Dandy's Yogg––A Rough Week Already

Woof, woof. It’s only Wednesday and it has been a rough week already.  Monday I got shots. I thought I was going for a nice ride. Yeah, I rode, all right–right up to the vet’s office and here they come with that “nice Doggie” talk and a needle! 

Then yesterday I sneaked out when My Lady opened the door to look out. Well I paid for that! She didn’t notice I was gone. I scratched on the door and I scratched again and again, hoping that door would open like it sometimes does, and I could sneak in again. I could’ve barked but you know how it is when you’ve been naughty–you hope things work out so it won’t be noticed!

Well, my door scratching finally got My Lady’s attention and she opened the door. That was one surprised person, I can tell you.  She just stared at me, so I ran over to my water bowl and then got in my bed and was real quiet. I think she has it all figured out now, but for a while that was one puzzled lady.

Last night was the worst of all. She sits on my couch and I can see that brush and scissors in her hands. That means trouble, folks! I’m a longhaired fellow and have short legs besides. That a bad mix when I’m out trailing the recent varmints that have visited My Lady’s yard. You see, it’s covered with burr clover gone to seed.

No matter how hard I squirmed and how loud I yelped, she wouldn’t turn me loose. All that “nice Doggie” stuff didn’t impress me one bit. That was cruelty to an animal, and if I didn’t like her so much I’d report her. Decided I’d just sulk instead.

Then she gives me a treat–the hardest, toughest think I’ve ever had in my mouth. Delicious, though. She followed that with a dog biscuit and I thought I’d just save it for a while. Have you ever tried burying a treat in a place with a rock floor? When I head for the little planter box, I get yelled at. If I try to move the sofa pillows, I get yelled at again. After I pretended to give up and go to sleep she forgot about me and I put my treat in my special place between the cushions and the sofa back.

It’s still there this morning but I didn’t have a chance to enjoy it. I got an invitation for another car ride. Now, that’s something I can’t resist. Say “car” and I’m at the door in a split second. This one ended at the groomer’s, so you can imagine what I had to go through to get this new look.  When it was all done and they put me in that crate thing to wait for my ride home, I told them exactly what I thought. I reckon she has had enough practice with dogs that she understood every bark ‘cause she picked up the phone and says “I think he wants to go home, now.” She thinks? Huh!

So here I am–the new me. I've been shot, bathed clipped, dipped, and perfumed.  

And please, don't even think about offering me another car trip this week.

Woof!

Dandy's Yogg

Woof, woof. This hasn't been the best of my summers. I'm no sissy, but this heat gets hard on a guy that can't take off his fur coat.

I think my Lady is as bored as I am. She's keeping that noisy picture thing going a lot, so it's no wonder she's bored. All these humans flip flopping and running around - makes me tired, except for the water stuff. Now that looks pretty interesting - seems as though nobody is around to rub soap all over you like in these gosh-awful baths. I don't know what a little fellow like me would do in that much water, but I'd sure like to find out.

It's been a little strange around here this summer. My Lady has spent more time than usual in her big chair and she kept cloths over her eyes a lot. She's not doing that any more and her eyes aren't very black , so I guess she's okay, but it was real strange when she spent a few nights sleeping in her chair. Of course, I stayed up to take care of her. Still, it's been nice to get back to normal - what ever that is.  After almost two years of living here, I still can't get that woman to keep decent bedtime hours. I've been very patient and polite but I'm considering other options.

I've had a lot of company - well my Lady has. They visit with me some and I try to carry on a decent conversation but it's pretty one-sided.

Well, I did  have one visitor of my own - that feisty little black and white terrier that was here one New Year's Eve, came again. She's a busy little thing but I was glad to have a visitor of my own. Actually, she was more interested with what was in my food bowl than sitting  down for for a talk!

I'm a guy that likes to keep my Lady safe from these wild varmints that prowl around here but these hasn't been much to do. I chased away a stray cat and sometime I can make the deer run. As  long as I'm in the house they just look my way and flop their ears. But when my Lady lets me out, boy do they run. They must be smarter than they look so they don't stay around when I'm outside taking care of the place.

Now let me tell you about another visitor. This is one I don't want to fool with - wouldn't do me any good to take it on, anyway, 'cause it just takes to the air and leaves.

I don't usually pay any attention to birds. They flit around all the time and don't seem to bother anything. They're not my type anyhow. We Dinmont Terriers are hunters of things like gophers, and badgers - all those things that like to dig burrows in the ground. So that's why I don't quiet know what to do with this big black bird that's hanging around my place.

A few days ago I saw it perched on a rail looking around and I figured he had no business here in my yard so I let out my mightiest bark and it left in a hurry. But it'd been at the bird bath. I was out later and I sniffed that scent pretty quick. I sniffed all around and stretched as far as I could but didn't learn much. Today my Lady let me roam a minute in the front yard and I knew it was here again. I couldn't seen it but I knew.  I don't like that big bird. Some ancient instinct is saying "beware"! So I just barked enough to alert my Lady that something was wrong and then casually turned around and headed for the front door like I'd had enough of the heat. I'm not sure I fooled her though, 'cause she followed me to the back door - and there it was.

Well folks, that's my summer so far. I have an idea that big bird is going to be around for awhile. I guess the deer will also. I'd rather have cats, though. They're more my size and I can count on them running in the right direction...away!

Woof.
Dandy

Our Changing World

I opened a box of Kleenex this morning and was reminded of my surprise when I plucked them from the shelf with the "sale" sign. The box was smaller than in the past. Just another company cutting their cost by reducing the size of their product.

Have you bought graham crackers recently? They are  also in a new, reduced size. Not the box - the cracker. Not much smaller but just a wee bit. Multiply that by the thousands of boxes sold and I suppose there is a substantial saving for the company.

What's next? I understand there is a new 'fat-free' variety of pork & beans on the shelves. Is that the future for the beans we were raised on? The ones that have been around since the end of the War Between the States in 1865? Tell me it isn't so. That little tiny piece of fat mustn't  disappear in this new leaner world. Not after all these years.

Remember the candy bars that felt smaller - and were? Remember the one-pound coffee can that became 12 ounces? The result is the same. We're getting less for our money. Exactly where are are grocery prices going with this, and how can a consumer beat the system?

Actually, they can't without a handful of coupons, a calculator and lots of time. Small cans of veggies and fruits cost are only slightly lower priced than the regular size.  Yesterday I reached for a half gallon of milk, planning to save a little. Checked the price - $2.19. Looked at the gallon size - $2.49. For 30¢ more, I could get twice the amount, let part of it spoil and still come out ahead.

Then to keep from being terribly wasteful (all of us who grew up in the Great Depression days have trouble wasting anything) I will need to bake a sheet cake that uses sour milk, make cornbread and biscuits with sour milk instead of grabbing a slice of that $2.50 loaf, and then wash a bunch of baking dishes. Probably need to think of some way to use the left over home-baked breads, also.

Peal it thin..or not at all.

                                                                           
Today prices rise so fast, no one has to be ancient to remember ten pounds of potatoes priced at 75¢ or bananas for 29¢ a pound. Those wonderful summer melons filled the bins for only 99¢ and a shopper could dig for the largest on in the stack.

As for myself, I remember a 10¢ loaf of bread.  Even worse, although as a child we had mostly home cooked bread,  I remember talk about the wonderful  advent of sliced bread. In1930, Wonder bread was the first to use the new bread-slicing invention.

Grocery shopping is a challenge, but despite all there is to complain about, there's a good side to all the changes..

We don't wear clothing like this any more..
                                        We are not using wood cook stoves.
                                        We have air conditioning.
                                        For the rushed days, there are many
                                        already prepared foods at the grocer's.


 And there are large-sized drinks for the especially hot day.

This blog has been quiet for a while but plenty has been going on, My eyelids were beginning to cut off good vision so after months of squinting and complaining, I finally 'bit the bullet' and had surgery on both lids. An interesting procedure! There has been no pain and my eyesight was improved immediately. Also my balance. I am looking forward to the discoloration completely disappearing, but even that has not been very bad.

 I tackled eBay selling back in June. Being one of those persons who plunges in without carefully reading the instructions, I had a few problems at first. Everything soon worked out fine, even the ones that were not of my doing, but the first two weeks of attempting to get answers from a system that does not speak, was a challenge. And all those years of saving boxes for the day they would become useful paid off as I scrambling around hunting shipping containers  for the items I was fortunate to sell.  So far, I've reduced the size of my aluminum collection by over seventy items. My store of boxes was also reduced and I had to resort to begging for more, and have now filled the space vacated by the aluminum sales, with more boxes. However, I'm still doing eBay and with a little luck will use every one and beg for more.

Dandy has plans for voicing his experiences during all this. I suspect his summer has been very boring so far.

Dannie

What a Trip

Today is another one of those milestones – the kind we looked forward to as a kid and have endured ever since. I received these pithy remarks in the mail and this seems an appropriate place to repeat my favorits:

inside every older lady is a younger lady -- wondering what the hell happened.

        Inside me lives a skinny woman crying to get out. But I can usually shut her up with cookies.

   Thirty-five is when you finally get your head together and your body starts falling apart.

     And my own thoughts as I celebrate my 86^th year: If you thought being a teenager or raising kids was hard, just look at it this way…It was just toughening you up for old age, ‘cause  old age sure ain't no place for sissies. But I’m enjoying the years, nevertheless!


A bit of history....

First birthday & no patience
for picture taking.

   

About 3 years. How about
that haircut

Second grade

Just another teenager but
that dress is made from
13¢ a yard fabric

Watermelon time on the farm

Sweet sixteen

My sailor is on leave

Our first apartment is upstairs and
is 9'x16' with a bath downstairs
and across this breezeway

Getting a sunburn & baby due
three months 

And here she is.And I'm a
mother at 18.

1947--reading my cousin's early
literary efforts. Twenty years later
she had a winner,

At second daughter's home wedding

Another home wedding...third daughter

A fall on my face sure affected my appearance.for
about a month. I looked much worse for awhile.

With a daughter and her family,

Just me and my dog. There's nothing like
a picture to remind a person of the years
gone by and the pounds that have been
gained. Wot happened to that 125 lb. girl
with the 23" waist?

Baling Wire and Spit

When being conservative was a way of life and had nothing to do with political leanings.

There is an old country saying that baling wire and spit will fix anything. I can vouch for the baling wire. Anyone who has ever lived on a farm knows that all quick repairs depend on that twist of baling wire hanging on a fence.

Baling wire was made to be fed into a hay baler to hold the hay in compact bales. Two strands were tightly wrapped around each bale and were strong enough to be a hand-hold for lifting and carrying the 50-75 lb. bales. After it was removed from the hay, it was often twisted around a fence or tossed aside in what often became huge piles of bundled, rusting wire, and from there became the most used, most indispensible and multipurpose item to ever come to the aid of a farm family. 

Baling wire has mended fences, made a gate fastener, mended a piece of harness, replaced or made a bucket handle, reinforced a sagging box or basket - whatever was broken, a piece of baling wire made a quick fix that often lasted for years.

When the day came that the patched, tied together objects were beyond help even from baling wire, they were stored in the barn. Why? Because there might be something salvageable: a bolt or nut, a piece of oak, a drawer pull or a hinge. Fifty years later they may still there, waiting to be discovered by an antique or junk dealer, and used to add atmosphere to someone’s patio – or their den-or to some eating establishment.

Those were the days before recycling had to be encouraged as necessary to save our planet. It was a way of life. Newspapers were used to start fires; advertising and promotional letters came printed on only one side, making handy drawing paper or shopping lists. Bread wrappers (whenever the luxury of bought bread was affordable) were saved, string that tied paper-wrapped purchases was rolled into balls, and sometimes used to crochet attractive doilies. Magazines were never thrown away. On our farm they were saved, their pages separated and used to line baskets holding tomatoes bound for the market. In those days tomatoes had tender skins. They could even be sliced without a knife with a serrated edge.

Despite the saving and multiple uses of everything that appeared on the farm in those depression years, every farm home accumulated a junk pile. A cup could be used without a handle but a broken bowl or plate had to be trashed. Old shoes eventually were worn beyond repair, and old bottles and broken jars were taken to the junk pile. Each new resident added another layer of discards to the accumulation. Today, they are a treasure trove for bottle collectors. Back in the ‘30s, treasure hunting kids ignored their mothers, and risked snake and spider bits, and the risk of broken glass, and poked around hoping to find something pretty. My only treasures were an ornate butter knife and a sugar spoon, both made of nickel silver. Not at all valuable, but a treasure never the less. Somehow they had escaped the watchful eyes of the former resident and had landed in the junk pile. They found a safe haven with me for I seldom throw anything away. I even know where they are at this moment - I think..

 Cans were plentiful in junk piles, but although not as versatile as baling wire, they were almost as useful. They were ideal for dipping feed for the chickens, a dozen or so or nail holes in the bottom of a large can made an excellent sprinkler for watering small delicate seedlings. They were more often put into use as holders for nails, and bolts and screws – or just the junk that was being saved because someday it might be useful. A generation later, no one knows what it was originally, and it becomes an interesting relic.

If the kids had run out of chores to keep them busy, tin can stilts would help burn off some of that extra energy. Turned upside down and with a couple of holes on either side near the top for attaching a strong cord, kids put a each foot on a can, held the cords in their hands, and walked as far as they could without falling off.

Besides these ‘close to the ground’ stilts to play with, there was kick the can, and walkie-talkies or play phones made of cans.

Another multiuse item was binder twine. It was widely used for binding bundles of grain - and often the dried stalks of corn. This was a hands-on job that called for long-sleeves and gloves. The corn stalks are cut, stacked in manageable bundles, and then tied tightly with binding twine. Then they are arranged in teepee like shocks to shed the rainfall and complete the drying process. Later they would be hauled to a shed and be taken to the mill for grinding. The stalks were not bare – the leaves were still intact and would make tiny stinging cuts and were simply unpleasant to handle. The dried tassels sifted their pollen into clothing and by the time the day’s work was over a worker was an itching, stinging, miserable person.

Even the twine was rough to handle. It came in tightly wound rolls about 9” in diameter, that for some reason had a hollow core. It was  made of either Manila or Sisal hemp, rough on the hands that handled it and had a slight creosote scent. It was also insect repellant.

Those picturesque Thanksgiving photographs of shocks of corn and pumpkins, represent many hours of stingy, itching, hard work.

Like baling wire, binding twine had other uses. It was extremely strong and practically indestructible. One of the main uses was to replace the worn-out seats of straight chairs. Occasionally this was done in an intricate weaving technique, but more often in a simple crisscross design. For comfort, a thin cushion was added – one made of scraps, of course.

Today we can add duct tape and masking tape to the “fix anything” list and tin can stilts, along with other can uses, have made their way into the crafts magazines as things for the kids to do.

And we of that older generation continue to tell our tales and write our memories – and hope those days never return. 

Snake tales

          When I was a kid, living on a farm far out in what some of my classmates liked to call "hoot owl" country, all seasons except the dead of winter was a snake season.
        That must have been the heart of copperhead land.  They loved the deep sand, post oak region then.. and now. We had no rattle snakes but could usually count on seeing a copperhead every day or two...if we were out and about, and especially in warm weather.
        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.
        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 lurking spooky things.
       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 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, knowing the ways of dogs and copperheads, 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 out three barns preparing for an auction. They were full of stacked lumber, hay, accumulated junk that made its way to the barn instead of the dump ground or the handy ditches that were nearby. 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 hiding place and  met their end before they made it to safety.
        It's not that we're vicious people. A copperhead bite is not only very painful but calls for a quick trip for treatment,  hospitalization and a painful recuperation.A victim is facing tissue loss and probably a period of therapy.


       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. Nothing between them but a window screen. So far as I know, she's never   opened a window 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 I need help and don't want to admit it, 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 copperhead queen of owl-country. 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, if you have no other options, you can walk away and leave a snake alone 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, and this particular 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.........

Dannie

The Good Ole Days

An Old Grismill

This afternoon a look at this old gristmill brought back memories of its original use––or at least what my dad intended to use it for.  I think he bought it at an old junk store called Fry’s on North Main Street, here in Weatherford, and being a do-it-yourself kind of guy, thought he could grind his own cornmeal.

It did grind the shelled corn he poured into its hopper, but turning the wheel produced nothing close to the fine meal Mother used for cornbread, It was very coarse, more like chicken feed, so it was retired to the barn where many years later I retrieved it and have now placed it in use far different from that of long ago.

I think he frequented the junk store quite often, and probably for the same reasons most of do nowadays–-to find something useful at only a few cents on a dollar, or something surprising nice. Like the cobalt blue cathedral bottle he bought for my mother. 

One day he came home with an old cast iron kettle and from then on, it sat on the back of the cookstove, providing a constant supply of hot water. It held the heat much longer than the previous aluminum one. And yes, I still have both. Would I throw anything away?  

No, of course not, and  glad I haven't. The    old "hot water heater" has turned into a great piece for holding those Christmas poinsettias.

            Usually, Dad’s suggestions were followed withoutquestioning. There was never, never, any argument––until the time we had no milk.

         Cows are not providers of a constant supply of milk. They take a break to have a baby calf and then again become a dependable supplier of fresh milk. This  eventuality is something a farmer plans for, but plans are merely plans, and occasionally  reality rules. So for several weeks we had no milk.

         In these modern times, a trip to the grocery store would be the logical thing to do, but these are tales of farm life in the Depression Era. A person did not drive twelve miles to town to buy milk, plus the ice to keep it chilled, in order to have fresh milk for a couple of days. Not even to pour over your morning cereal.

         Dad started each day fortified with a hefty breakfast: a bowl of oatmeal, some sort of cured pork,( although it usually began to taste a bit stale between hog-killing times),  an egg, and several biscuits.

         On the other hand, I refused to eat those slimy oats, merely poked at my eggs, would not drink milk, and was generally a bratty kid at breakfast time. So, even in those hard times, I was humored with boxed ceral—usually Post Corn Flakes which at that time cost less than 10¢ for a large box.

         So-o-o, we had no milk. Dad doused his bowl of slimy oats with generous helpings of butter and sugar. I stared at choices: my box of dry cereal, the platter of scrambled eggs, or the remaining dish of oats.  My father suggested I add sugar and water to the corn flakes and they’d be almost as good as before.

         With the choices before me, that seemed like the best idea so I dished up my corn flakes and sugar, and tried the new watery taste. It was a taste I never tried again. And Dad never suggested it again.


Ah-h, the good ole days!


Dannie