Dandy's Yogg

      Woof, Woof!
This afternoon I heard something that has been puzzling me: I heard that I smelled like a dog. Now I ask you, what kind of remark is that? I am a dog so what am I supposed to smell like--a rose? There are times when the human race is beyond my understanding.
     The next thing that happened was a rather sneaky attack on my dignity. My Lady clipped a short lease on my harness and plopped me into a sink of warm water harness and leash attached! I think that had something to do with the last bath that I had and I ran and hid under the furniture!
      Well, I learned that time that My Lady is as obstinate ( I like that word) as I, so there"s no point in dodging the issue--if she says hush, she means hush now or go to the quite corner and if she thinks its bath time it is definitely bath time. So I just stood there in all that water and let her thoroughly wet my hair and she was so surprised all she could do was keep saying what a nice doggie I was.
I guess I was being nice, but mainly I was just doing the smart thing. I've listened to a lot of talk in my years of living with humans, and one thing is that you're not going to win an argument with a woman. So why waste your energy?

     Of course I had a few good shakes before I jumped on the couch but it wasn't over yet. My Lady followed me with this noisy contraption that she used with my brush to groom me even more. Now I hope no one tells her, but this part was great fun, I just rolled over and let her brush my belly throughly.  It was rather nice to get the rest of me dried off and brushed, so this bath thing really isn't too bad.




Anyway, I'm glad to have the burrs brushed out and the next time I hear a tub of water running, I may go jump in. I like to hear that I now look handsome so I guess I'm in good company with all the movie stars I hear people raving over. There's not much else to do around here any more. The cats have disappeared and even the 'coon hasn't been around lately. I go the window every night and watch but nothing comes around. I guess it's for the best because My Lady was getting a little irritable when I couldn't control my barking. I hear the talk that that coon would have torn me to pieces but I'm not convinced. I got so angry with that arrogant fellow daring to prowl around on my porch that I still dream of taking him on.

My Dad

     On this day, 1890, my father was born to William Floyd Anderson and Sarah Clementine Colville Anderson; he lived until October 29, 1974. His early years were spent in Hill County, in a little community named Vaughan, located south of Hillsboro, Texas. He was the first son in a family of six girls, followed later by a brother, Clark and sister Fannie.

     He never denied the family claim that he was spoiled outrageously and accepted it as his due after his marriage to my mother.

     Spoiled or not, he enjoyed his childhood in the black land of Hill County, and often spoke fondly of those years. He told of making wagon trips in the late summer or early fall to what he spoke of as “the timber” to stock their winter supply of wood and he also spoke of bluebonnets growing knee high and of the children playing and rolling around in their lush growth.

     Christmas was celebrated happily in his family but drastically different from today’s extravaganza. Each child received a toy or other appropriate gift and fruits, candy and nuts filled their stockings. His favorite gift was a small saw which he kept all his life, and which has been passed on to one of his granddaughters with do-it-yourself carpentry inclinations.

     He often spoke of an older cousin trying to trade various items in an effort to relieve him of that little saw.

     There was a traditional Christmas cake baked by his older sisters; one he described as stacks of “teacake-like” layers decorated with icing and candies such as gumdrops and jellybeans. He declared that it was so dry as to be almost inedible but year after year it appeared as a traditional Christmas goodie Obviously, it was memorable.

     Dad’s most prized possession was a covered pocket watch of white gold or platinum passed down from his father. I am now very curious about its metal; it did not darken as silver would, it did not turn yellowish as I am told white gold does, but I see no old pocket watches of platinum.  One of Dad’s great grandsons is now the owner so perhaps he can find the answer.

     His greatest regret of lost or destroyed family pieces was the thoughtless destruction of the old grandfather clock which he found lying shattered on the floor of a storeroom. Old things were not always valued and cared for, as they should have been.

      Dad spoke of a school he attended in Ft. Worth as the old Polytechnic school, which now is Texas Wesleyan. If some of his old textbooks were an accurate indication of its curriculum, most of us would be in trouble taking the courses. I never saw any signs of him absorbing any Latin so I expect he soon moved on to other interests!

      From Ft. Worth he joined other family members in West Texas. There were two sisters living in Sweetwater and he spent a short time working for a brother-in-law there in a dry cleaning business but soon decided that dealing with the public was not his life-time goal and invested in a farm in a nearby community named Eskota. There he became a successful cotton farmer until the Crash of ‘29, which wiped him out. Cotton, was too cheap to pay for its picking and lay wasting in the fields.

     He and my mother had become acquainted upon the urging of a niece who knew my mother as a teacher and prevailed upon her uncle and friend to write each other. They became acquainted via the U.S. Mail and later married in 1925, only four years before the world changed for the United States with the onset of the Great Depression.

     With no cash crop and a wife and child to support, (My mother was a teacher but as a married woman she no longer was allowed to teach) Dad was more fortunate than some, finding a place to live in Parker County and after moving there, it became his home for the rest of his life.

     I remember him as a roll-your-own cigarette smoker; one who strictly limited himself to two smokes per day, always from his can of Prince Albert tobacco. He was a voracious reader and somehow managed, even in those depression days, to subscribe to The Saturday Evening Post and a few other periodicals, which were probably part of a trade, magazine salesmen being desperate to take anything they might be able to turn into money. Until he declared I was old enough to read for myself, he read to me from those magazines and filled many hours of my life with bits of information concerning all phases of nature which he loved.

     He was a hard worker and a very independent man, determined to continue his life as a farmer, for he loved the country. He had chosen the life of a farmer for its freedom and chafed under the Government intrusions into his life as laws were passed to help the nation recover from the Depression.

      Nevertheless, together he and my mother had worked their way up from being sharecroppers to once more owning their own place and saw their daughter married to a young man who promised to take care of her.

    

Dandy'Yogg

Coon Trouble

     It’s mighty hard for a guard dog like myself to stay out of trouble if your people don’t appreciate what you’re doing! I’m doing my best to keep this persistent coon off My Lady’s porch but he keeps coming back. My Lady even put a long stick by the door to whack him with if he didn’t scat so I think she will be on my side if this ever gets serious.

I'm watching

      One evening she opened the door and that arrogant fellow just stood on his hind legs and looked at her. He knew he’d better leave the country when she picked up a stick. He looked rather impressive, though, all stretched up like that. I may need to rethink my strategy.  Anyway, since that first night when I let loose with my really big, get out of my yard, bark, I’ve enjoyed exercising my lungs, but My Lady seems to get annoyed at times. Especially when I start clawing the window glass while I’m barking. When she says hush she seems to think I should be quiet. Me? With that ring-tailed trespasser outside my window? Seem as though I get in trouble ‘most every night and have to spend time in my ‘bad dog ‘ spot on the sofa.

     I’m not real sure what she thought that night I heard something at the front of the house and sounded my alarm. That it was 2:00 in the morning and that I was looking directly at the door to the hall appeared to be a trifle upsetting to My Lady but she behaved very well and we both went back to sleep….after she locked the door. She patted me a lot so I didn’t get any ‘bad dog’ treatment that time.

I try so hard to make folks
understand

     I have two great places My Lady has fixed just for me, so I can watch outside: one by the back where that coon keeps coming, and one by a front window so I can watch cars on the street and visitors parking and lots of other interesting things.

      Yesterday she kept pointing and saying “Fox” and I finally spotted this kinda skinny fellow running around outside, He didn’t try to come up on the porch or get bossy with the cats so I didn’t see any reason to get excited about him.  He finally left and I didn’t even need to bark.

     I guess everything is fairly well under control around here. I almost slipped out the door tonight while My Lady was threatening that coon with her stick and could’ve caused some excitement! Don’t know which would have been worse … tackling that coon or living with My Lady after doing a bad thing.

Such is a dog’s life!

Exibit at the Doss Heritage and Cultural Center

Connecting Threads: Tapestries and Masks

Sherri Woodard Coffey and Pat Souder

Purple Haze, one of my favorites

Today I had a second opportunity to visit my daughter’s exhibit at the Doss and was given permission to photograph her display to share here. I didn’t have permission to take pictures of Pat’s masks, but will tell you that they are outstanding and constructed of many ever-day items that can be found in our “can’t throw that away yet” box.

The walls of the huge exhibit room were lined with Sherri’s wall hanging alternating with Pat’s masks for an outstanding display. 

This display demonstrates the many detailed steps involved in working out a design. 

Badlands,another favorite

Elemental Vision

  
These photos were taken with my cell phone and the colors are probably not exact.  I also took notebook and pen in order to enter each piece's title but failed to do so.

In an adjoining room was a fabulous display of needlework, a special cove showing a cozy needle-working corner. Glass enclosed displays of small items and beadwork added to the interest.

     The needle work ranged from an intricately quilted square, to framed reproductions of old paintings; from delicately formed fabric flowers to metallic flowers and vines. All types of stitches in every conceivable design were shown in this “eat your heart out” display of the work of some very talented needle workers.

Visit this Connecting Threads  exhibit (both rooms) and see the items displayed of some very talented artisans!    

The Old Weatherford Square

     Have you noticed our square lately? Probably not for few of us voluntarily navigate the area. The square has had many changes since1855 when Weatherford was first designated the county seat of Parker County. We citizens have protested each change since our original spacious square surrounding the courthouse was sliced away to accommodate the increased interstate traffic demands of Hwy 80. In my opinion, the trees have now grown large enough to compliment the courthouse and the surrounding landscaping is attractive. Of course, we will continue to exercise our right to criticize and complain ……..

      In the beginning we had a courthouse made of logs or split timber and log cabins and tents formed the square. In those days navigating the square was simple…unless a horse chose to buck or something caused a team and wagon run-away.

      My family moved to this county in 1929, one of many seeking a new beginning after the October market crash. Of course I don’t remember the move…truly I don’t! I do remember coming into town from the east side before the bridge over the railroad tracks was built.

         Weatherford, as the hub of the county, became the marketing center for the area’s farm products with the north and east sides of the spacious courthouse square utilized as an open market. In the earlier days the produce was usually brought to market by wagons and teams but by the late ‘30’s many old cars had been modified to carry a load of produce in a makeshift bed covered with canvas to help shade the highly perishable

produce from the sun.

    The ladies of the town could shop from a wide range of produce, some for fresh fruit or vegetables for the evening meal and some buying larger amounts for home canning. Most of the growers preferred to sell in bulk and usually had baskets of tomatoes, black-eyed peas, or peaches displayed for sale. Occasionally baskets of wild plums or grapes were brought in. As a child the job of picking ripe plums fell to me because I was the lucky person small enough to crawl under the low growing trees. What a bit of malarkey but I picked several bushel baskets of those tiny plums. Prices were low: a half-bushel of tomatoes might be 50¢ and might not sell at even that low price. Often a depressing amount of produce was returned home and fed to the hogs. When watermelons ripened, loads of Tom Watsons, and Black Diamonds were brought in and like the vegetable, were priced cheap, the price declining toward the end of the day as the farmers tried to avoid hauling them back home.

          On First Monday,the traditional marketing and trading day of many counties, the square swarmed with horses, mules, goats and dogs. There were crated chickens, geese and rabbits and probably a few wild critters. Anything that could traded for something useful or turned into cash was brought to First Monday, and tools and farm equipment, home canned goods and hand pieced quilts could usually be found.

          Although the marketing portion of the square retained a driving space between its two rows of parking and vendor sites, it was still a navigational nightmare. The square’s parking space had four exits; one on each side of the square but the traffic was two-way.  Shoppers were wandering around, other vehicles were leaving and even a few wagons with their occasionally very .nervous teams, had to make their way out these exits from the square onto the street that circled the entire complex

   Model Ts chugged as they waited an opportunity to move and old Chevys, that collectors would “die” for today, also took their turn, all giving a few “Ooggles” from old horns, their drivers fervently hoping their engines would not die and cause even more confusion while their vehicle was being cranked.

     If you think learning to drive with a stick-shift and stalling on a steep incline is a bad experience, reflect upon the days a car had to be cranked. First the driver needed to adjust the spark and gas levers properly, then getting the crank and going to the front of the car he started cranking to make the engine catch. Sometimes he was lucky and one turn sufficed. Sometimes he cranked and cranked and sometimes there was that dreaded odor of gasoline: flooded!

      The lucky guy whose car started immediately had to rush back to the drivers seat and again adjust those levers and hope that dagburned contraption didn’t stall again.

The next time you are caught in traffic around the square, just think about those good ole days.

Dannie

WANTED: DEAD OR ALIVE

     What a pity it is that a person is so evil that across the world there is celebration because of his death.

       There are many things that we forget. Time and other events crowd out many memories, but the memories of the morning of 9/11 do not leave us. The enormity of the destruction and that of the horrific deaths will never leave us. Witnessing the fear of so many others as they fled the area and watching the heroic actions of firemen and police as they attempted the hopeless task of saving people are scenes that will not be forgotten..

     How many other atrocities did bin Laden mastermind?  Was he responsible for the bombing of an embassy and the USS Cole? We had no proof of who was responsible so we did nothing. These incidents were a slap in the face to the United States. They were meant to be. Neither compared to the enormity of 9/11. How did a man born into wealth, with an opportunity to do good, change into a monster? Was his hate so great that he had to destroy?

     Other questions arise. Why was he protected from discovery for so many years? Was it fear of his far reaching power or was it admiration and liking for that power. How many other bin Ladens are waiting to take his place?

     The headline shouted “WE GOT HIM!” and the nation is jubilant as it should be. It is proud of all who contributed to locating and killing this man. However, his organization still exists and will it ever be eradicated?

     It was in 1993 that we first experienced an act of terrorism against our nation.

Eighteen years ago!  All but one of those responsible were caught and sentenced and forgotten. Bin Laden was an unknown at that time and did not mastermind that attack…at least not to our knowledge.

     We’re celebrating the death of a very evil man, and we’re celebrating finally reaching our goal of capturing or destroying this man…but it’s not closure; it remains a war and will remain a war even when every member of our troops return home. It will remain a war against evil and hate.




Note:In the midst of jubilance there are some very serious thoughts.  Now we wonder: What next? And we must not forget and we must be forever vigilant.

Did You Know?

      Several months ago, before I fell and messed up my well-organized plans, I started writing about the history of Parker County. I found much more information than I expected and what I found made me realize afresh that history is much more than the dates and happenings we once worked so hard to memorize for the next day’s history test.

     History is the lives of people, whether cave men (and women) or astronauts: People who were once children, who loved and married and people who died in developing our country. Pioneers took on a new meaning as I read about those adventurous people who left the shelter and safety of Fort Worth (the army fort, not yet a town) and with their wagons loaded with all their possessions and provisions for months to come, headed west into Indian territory.

     Their lives and those of their families depended upon luck and their skill with their weapons against the extremely cruel Comanche and Kiowa Indians who claimed the unsettled area that was to become Parker County.

      After all these years, dates and names differ according to the various records, but generally 1850 is considered the beginning of this county’s settlement with one of the first settlements being established in the northern part of the county on a stage line known as the Old Fort Belknap Road.

     William G. Veal opened a general store at that location which was originally referred to as Creamland or Cream Hill. Several years later, Veal and fellow settlers John Lantz and G.W. Coleman constructed a large building that served as a Masonic meeting hall and a school. A huge bronze bell above the building was used to warn settlers of  Indian attacks. Soon after the building was finished Veal moved his general store near the school, and gradually the place came to be known as Veal's Station.

     Until the Indians were driven out the little settlement’s growth was slow but developed rapidly once that huge bell no longer rang announcing an impending attack.  The settlement grew to over 100 residents who along with surrounding farmers, were served by Veal’s original store, three churches, a school and two cotton gins.

     These were the days before our public school system and schooling had to be paid for by the parents of those attending. The Veal Station school became known as Parsons College after its director, Sam W. Parsons, and grew to an enrollment estimated at 500. This was an extremely high enrollment for the times and was made possible by an energetic agent who promoted the school throughout the developing state. Anything of value was accepted as payment for tuition and board. When Parsons resigned in 1899, he received as his last year's salary 100 cow ponies, sixty of which he traded for a store at Veal's Station.

     The routes chosen by the railroads decided the fate of many settlements across our nation and when Veal Station was bypassed it gradually declined.

     Unless there has been a revival in the last few years, a historical marker is all that now marks the site where Indians were fought and lives were lost.

    Some old timers called the area Dark Hollow and it was a bit spooky with deep valleys and streams.  My father used to take a bottle of water and hike that part of Parker County hunting for Indian artifacts. He found many in the Veal Station area indicating that it had once been the site of a major encampment. He was able to bring home many arrowheads and knives and even occasionally a grinding stone but most of these he had to leave.

      As a rock hound he also picked up interesting rocks and once brought a small chunk he identified as only a piece of Fools Gold or iron pyrite. I chose to disbelieve him. It was much more fun to let my imagination run wild. After all, this part of Texas has a history of Mexican mule trains carrying gold ore back to Mexico.  Ah-h history! There so much we don’t know; so much is lost!

Yet we can be thankful that interested people such as those listed below have saved so much.

Bibliography: Parker County Historical Markers and Joe Harper, The History of Education in Parker County, Texas (M.A. thesis, Southwest Texas State Teachers College, 1951). Gustavus Adolphus Holland, History of Parker County and the Double Log Cabin (Weatherford, Texas: Herald, 1931; rpt. 1937). Henry Smythe, Historical Sketch of Parker County and Weatherford (St. Louis: Lavat, 1877; rpt., Waco: Morrison, 1973). Weatherford Democrat, August 1

Kittens & Coons

Woof, Woof.    

        Just when I thought it was getting dull around here I heard a lot of squeaky stuff on the back porch that I couldn’t see but I looked hard as I could out the back window. I could hardly wait! When My Lady finally got around to taking me for a walk I gave that porch a real search and I found four little squeaky things. I brought one out to show off but I had to put it down double quick. My Lady said it was a baby cat, but it doesn’t look much like one.  I’d like to bring one inside to play with, but My Lady nixed that idea immediately. The Momma cat didn’t seem at all bothered  by my attention.even care.

     Those cats act as though they like me. Maybe I’m something warm to rub against. That may be what it is. They rub on me all the time…except for those two black and white ones. What’s going on with those uppity felines, anyway? Every time I’m out they try to pick a fight. You know I’m a peaceful fellow, but if they’re going to hiss and show their claws, I can still show them who this yard belongs too. After all, they’re just strays. My Lady asked for me!

     Well, now the little kittens are gone. I still look for them. I hope nothing bad happened but I’ll keep watching.

      But tonight! Oh boy, what happened tonight! I heard something that didn’t sound exactly right outside on my porch where My Lady feeds that herd of cats so I looked out and there was this huge animal with black rings around its eyes. It looked a lot like My Lady looked for about three weeks (still does some, but I don’t let her know I think so) This old fellow was trying to sneak up on the cat food and I didn’t like that a bit so I brought up my biggest and loudest bark and away he went.

Being good is sometimes dull

     I was sort of surprised at how loud I was and My Lady certainly was. She knew I talked a lot and used a lot of wimpy barking but this was my “Get your tail out of here “ bark. It worked, too, but that varmint kept coming back. Finally My Lady put my leash on and I knew the fun was over so I jumped into my bed. What else could  do? I sure didn’t want any more of that “bad dog” name-calling. I think she liked my loud barking, anyway. I showed her what I could do if it was necessary. 

      Meanwhile, since I’m not going to get to go outside, I’ll  have pleasant dreams about chasing that fellow into somebody else’s yard.

     Yep. that bundle of contentment up there in that pics on the left is me. I hadn't told you that  some of the pack took me down for a grooming, had?. 

Dandy's Yogg

A bad month

                              Woff, Woof!

     Things were going rather smoothly around here, My Lady was shaping up rather nicely to a dog’s ways, I was allowed to clear the doorway of cats if I wished, and somehow, I escaped getting a bath. Well, then My Lady got really busy with this contraption and was getting rather contrary: THEN one morning she had company and left with them….Early!  My Lady does not do early so I thought this was very strange.

      I waited and waited for her to come back but she didn’t. Other pack members came by and took me for walks and put out feed but they couldn’t talk dog talk so there I was, all alone and I didn’t know why. I really liked My Lady and I was pretty sure she liked me so this was a real puzzle.

     Well, two days and nights later she came back….kinda. It sounded like her but, whoo-ee, what a change! She looked a lot like one of my coon toys! And she was creeping around the house holding to things. There was a lot of confusion and people and telephoning and such, so I just went over to my spot and watched it all. I didn’t like this new development one tiny bit!

     I’ve done my very best to communicate my concerns to some of the pack. I’ve used every tone of yowl that I know and all the body language I have but they still don’t understand. They’re nice and sympathetic and they’re nice to My Lady so I guess I’ll just have to do my part and worry a lot.

     I talked her in to taking me out this morning and we sat a while in the sun. Those pesky neighbor dog came rushing over in My yard barking like they wanted to attack us both, but I just ignored them. I had My Lady to take care of and she told them to go so that was that. Some day I plan to try out my Bull Dog fangs on those pests. They need to be taught about property rights. 

I'm watching.

     Did you know that I suspect Bulldog ancestors? Of course the Dandie Denmont Terrior line is what I’m proud of and this Bulldog  linage does mess up my normally handsome face, but a touch of Bulldog might come in handy. We’ll see!

     Anyway, I stayed close to My Lady and just enjoyed the sun and wind and when she stood up I just trotted slowly to the front door and she followed. I think that I need to be careful with her. Something isn’t quite right and now she’s my responsibility. You betcha!

I heard something!

My Lady left this on this box and you might find it 
interesting. Of course, she's  prejudiced and I'm glad! But it is kinda interesting.
http://dogtime.com/dog-breeds/dandie-dinmont-terrier

What's Your Gripe?

    Last week I decided to supplement my usual evening snack of Cheetos and Coke with a can of Campbell's Chicken Soup. When I reached the bottom of my bowl, I realized I had seen no chicken. After emptying the can I found plenty of noodles but still no chicken. This called for study so I read carefully the label's list of ingredients and found chicken stock, noodles, chicken flavoring and chicken fat, AND chicken meat, plus assorted unpronounceable words.
     So! Where's my meat? Who got my chunks of chicken?


     Hunting that piece of chicken reminded me of the one constant in our canned goods: that little piece of fat in a can of pork and beans. I've never known it to disappear or to change and pork and beans have been on the market since 1885 when Heinz started commercially canning their version. Frank Van Camp, an Indianapolis grocer, remembered the popularity of his family's old recipe for salt pork with beans and tomato sauce and opened a canning company and has produced this staple of picnics and quick meals.
     I have fond memories of many Sunday dinners of pork and beans and deviled eggs, equally as tasty as another standby: fried chicken. At 5¢ a can it was a bargain. What a relief that nothing has changed...except the price!
     My discovery that the chunk of chicken was missing came on the same evening that the news reported that our rate of inflation was at 2.9%, no surprise to anyone who had been to the grocery store recently. There are several explanations for the increases, most of which we've heard before. There is always some crises causing these price increases. It is a puzzle, however, why prices never drop when the crises is over.
      I understand how the weather can make or break any agricultural venture. I also understand that if a business does not make a profit it cannot continue, unless, as we have seen, the government steps in with assistance; and that's another subject, entirely!

      

     We must eat and to stay reasonably healthy we need some of the most expensive of grocery items;  fresh fruits and vegetables. Price a large apple and you're courting a heart attack. 

     In its simplest form, our economy is based on a producer, a seller, and a consumer. What is going to happen when the later has no more money?

Leave my chunks of chicken alone!

Dannie

The Good Old Days of Wintertime

     To this date I know of any legislative attempt to change our weather to a more pleasant year-round average so we may as well plan on enduring the extremes of both summer and winter.

     For me, my memories of each season are quiet vivid, for I grew up in the days of the Great Depression and comfort was not a high priority item, especially if one lived in the country.

     Of course, there were numerous nice country dwellings, but in general, the majority of the farm houses were box houses, built without a wall framework but instead of wide vertical boards striped with 1x4s to cover the crack between each board. A board of one-inch thickness does not keep out much

cold.   

    Most of these houses were being lived in without the benefit of any repairs and their original poor construction and the effects of weather had taken their toll, resulting in wide cracks and humps in the floors.

     A winter in 1930 is the one I most often think of in terms of cold. We lived in a fairly well built house--I remember no wide cracks or missing windowpanes. As was the custom, it had two flues for the escaping wood smoke: one for the cook stove and one located in the living room for a wood burning heater.     

     My memory is of a wood heater sitting at an angle in a corner of the living room:  a stack of wood near by, my father’s rocker and a library table with a kerosene lamp lining the wall. My mother’s rocker was also near the table and lamp, for they both spent a few hours reading each night.

      As a four-year old, I was constantly on the move, standing by the heater until my legs were red and burning and then returning to my play across the room for only a few minutes before another thawing session by the stove.

      When I think of past winters, that is my first memory of being cold. Children’s winter clothing in those days was far different from that of today.  Although there were“long johns” for the boys, the girls had to contend with dresses and cotton stockings, which would not stay in place and were hated heartily. Surely there were under vests but I don’t remember any.

It was cold and you lived with it.

    

     By the time I was ten we had moved into our very own home with four large rooms and two wonderful porches all interestingly dilapidated

     This house was also of box construction, but as a much larger one, it showed more serious effects of settling, creating cracks along in the flooring that made sweeping out the dirt an easy chore.  Its large “L” shaped back porch had buckled with the settling resulting in a huge hump at one end.

     The walls were insulated with layers of newspapers and magazine pages that today would probably be worth more than the old house itself.

     None of these flaws bothered me in the least, for I loved that old house at first sight.

     In this house the heater had a short wall of its own making it easier to crowd around when the weather turned cold. Despite this old house’s construction flaws, it never seemed to be as severely cold as the earlier one…  except for the north bedroom with its one north window. I expect a glass of water would have frozen hard overnight.

     School closings were unheard of in those days. There was no way to communicate such notices, and after walking some distance in snow only to reach a locked schoolhouse was unthinkable.

      One’s common sense was the guideline and I have no memories of missed days. There are, however, quite a few of crowding around a huge wood burning stove with a roaring fire, trying to warm feet that felt frozen from tramping a mile over a frozen and rutted road.

      Realistically, there was no way that red hot stove was going to warm a large room in near freezing temperatures, so when completely chilled, students would again hover around the stove.

      Once, after a snow storm arrived during the school day, I choose when going home, to take a shortcut through the woods, reasoning that there would be less time in the cold and a nice windbreak from the blowing wind. My mother was not happy with my decision. In fact, she was extremely unhappy, for as every mother knows, children get disorientated in the snow and are lost and suffer all sorts of other terrible consequences….

I believe these are a few of the days sometimes spoken of as “The good ole days.”

Dandy's Yogg-

A New Year's Eve visit


Woof! Woof!

      During all those days with snow on the ground and with nothing to do except to look out the window and take naps, I got to thinking how nice it is to have company. That got me to thinking about what happened New Year's Eve.

     I’m a quiet kind of guy so I’m content with taking walks and naps, and talking My Lady into playing a game of tug-of-war with one of my toys, but when New Year’s Eve came, it was nice to have two of our regular visitors come to visit, but it wasn’t such a nice surprise to see a squirmy little girl dog rushing in the door. She was going in five directions at once and sniffing me    and barking like crazy. 

     Well, of course, I barked back and tugged at my leash so I could better handle this situation, but My Lady held me tight. This little newcomer must have been named Rosie, for that sure was yelled a lot.  Finally I got tired of the whole situation and went to my chair by the window. I couldn’t look out though, because if I turned my back on this Rosie dog she’d try to jump there with me.

      Oh, it made me tired to watch her run around, wiggling all the time and sniffing at everything. I left my chair a time of two but here Rosie would come, barking and kissing my nose in a most forward manner. I got plenty tired of it and when I’ve had enough, I’m through, so for the first time in my new home, I rolled m lip back and did a snarl that should have delivered a strong message.

         Well, that snarl and several more, didn’t impress that Rosie one little bit. I guess she was wiggling to much to get the message so finally when she crowded me again, I really got serious because I was ready to take a piece of hide. You can imagine how that went over with My Lady! She took me to my place in the corner of the sofa and told me to stay.

.

It was nice that she petted me a little and rubbed my favorite spot under my chin so I didn’t feel to badly about being an ungracious host but I sure didn’t like what that Rosie dog did next. She jumped up in My Lady’s lap and kept squirming around so I would be sure and notice her. I wish My Lady had dumped her out on the floor on her little wiggly rear!

     It was nice when midnight rolled around and Rosie went her way and I went mine and we settled down for the night.

 Things were much better the next morning and I managed to sneak over and eat Rosie’s food and drink her water. That made my day! 

      Well, you can imagine how boring this week has been, to make me wish for another visit from Rosie but I guess it wouldn't have been long before all that running and wiggling would have had me hunting for a place to hide. 

Woof!

Dandy

The Ice.

Woof, Woof!

These last two days have been rather trying, and I expect I’d better tell you my version of what happened, before My Lady decides to tell tales.

I was surprised yesterday when I bounded out the door in my usual fashion and my feet landed in this cold white stuff that was on the porch. Well that made me slow down, I can tell you! 

Airmail on a nicer day

 I always enjoy going to the end of the sidewalk. That’s where I stop and I sniff the air in three directions. My Lady says that I am reading the airmail.  That first step off the porch landed me in belly-deep snow, so I just turned around and headed back to the door where My Lady waited. The airmail could wait and that brief dip in the white stuff left my belly kinda shivery. Later I was allowed to go outside without the leash. Of course it didn’t take a genus to know that I wasn’t going to run off in all that white stuff. Later,I sneaked out again while My Lady was picking up wood. That was not the smartest idea I’ve ever had, but it sure was fun watching those cats hunt a hiding place. Still, I remembered the time once before, that had me mediating in my quiet corner for hours, so when she really yelled in that certain tone of voice, I scooted for that door pretty fast. I guess I was lucky to escape a whack with one of those sticks of wood!

It turned into a long afternoon. We couldn’t go get the mail, we couldn’t go shopping and that long cord to allow me to meander around the yard was buried three inches below the snow.  Anyway, I finally got so bored that I couldn’t stand it any longer so I begged and begged until My Lady consented to take me out again.

Now the moment we went out the door I spotted this piece of bread lying on the porch. Now to my way of thinking, that was an unexpected trophy, even if I don’t like bread. Well, I grabbed tha bread and away I went down the length of the porch. Okay, okay, I knew it belonged to the cats! That made grabbing it even more fun. Anyway, I was moving along fast, when I met a cat, so I did what my instincts told me, and I turned to chase that fellow.

 That’s when it happened!  I’m a little embarrassed to tell you that when I wheeled around, my feet lost traction and I did a belly flop right there on a patch of ice.  Oh my! My feet went every which way and I just wiggled along on my underside until I reached a dry spot. By that time the cat was out of sight so I very carefully turned and picked up my bread and continued on my way.

Of course, a trophy is meant to be saved, so I found a likely spot in the snow and started digging. That turned out to be a poor choice, so I moved to another spot which turned out to be perfect. Digging a hole in soft snow should be easy, but it wasn’t. The hole kept filling up with more snow but I finally got a decent hole and dropped that piece of bread in it.  I’d had enough of digging with my poor cold paws, so I just used my nose to start nudging enough snow over to cover my prize. That took a while and my nose got cold. When I was through I could feel snow all over my face. I think I heard My Lady snicker, but I just ignored her and headed for the door.

Now that it’s dark I’m ready for a long nap , It really hasn’t been such a bad day, considering that I got to chase a few cats and didn’t get scolded and, and I snitched a piece of cat-bread and got it buried, and have had a nice fire to lye by most of the day.

Woof.

Dandy

NOTE:  Always have a camera at hand when around the animals. The burying of that slice of bread was  hilarious! 

Magazines

      Some browsing on a long, long day, took me to Facebook where I found a recent posting by Karen Rutherford telling of her love of the New Yorker magazine. I was  reminded of the magazines of my younger days.

     As a child, I remember the Saturday Evening Post, which came bi-monthly to our mailbox.  I don’t know what we did without in order to subscribe but my father always managed somehow. I Googled the Saturday Evening Post and found that in those days the newsstand cost was 5¢ so he had to dig up about $1 for a one-year subscription! Remember that these were deep depression days when the listing of flour on the weekly grocery list always threw him into a panic; a 24 lb. bag cost almost $1, a loaf of bread was 8¢, a quart of peanut butter was 23¢, and a can or pork and beans was 5¢.

      The Post always had three or four short stories: several, featuring characters such as Tugboat Anne and her rival Bullwinkle, appeared often, and there was always one serialized novel. The one I remember most vividly was Mutiny on the Bounty, which my dad read to me while holding me in his lap.

     Today, issues of the Saturday Evening Post from that era are priced at $35 to $65 dollars; what a pity the mice made nests of all those old copies!

     As a beginning reader, one magazine that I looked forward to carried a children’s short, one-page story featuring Peter Painter and his magic paintbrush. With all the information that the Internet makes available, I cannot find a trace of this feature.  I did learn that there is an old Chinese folktale that could have been the basis of the stories I enjoyed so much. 

     Other magazines of those years were Colliers and the Country Gentleman. Another periodical was the Progressive Farmer. A Progressive Farmer salesman often appeared at the door with his subscription pad and seldom left without a new subscription, for if cash was short, they would take almost anything in trade.

     In the ‘60s a salesman stopped by my husband’s business attempting to make a sale and apparently did not understand “no.” He finally proposed taking an old radiator in trade so my husband said “Go for it,” since there was about half an acre of old car parts behind his shop. The salesman worked over half an hour trying to collect his payment and finally had to be helped. The stack of Progressive Farmer issues that collected on the desk were never read but somehow my husband got some satisfaction from the hard work the poor salesman did in order to get something of value for the subscription.  

      Changing interest and increased publishing costs have changed our world of magazines. The Cosmopolitan changed drastically and Good housekeeping, Redbook, Lady’s Home Journal and others that we enjoyed so much in the ‘60s and ‘70s no longer feature short stories or novelettes.  The much thinner publications of today, have large sections of recipes, “how to “ articles, or decorating features. Another loss from the good ole days!

     

  Dannie

Mr. Dandie Dinmont

Woof, Woof.

All Right! You can make a note of this day, because I’ve established myself as a lean, mean, cat-chasing machine.  I know what every body has been saying: “Just wait until one of those cats gets serious about standing and fighting! That’s when we’ll learn who’s boss!”

Today was the day. At feeding time one of those silly, overeager felines rushed into the house for some reason. Silly thing has never been fed in the house. Well, here I was, staying just as I had been told, and this big boy comes rushing by. Now, he wasn’t supposed to be in my house so I went after him, just to remind him, you know, and there he was in a corner!

I’ll admit that he put up a good fight before he streaked past me and joined his buddies who were yowling around My Lady who’d forgotten to empty her dish of food into their pan! I guess she just couldn’t tear herself away from the disciplinary action going on inside.

It ended quite well, I thought. There’s no sign of damage and maybe that tabby learned that it takes a lot more than a puffed up tail and a few claws to come out a winner a fellow with a Dandie Dinmont heritage.  You betcha!

Here’s a photo of two of my distant (very distant) kin, all duded up.  He doesn’t look like he’s done any hard work lately does it? On the other hand, I’ve heard that in show biz, it takes a lot of hard work to become a winner. This other guy doesn’t look at all happy. I guess he needs some cats to chase.

I’m not exactly into this genealogy stuff, but there is sure a lot of good stuff about my family background on the Internet.  It’ll make a fellow proud.  OOPS!  Willful? Does that mean I’m hard headed? 

The Flying Fortress

 

After its 31 years of residency in Fort Worth, the B-17 is leaving Texas.  I regret that I never went the short distance to view it on the ground.

The B-17, or Flying Fortress, as it was generally called, was an icon of WWII. It was massive, for planes of those years, and it steadily and effectively carried out its mission as a bombing machine. It soon became known as a very tough plane, sustaining terrible damage and still managing to return its crew home and then be repaired and returned to battle.

War is a terrible thing with its death and destruction and the B-17 was made for war. However, when freedom or servitude, life or death, are at stake, as they were at that time, this B-17 tough fighting machine soon became a heroic  symbol of  our nation’s knowhow and determination to do what was necessary for our survival,

Bombing raids were carried out
often with more than a hundred
Flying Fortresses

 One of my most memorable moments of the wartime years, was the day a deep roar brought the entire neighborhood to their yards to gaze upward as the sky was filled with these monstrous planes passing overhead. There were too many to count; there were probably hundreds, for the flight went on and on and the air vibrated with the awesome roar of the engines.

 We had no hint of their designation but we knew their purpose and the sight and sound of these Flying Fortresses going about their   business of saving the world from Nazism was sobering.

Photos are from Wikipedia's files and from a Federal Government page. Many of the stories found in the Flying Fortress archives and other wartime pages, told by the men who survived,  make a good argument that none of our movies or novels have been exaggerated....except, perhaps the female character, who seems able to always  appear beautiful.

Why Do They Hate

It has been less than one month since the scandalous behaviour of the Westboro church attracted public attention. Today, this group has again seized a tragic event to express their opinions in a sickeningly manner.

This group is apparently filled with hate toward many things and have chosen to express that hate in  unacceptable  behaviour of their own. Is it possible to hate everything but themselves? Apparently they hated everything about Elizabeth Edwards and her life and went so far as to assume that they were qualified to judge her state after death.

Now, with the death of six people by a shooter in Arizona, this group has the audacity to post on its website the words "Thank God for the shooter..6 dead."  Why are they saying this? What do they think this random group of people were guilty of to make their death a matter of thankfulness? How could they dare to include a 9-year old child in such a proclamation?

We need to know some facts about this church. How did such a church get established? What motivated its beliefs? Who taught this group their beliefs?  Who failed to teach them some basic rules of decency.

With the freedom of speech that our Constitution guarantees, there appears to be no ready answer to curtailing the methods these people use to express their hate other than using existing laws preventing their making a public disturbance near their targeted area of hate. We can, however, concentrate on  teaching future generations some rules of conduct. Who, among us, would want their children to be a part of such effrontery?

Combined with the tragedy of the circumstances of the shooting: the troubled shooter, his problems in school, his access to a gun, it is obvious that those in our present generation has years of dedicated work ahead of them.


 Leave your thoughts in comments below.

More Cars

  
     Remember the Studebaker with its great gas mileage? We had several. We also had small children loaded into the back seat where there was absolutely no air circulation when the car was stopped at a traffic light or for anything else. My husband remembered those fondly, a sentiment I did not share.
     The first new car was a '48 4-door Chevrolet to be delivered the next day. My husband was wide awake at 11:00 trying to understand why he'd taken the plunge to spend $1600 of his hard-earned money for a car.  At 12:00 he was still fretting and so it went for a few more hours until he finally decided what was done was done and went to sleep.
     Ah-h, the lure of that new car scent! It had reeled him in. That and a good friend who was a salesman at the dealership where they both worked.
     For a short time these two friends were partners in their own car lot. All went well, but they had one experience neither ever forgot: A dairyman interested in a car on their lot, stopped by to see if they could work out a trade so after a lot of circling each car and checking under the hoods and kicking the tires, a deal was made and a happy dairyman drove away.
     The two salesmen pocketed their money, also well pleased with themselves. They were busy for a few hours before they decided to clean up their newest acquiescence and calculate their hoped for profit. Upon opening the doors, they were almost knocked over by the reek of spoiled milk.  The car had been used to transport the dairyman's cans of milk and a few hours in the hot sun had made the smell one they never forgot.
      This was in the days before some many forms of deodorants were available so they did the best they knew how...they went to Duke & Aryes and stocked up on Evening of Paris  perfume in hopes of disguising the sour milk odor. It was quiet a while before we wives learned about the dairy car.
     Despite having a steady supply of clunkers, there were also new cars. One was a great bargain because it had slight hail damage and we drove it for several years and another that we had for only one day.
    We were coming home from a vacation when we decided to stop at a car lot in a neighboring town. My husband found a new Plymouth at a price he couldn't resist and although he wasn't a 'Plymoith man', he did  appreciate a bargain so we brought it home with us.
     A local dealer spotted him driving it to work the next morning and it seems he had a customer looking for that exact model, color, etc. so another irresistible deal was made and my trader husband returned home that evening in a new Chevrolet.
     With the new cars, my opinion was always asked. The clunkers just appeared!
      Many of our unusual and temperamental vehicles were ones for the kids to drive. They were "good ole cars" but always had a few peculiarities. There was an old Mercedes that when the ignition quit working, Papa furnished a pair of pliers with instructions on which wires to twist together.
     There was a Volvo that our eldest teen aged daughter drove and which had the peculiar habit of dying at red lights on the square. Fortunately, enough teen aged boys always appeared to move her out of the traffic lane until the car would again start and move on its own.
     The youngest daughter had an old BMW that she drove the 286 miles to Texas Tech for four years.  It was remarkably dependable and had a simplified  owners manual that enabled the girls to fix a few problems on their own. After graduation and a job that had her working late hours it seems sensible to upgrade to a more secure system with automatic windows, locks and that wonderful luxury...air conditioning. An old car collector bought it to restore.
      Another vehicle with character was an old green wrecker. It was a dependable old thing, maybe of the early '50s and after the shop was closed it was kept it parked here at the house.
     My husband was now pursuing what he loved: raising horses and a few cattle and went daily to the farm to do whatever needed doing out there. It was late one afternoon when he called and said that he'd like for me to bring the wrecker out in order to lift a cow out of a ditch.
     My reaction was definite: "No way!"  He assured me that I could handle the chore, that the cow had fallen into the ditch and had landed on her back and could not get her feet under her enabling her to rise on her own. And it would soon be dark, so hurry!
       Okay, we had a lot of space in front of the house so I tentatively tried out the gears...it was a stick shift, of course...and found everything slightly familiar so we growled our way out of the yard and on to the road and off  for the 14 mile trip and  then located the trouble spot far down in the pasture. Feeling pretty cocky by that time, I quickly lost my confidence when I was instructed to back toward the ditch where the unfortunate cow lay. Me? Back toward a ditch?  It got worse. I was instructed to push this or that doodad to lower the cable down to the cow.

     Well the cow was hoisted up, the wrecker stayed on solid ground, and I never drove it again.

The end of the car tales...I think!

Dannie