Sympathy for criminals;
     12.    Attitude toward public characters and institutions;
     13.    Sedition; 
     14     Apparent cruelty to children and animals;
     15    Branding of people or animals;
     16    The sale of women, or of a woman selling her virtue;
     17.   Rape or attempted rape;
     18.    First-night scenes;
    19.   Man and woman in bed together;
    20    Deliberate seduction of girls;
    21    The institution of marriage;
    22.    Surgical operations;
    23.   The use of drugs;
    24.   Titles or scenes having to do with law enforcement or law-enforcing officers;
    25.   Excessive or lustful kissing, particularly when one character or the other is a "heavy".



*from Wikipedia
     
That's quite an impressive list.  Would present-day viewers choose even one or two out of this list for the entertainment world to follow today? 

I would, but then, I'm old.


Dannie 

Back on the Farm and sun-ripened tomatoes

    I read a remark last week about farmers being unable to find tomato pickers even at $150 a day. Of course, that brought memories of my childhood, when a farmhand was fortunate if he got $1.00 a day.
   That also brought memories of having a dish of ripe tomatoes twice a day, and at that time, didn't realize how fortunate I was to be raised on a farm.
     Those were the years of the Great Depression, and my dad had to switch from being a cotton farmer to a truck farmer. In fact, he had to leave his cotton crop, unpicked, in the field, because the selling price wouldn't pay for the cost of having it picked.
     Today's generation may find the term "truck farming" a bit puzzling, but it's an old term from the 1800s referring to carrying fresh vegetables to market. In those early years through the 30s,"trucking" was done with wagons  although lots of Model T Fords were adapted to hauling.
      You young folks gotta remember that life existed before pickup trucks and cell phones—.or Walmart or Home Depot. Dad raised his own tomato plants...hundreds of them. I know because I was the one who dropped them in the hole that one of my parents  dug for each plant. And since rain often does not come at the most convenient time, those same plants had to be watered by hand.
     The earliest crop of tomatoes brought the highest prices, so my dad built a framed bed that he could cover with a roll back canvas cover to protect the young plants from a freeze. There was no running water...the only power on most farms was human energy and four-legged horse power...so we pumped water, and used a syrup bucket with holes punched in the bottom to water the plants.
     There was a risk attached to trying for an early crop—Texas weather! Hail or a late spring freeze. There was little a farmer could do to protect a field of young plants from hail, but there were many times we covered the plants with paper tents from old Saturday Post magazines. Row after row of plants spaced four feet apart, all needing to be covered with paper tents.
     That trusty magazine came into use again when the tomatoes were ready for market. The pages were separated and used to line the bushel baskets so the tomatoes would be protected from damage from the rough basket and its tiny staples.
     Our house had a long south front porch, and that was where we sorted and packed the tomatoes  for hauling to market. Ripe tomatoes were set aside to be packed in baskets for local sales—one day of shipping and they would haveturned  to a juicy mush. Scared tomatoes were not packed for sale. Those were commonly called "cat-faced." I never saw one that resembled a cat in any way, but I suppose someone did at some time.
    Tomatoes were not tumbled into baskets and carried to market. They were packed in rings, starting with the ones with just a blush of pink, and gradually getting riper as the basket was filled. Beautiful things! Something to dream of, nowadays, as we visit the produce section of our supermarkets.

      If you've never picked tomatoes, you may not know that contact with the vines turns your hands a dirty-looking green. And I'll bet you don't know thar the best way to remove it is by sqeezing a tomato into a pulp and rubbing it all over your hands like soap.

The good ole days.

Dannie

   
   

Treasures and Trash

Remember this? It was first produced in 1934 as a three-pc. set of a pitcher, bowl and a mug. With a small amount of money—10¢ or 15¢ and the required number of box tops, hundreds of little girls  ate a lot of cereal trying to save enough boxtops or coupons to get this Shirley Temple pitcher. Today, they appear in antique stores priced at $25 to $75. But beware of reproductions.


Another boxtops offer was this little microscope. It was well made and did a fair job of magnifying. In my adult years a local nurse gave me a couple of slides to go with it. Today it sits on one of my nurse daughter's shelves.

A small telescope was another boxtops offer, but after forty years and several moves, it went away, somewhere, somehow. I wish I remembered. 


In the Depression Years, nothing was wasted or thrown away, because it might be useful at another time. That has formed the habits of a lifetime—saving things like this tiny oil can. Never used for seventy years, it has found its niche in a display of old things.

Unexpected things appear when cleaning a garage—like this bottle of bluing. 


 A bottle of 'bluing' was part of each washday in most households back in good old days of lye soap and wash pots. Enough of the concentrated blue liquid was added to the last tub of rinse water to tint it light blue. This light blue water was supposed to counteract the gradual yellowing of white cottons. At least that was what I was told. As a child, I was in charge of rinsing the laundry through the two tubs of rinse water. For those not familiar with the system, each piece was swished around in the water and all the water wrung out before repeating the process in the next tub. Tiresome and boring—but enlivened by swarms of biting flies that were attracted to wet skin.

Mrs. Stewart's bluing has been around since 1883  and can still be purchased either online or in several other locations, including Ace hardware stores. Besides brightening white fabrics, it was used in various other ways such as brightening a pet's hair( and the ladies, also), and dyeing Easter eggs. I remember adding bluing to the salt crystal 'gardens' we made as school projects.

Another oldie found in our garage clutter was this reminder of days gone by.


Remember ink bottles and learning to write with a fountain pen and ink? Remember those ink-stained fingers?  Fountain pens were filled with ink by opening a little lever which compressed a rubber bladder inside the pen. Releasing the lever caused ink to be drawn into the bladder. I vaguely remember the first words written after filling, always had an excess of ink. Pressing down too hard on the writing point also caused an ink blot and also often bent the fine writing point (which was replaceable).

Oh, we kids of the '30s had it hard. Not only did we have to walk to school (uphill and in the snow), we had to learn to write cursive with a fountain pin that sometimes had a bent tip.

More garage clutter another time. There's things out there that I can't identify. Maybe you can.

Dannie

Poor Little Bucky

Poor little Bucky. He suffers terrible anxiety when a rainstorm…even a mild, non- threatening one with little or no thunder detectable to human ears…approaches. He whines pitifully, and runs through the house extremely agitated.  And he trembles constantly. 

From what I have reconstructed of his history, he was badly abused, causing the loss of one eye, and had either managed to run away, or had been dumped to die He was found by a roadside having apparently been hiding from predators along a nearby creek during a series of rainstorms that had flooded the area.  He was in a terrible condition…muddy, with hundreds of thorns and stickers embedded under his little belly…and with that damaged eye. And he was just a puppy. 

I hold him…pet him, and sometimes brush his hair…until he calms down and goes to sleep. Tonight, I could do nothing to stop his shaking. I held him in my lap. Didn’t work. I try reclining to give him more room to find a comfortable position. He wasn’t interested in comfort. He paced back and forth from one chair arm to the other…and there I was, pinned down, and being tromped on by eleven and a half pounds on four paws. 

So I put him back on the floor, and he finally settled down to sleep by my feet.

Does he have horrible memories, or is he supper sensitive to the approaching rainstorm.

I wish he could tell me.

Dannie