I'm Not Dated, I Am Well Stocked

If a recipe calls for 1 tsp of oyster sauce and the smallest bottle of oyster sauce available is a 4 oz bottle, then one purchases a 4 oz bottle. When making a key lime pie one needs 6 oz of key lime juice, however a bottle of key lime juice is 16 oz. See where I am going here.

Fast forward; yesterday there was a small hiccup with the refrigerator that turned into something a little more serious - like the full blown flu. Long story short, the internal temperature that should be in the high 30's was in the 50's. So everything needed to be moved into a cooler. Luckily the freezer was still working properly. As I started taking everything out of the fridge I could only imagine what someone who didn't know me would say.

"Why do you have all this stuff? Fish sauce? Balsamic glaze? Currents? 3 types of mustard? This is a good time to clean all this out."

I will defend my significant investment in condiments. When you need that obscure ingredient in the middle of the night while making a critical recipe for the following morning, you do not have time to run to the store. And if you don't happen to live in a decent size town, chances are you are not going to be able to find it any way when the staples are fat back, white bread, and chicken necks. Chances may be difficult to  find any condiments more exotic than ketchup, mayonnaise, garlic salt, or some BBQ sauce endorsed by a NASCAR driver no doubt.

Several weeks prior I had gone through everything in the refrigerator, checked the dates, and discarded anything that was out of date. Now I'm not saying there were not some mystery items in there and some dishes that resembled science projects gone astray.

As I relocated the food, I thought of my Mother.  Mama had a reputation for her notorious kitchen in her early days when she was predisposed for a little nip here and there. In fact there is little doubt in my mind that my immune system was greatly enhanced by the antibiotics that were sometimes produced in our kitchen while I was growing up. 

This is one more reason your best friend is the one when you die, you can count on to get to your house and clean out your refrigerator before the church ladies show up with food. Knowing you have that most important task taken care of will allow a lady to rest in peace. A husband could never discern between the perished pears and pickled ginger, the old cannoli and the can of oriental mustard, an expired jug of juice and an expensive jar of blackberry jam, or an old bottle of mustard and perfectly fine mason jar of hot sauce. 

There is a reason I can put together strange recipes on the fly - and it is not because I have bare refrigerator shelves. Show me a lady with a refrigerator free of condiments and I'll show you a lady who can only make reservations for supper.

Don't Call the Roll I'm Coming Home

I want to get one thing straight - white folks don't know how to have a funeral. Oh we can have the most beautiful flowers, and we can have eloquent speakers. We can have governors and judges and senators come and wax on about the good deeds of the decedent. Mourners can be a little teary and cry very quietly. We will pass handkerchiefs and tissues among ourselves. The family will proceed in. The funeral will be held. The family will proceed out, get back in the long line of black cars, drive to the cemetery where everyone will gather around the tent to hear the very last words. Respects will be paid to the family and that will be it.

African Americans, especially those in the south, know how to have a funeral or "Send them Home" as they say. And they don't whimper or tear up, they cry - they moan, they sob. Their emotions are raw and they are unabashed to show them.  Whereas we are stiff and stoic, God forbid we show much emotion. Anyone really crying at a funeral or, Lord help us, whaling, would be removed from the church and considered an embarrassment to the family. We hold it in. Being proper is going to be the death of us and is going to get us nowhere - for anyone who has any plans.

Clemmie's funeral was a true homecoming. When we walked out of the church we knew she had been sent off well. That she went with the love and joy of her family and there was peace in her soul. The casket was open as the family proceeded in and each member had their final viewing before they sat down. There was no holding back on emotions. Some just held each other and cried. A few whaled and sobbed as if they knew the worse had happened. Sometimes they were so overcome with grief that the  "angels" (ladies provided by the funeral home dressed in white, complete with white gloves)  were there to hold them, sooth them, and get them safely back to their seats in the arms of their loved ones.

There were prayers and Bible readings. There was a tribute, remarks, and hymns. Being an August afternoon the funeral fans came in mighty handy. I did not need one because so many around me were fanning themselves I found myself in a steady breeze. Sympathy cards and the obituary were not read as is tradition. But then a lady got up to sing and her performance was amazing. She rocked the house with an a Capella version of Don't Call the Roll, unlike some demur solo of When I Survey the Wondrous Cross, we would have. She encouraged everyone to sing along with her once again bringing joy and participation in the celebration of sending Clemmie home. 

The point is when it was all over, the family went home in peace having let out that emotion, having shared the joy of her kinship, having celebrated her life, having sent her "home" just as she wanted. Most of them will not struggle for months (or years) with her death. If they spent the week prior enjoying food and fellowship with family and  friends calling to visit and pay their respects, they had time to reflect on her life and make peace with her death. If they poured their emotions out (whether audibly or not) at the funeral as they saw her for that last time in the casket and then celebrated her life, they will go forth without the angst and intense sadness many of us endure after the loss of a loved one.

Oh, they miss their loved ones as much as we miss ours. I am sure there are days they too find themselves feeling blue reflecting on their loss. But they have a joy in their heart and a light in their soul that we rarely have because God forbid anyone view our real emotions. Instead of truly spending time reflecting on the life and death of our deceased loved one with friends and family for more than a day or two, and for more than several hours, we want "it over with". How can anyone "waste so much time just because someone died?" We fear releasing our true emotions of grief at the time of the funeral will cause some embarrassment or shame to ourselves or the family. Showing joy, happiness or true celebration at a funeral is often seen as irreverent.  

The nephews walked behind the casket as it was taken out of the church, followed by the nieces carrying the flowers, and there was a joy among everyone. All the pain and grief had been shed, the religious rite had been conducted, everyone had been reminded that Clemmie was going home where she ultimately wanted to be. As her favorite hymn said "Don't call the roll 'til I get there. I'm coming Lord all by myself. I want to touch the pearly gates." 

Don't get me wrong, for those who want to "go home" what kind of funeral if any, one has will not matter. It is those of us left who suffer in our love one's death because the priority of our upbringing. The honesty of this event matched Clemmie's life - one of pain and joy and her love of the Lord and her family. If we are having a funeral, we should all be so honest in sending our loved ones off - for our sake.

Send Them Home in a Manifestation of Emotion

A year or two ago I had the opportunity to attend an African American funeral. Now, this was not some country, small time, funeral. This was the funeral of the wife of an extremely prominent figure. The church was one of those mega churches – you know the kind with concourses, gates, and sections as opposed to rows, pews, and sides of the aisle. But it doesn't matter what size the church is or how prominent the decedent, the traditions are the same.

Now, I say "Funeral", I'll correct myself, it was a "Home Going". And, let me tell you, when they send them home, they go is style. When a loved one passes (they don't die, they pass) then five or six days of funeralizing commences. And the culmination is the final service in the church.

The service started with the procession of the pallbearers (the casket was already in the front of the church) and the flower girls (who carried the floral arrangements and carefully placed them in the front of the church around the casket). The family and the preacher followed.

I had never heard the term "keening", but there is a tremendous amount of keening which is the dramatic expression of sorrow, or weeping and waling. Where as we are so quiet and solemn, there should be no doubt to their loved ones, should they be looking down from above, that they were loved and will be sorely missed. (This is where the "nurses" or "angels" - the church ladies dressed in white- are there to comfort and assist those who fall out due to an excessive amount of emotional output.)

Then there were the hymns, the prayers, the reading of the Word of God, more hymns and prayers. She was truly blessed. Next a young man stood up and started reading all the condolence cards and notes the family had received. Then there was the funeral resolution, (that I later learned was an official church document) and contained a lot of "whereas's" and "therefore's" and "it is resolved's". This was followed by the eulogy. All the while there was a chorus of "Amens", "Praise the Lord's", and "Hallelujah's" coming from those in attendance as the spirit moved everyone taking the loved one home.

Finally, the family was taken up front for a final viewing of the departed. And, after sometime more keening and assistance from the flower girls and the nurses, they were escorted back to their seats for the Benediction and the Recessional. 

I was not prepared for the unscripted participation of passion from the pews. As a (former) Episcopalian I am accustomed to our Book of Prayer and order of service leaving little room for veering off the path. I was not prepared for unscripted participation of passion from the pews.

By that time I was exhausted from this true manifestation of emotion. And, I was ridden with guilt thinking of the pitiful "send offs" we had inflicted on our lost loved ones. We may as well dug a hole, read the contents of a cereal box, and buried them under a tree. It is clear our race is ill equipped for the transition.

We were all taught, one doesn't make a fuss or call attention to one self, no matter what. A funeral is a quiet solemn affair. Well a "funeral" may be, but a true honest to God "Home Going" lets all that emotion out and fills that church with tears of joy and grief, with laughter of remembrance and pain of loss, and honors those who have passed on. 

I think of us timidly sitting in the pews, fists clinched with monogrammed handkerchiefs, quietly sniffling.  Then everyone speaking in hushed tones as we exit the church.  We don't have a clue. 

The Small Print

There is value in the motto "Ignorance is Bliss". Any question I had of that wisdom was washed away last week when I decided to read the (very) small print that accompanied the refill of a prescription drug I had picked up from the drug store.

Each time I get a prescription, also in the bag are several sheets of paper containing the concerns of the drug companies that have been put in creative composition by their lawyers - a lethal combination at best. A word of warning, if you just trust your doctor, which you should (other wise why do you take the time to visit him or her) why would you second guess his (or her) choice of chemical treatment?

In my case, I trust my doctors implicitly, otherwise I would have been reading these patient information tomes much earlier. My doctors have taken good care of me and personally I have better things to do than subject myself to more pain and confusion. However, on this one day, I ventured into the bag, pulled out the patient information sheet, and started to read it.

The first thing that struck me was the intimidating (almost condescending) language. I felt like a new Junior Leaguer being told how to dress for a luncheon. "Remember your shoes and your purse should always coordinate accenting the colors of your outfit".

My eyes scanned the sheet and landed on, " . . .call your doctor at once if you have: any mood or behavior changes, confusion, anxiety, panic attacks, hallucinations, extreme fear, or if you feel impulsive, agitated, aggressive, restless, hostile, depressed, hyperactive (mentally or physically), or have thoughts about suicide or hurting yourself. The drug may impair your thinking or reactions. You may also have mood or behavior changes."

I was suddenly confused, restless - were they talking about me? My doctor told me this medication was going to make me feel better. Was this all a trick? Maybe the drug companies are controlled by some Middle Eastern cartel or cabal.

"If you have shortness of breath, chest pains, a skin rash, or tremors, stop taking the medication immediately and contact your physician."

Perhaps these red whelps need attention, I thought to myself.

Then I continued reading, "be careful if you drive or do anything that requires you to be cautious and alert. You may act unconsciously when using the drug. You may drive a car or operate machinery without being fully awake, which could result in a fatal accident. Instances of sleepwalking, cooking, making phone calls or having sex have been reported. While these latter activities may not be life-threatening, performing activities without being conscious could have disastrous results. You may also have no memory of having performed the actions."

Hum, that could explain some things - like the QVC box containing a Genuine Diamonelle Tiara, set of 8 commemorative Dale Earnhardt Dinner plates, and the Authentic Pleather Pants from the Brittany Spears Collection, that UPS delivered to me last week. I still question my friend's insistence that it was me who called her the other night, confessing the details of that one time her (now) husband and I made out in junior high school. Even if it were, that was seven years before she met him, and why should that get her panties in a wad - but I digress.

I appreciate the drug company's concern and realize there is always the issue of liability. But, isn't this a little over kill for cough syrup? Or, maybe not.

Dishes and Denial

They (who ever "They" are) say our 60s are the new thirties, then, Lord, that means I have to do 40 all over again. 30 (the first time around) I handled with ease. By 40 I was a basket case. My 5 foot 2 inch frame was carrying 189 pounds. However in my mind, I still weighed a healthy 125 The airlines were just making their seats much smaller.  The clothing manufacturers were resizing their lines larger. It was ridiculous. However, when what once was a size 6 was now a 14, what was up with that?

Now every woman wants to shop. And if one cannot get satisfaction out of buying clothes then one's attention must go elsewhere. Mine turned to dinnerware. After all,  dinner plates were always going to be relatively the same size, as were salad and bread plates. Besides instead of "dressing" me, I could "dress" our dinner table. Each evening it could take on a different personality to match the food or the season or my mood. (Yes, I had 4 eggplant purple plates for those days when I was not especially "cheery".)

Who needed a new frock when they could have a set of dishes with whimsical dots on them. Or imagine the joy of finding a set of six over sized formal plates for those rare meals when the crab claws or lobster would not quite fit on the standard dinner plate. There was the cheer joy of stumbling upon a set of small Mexican plates that were perfect for alfresco dining on the patio in the summer. Of course I had to have that set of cobalt blue plates I found in that second hand store that matched the blue in the colorful Mexican plates if I ever wanted to set a table with the smaller plates sitting atop the solid colored ones. It went on and on.

The madness came to a grinding halt when I watched a video of a reunion picnic I had attended. Who was this squatty woman dressed in this God awful baggy outfit? Oh . . . My . . . God . . . that was me. As I caught my breath and realized this is what I really looked like, another revelation struck me. The size 16 Petite was not an oxymoron. As I emerged from my haze of denial I knew airplane seats had not gotten THAT much smaller. And, if anything, clothing manufacturers wanted women to think they were smaller that they truly were.

Fast forward several years and 60 something pounds lighter, I was discussing this revelation with my oldest daughter. I was laughing at my refusal to be aware of the reality of my condition. "The clothes," I told her, "My God the clothes I wore and thought they were so becoming. They were disgusting."

I went on to tell her about my giving up on shopping for clothes. "After all", I said, "Nothing I found was attractive. But I still shopped." I left it there.

Months later, my daughter wanted to do something in our kitchen which required more space. Since several of the shelves we used were on wheels, I suggested we just roll into another room while she worked on her project. As we were moving the shelves, she laughed, "I had no idea we had so many dishes. Where did all of these come from?"

"Remember when I was so overweight and I told you shopping for clothes was miserable."

She nodded.

"Well, I bought dishes instead. And looking at these shelves, it is a good thing I started losing weight. I'm not sure where we could have put any more."

My Mama's Life in Roosters

 Mama's "every day" china pattern when she got married was called "Poppy Trail". The dinner plate design sported a rooster in the center of a vanilla colored background. It was later called "California Provincial" - no words anyone would ever think of in describing my mother. But, I digress.

These dishes were in total juxtaposition with her formal china, that had a large single rose design on fine white bone china with a platinum  border, her crystal, and, of course, all her sterling silver. But, she loved her Poppy Trail and that was what we ate on every day (with the sterling silver flatware). The formal china was pulled out for Sunday dinner, special occasions, and guests.

The Poppy Trail pattern was discontinued and Mama found herself missing pieces due to various household mishaps. So the Poppy Trail was moved to High Acres. And, it was replaced with a rose pattern she got from the Piggly Wiggly. It took a while for us to get enough to eat on, since it was one of those patterns that you "earned" your pieces weekly by the amount of groceries you bought. Luckily the week they were offering the dinner plates was just before a big weekend at High Acres, so we "qualified" for 4.

Unfortunately, we were on vacation when the cup and saucers were offered, so Daddy never did have a coordinating coffee cup at breakfast. However, we did merit soup bowls, salad plates,  2 bread and butter plates, a gravy boat, sugar bowl, and serving platter.  Over the next year or two, the store had similar programs and we were able to get a good supply plates and even cups and saucers. The subsequent offerings were never the same exact pattern, but Mama kept a "Rose" theme going - "close enough for government work", as Daddy used to say.

At High Acres, the Poppy Trail pattern was supplemented by the miscellaneous plates, cups, and saucers Stanbury bought Mama at the sales he attended. As you can imagine, it was quite the assortment. But, as proper as Mama wanted to be when it came to entertaining, setting a coordinated table was out of the question.

In her later years, Mama took a renewed interest in the Poppy Trail pattern and was able to find some random pieces in antique stores and at yard sales. The motif of the large Rooster in the pattern somehow spurned an interest in Roosters. So she started collecting roosters - as in pictures of roosters, rooster hot plates, a set of (or three) rooster canisters, a rooster clock, God knows how many salt and paper shakers, and every type of rooster gew gaw one can imagine. And, I will admit, we contributed to the madness. What else do you get someone who doesn't need anything and if she does, she does not hesitate to buy it for herself?

This all came to haunt us when she died. The kitchen in her house was full of all her "Rooster" paraphernalia. We each chose to keep what we found memorable, threw out what we found to be trash, and gave away the rest. However my brother soon told me, our nightmare was not over.

On her kitchen counter in her mountain house sat dozens and dozens of more "Rooster" items. At first sight, I found it hard to believe her collection was even more immense than I first imagined. In some state of insanity I told my brother, "I'll take the roosters." He just rolled his eyes, as if saying, 'Boy, you have really lost your mind this time.' In my mind, I figured this was a part of my mother that spanned her lifetime, good and bad. And, it wasn't like I was going to keep all of them. I could easily part with the Rooster paper towel holder, the dozens of Dollar Store Rooster figurines, and the plastic cookie jar. After all, I do have standards. 

Celebrations of This Grand Experiment

 Over my many years I have celebrated the 4h of July in many ways and in many places. Of course, some of my fondest memories were those 4ths spent at High Acres. But, there have been many more.

My earliest 4th of July memories go back to the mid 60's when our family would celebrate the holiday with friends at their home on Lake Summit in NC. This was Americana at its best. It was grilling hot dogs and hamburgers, swimming, water skiing, and riding in traditional Chris Kraft boats. (At that time there were many on the lake.)

I have had the privilege of celebrating the 4th with many friends in many places. There was the unforgettable trip to Lake Conesus, one of the NY finger lakes, with its"Ring of Fire". At night, the homeowners on the lake front line up flares on the shore line of their property, which gives the effect of the lake being encircled by fire. All this is followed by large firework displays across the lake.

There was the year we were visiting the Boone area of NC and found our ourselves in  Valle Crucis, home of the original Mass General Store. There folks were lined up for ice cream and lemonade. The background being a lovely valley of fields surrounded by the mountains.

Several years ago we visited friends of ours in Detroit for the 4th. Naturally expecting to escape the southern July heat, only to find we were visiting Michigan during the most oppressive heat wave they had experienced in years. (They swore we brought it with us!) We toured the renewed downtown Detroit and for the 4th, attended an outdoor concert at Greenfield Village of the Detroit Symphony Orchestra, only to be deluged in a down pour and fleeing to our cars to avoid the lightening.  

Once or twice we were at Edisto Island, enjoying friends and fun at the beach.  Several years were spent floating down the Edisto River on inner tubes. One year we were returning from Ecuador on the 4th. We were not even thinking about the holiday until we arrived in Miami to find the airport decked out in red, white, and blue. 

Another fabulous 4th was spent at Cape Charles in Virginia with family. This idyllic village on the Chesapeake is home to one of the best celebrations complete with a parade through the town of fire trucks, children on decorated bicycles, golf carts, and wagons. There are home made floats and veterans in uniform  carrying the flag. The streets are lined with townsfolk and visitors sitting in lawn chairs enjoying the sight. This is followed with a sumptuous meal and, of course - fireworks. 

No matter where we are or who we are with or what we are doing, we all need to remember why we are dressed in red, white, and blue, decorated in the flag and bunting, and watching fireworks. We are celebrating being free, and the democratic experiment that was set-up by our founding fathers in 1776. It is freedom that we often take for granted. But we must remember, it is a work in progress, it is fragile, and we all need to do our part to preserve it. 

We are a patchwork of different cultures and ethnicities that make up this glorious land we call America. The Statute of Liberty needs to remind us that every one of us (short the native Americans who date back many centuries) are the descendants of immigrants. The one common thread that makes us "Americans" is that either with this generation or those dating back to the 1600's we are a diverse population from cultures from across the world. 

e plu·ri·bus u·num  /ˌē ˌplo͝orəbəs ˈ(y)o͞onəm/ - "Out of Many, one"

Question #19

I remember the words to an old (very old) not so well know Jimmy Buffet song:

    ". . . my head hurts, my feet stink, and I don't love Jesus 

     It's that kinda mornin' 

    Really was that kinda night 

    Tryin' to tell myself that my condition is improvin' 

    And if I don't die by Thursday I'll be roarin' Friday night"

Now, I'm not saying my life imitates the song - exactly. I have a headache - literally. And, religion is not a subject I best discuss in mixed company, adult company, or any company come to think about it. 

But if fire and brimstone are going to be preached, snakes handled, and souls are going to be saved (with the ladies in white up front to catch those who "fall out" in the process)  then the occasion calls for revival music, my favorite being by George Cromarty and Ed Rush;

    "I don't care if it rains or freezes 
    'Long as I got my plastic Jesus 

    Riding on the dashboard of my car 

    Through my trials and tribulations 

    And my travels through the nations 

    With my plastic Jesus I'll go far"

Of course the church ladies will be singing to save my heathen soul: 

    "Temptations, hidden snares. . . 
    for a thoughtless word or deed . . . 
    but we'll understand it better by and by."

Which all comes back to Question 19 of the Presbyterian Catechism - 

 

 " What is the misery of that estate where into man fell?"

See Granny, I was paying attention after all.

Eclectic Tack

 I have told before of the treasures Stanbury bought for High Acres. Well, they were not all for Mama. Daddy would have him "on the look out" for certain items for him also. The advantage was, it was always a deal. The trick was just what he would bring back.

Since we had horses and usually folks to ride them, Daddy had Stanbury looking for saddles. Stanbury assured him this would not be a problem. My horse, Rusty, was hunter, I rode hunt seat, and had my own saddle so I was not in this game. Everyone else rode western, but I don't think Stanbury would have recognized an English saddle if he saw one.

The first saddle he brought Dad was a regular western saddle in good shape. Dad was thrilled. Saddles were expensive and he got this one for a steal. The following week, when Dad called him about something on the farm, Stanbury told him, "Bill, ar found yar a big saddle, a right fancy one." Knowing Stanbury, "fancy" could mean anything.

In this case, "fancy" meant real "fancy". Stanbury had managed to procure a Mexican parade saddle made of black leather covered with Mexican silver embellishments. And, it was huge, much larger than the size of a traditional large western saddle.  Since there were pieces of silver covering most of it, God only knows the amount of silver that was on it and how much it weighed.

I was surprised Dad did not politely tell Stanbury that a parade saddle would not do (much less one that looked like that one) or he would have just left it in the tack room as ornamentation. But, oh no, Dad, much to Mama's dismay, used that saddle with pride. When he led a group of us trail riding, there was no doubt who was in charge. The only thing he lacked was a standard to carry with him. And, I assume he did not have one of those simply because it never crossed his mind. Thank God for small favors.

When I thought that was over the top, I should have known better. Several weeks later, Stanbury showed up with a lady's side saddle. Now, that was a novelty. And, if there was one thing Daddy loved, it was a novelty. So when we got ready to take guests on a trail ride, Dad would start in the tack room and tell them they had choice of saddles, more than they expected. 

A side note here, I would occasionally ride with the side saddle. Much to my surprise, it was a very  comfortable way of riding. I mastered the side saddle and would occasionally pull it out when we were at a horse show. It gave "English Pleasure" a whole new definition.

Saved by a Ham

On High Acres, Daddy had one firm rule - when everyone arrived on the farm, he locked the gate and unless there was some dire emergency it remained locked until every one went home. If we ran short of something, he would get Stanbury to pick it up on his way up in the morning. However, between Stanbury's interpretation of your need and the availability of the product in the closest town at the bottom of the mountain (that consisted of three buildings, only one of which was currently occupied and that was a combination gas station/ general store), it was always a crap shoot what you would get.

Our staples included beef from the Angus cattle off the farm and fresh Rainbow trout from one of the neighbor's trout ponds. The rest of whatever we needed we brought up each time we came. Breakfast was always some type of sweet roll, lunch was usually sandwiches (often these were taken with us in the morning on whatever adventure we were embarking on), and dinner was a full sit down meal, sometimes grilled. And there were always snacks, chips, and fresh apples (in season) on the bar in the great room. 

Of course these were the years Mama had a proclivity with the bottle, which was easy to do on the farm since everyone started with Bloody Mary's and it went down hill from there - sometimes literally. But, when everyone else stayed out most of the day, at least all morning, Mama stayed in. She always had her list projects she was working on for the house.

It may be refinishing a chest, painting an iron bed, or restoring any of the other assorted treasures Stanbury had found for her. And, as I said, the house was a work in progress. The operative word there being "in progress". She would start every morning on some project with all intentions of finishing it, but it seemed by the time we got home around the middle of the day, the paint brush was on the paint can, the iron bed was half painted, and Mama was messing around in the kitchen working on her 2nd or 3rd beer.

This brought us to another matter - food.  While most of the meals were planned out, there was no hard and fast rule about what we were eating. However, there was an issue when we would come back in the afternoon and Mama had taken it upon herself to start supper. If no one paid attention, by the time she said "it was ready" there was a good chance we would find ourselves sitting down to a mess of burnt fried trout, a raw roast, some unrecognizable species of meat, and a table of starved folks.

There was one saving grace if and when such a disaster occurred. One of us would get up and go to the refrigerator. Chances were there was a canned ham in there. For some reason, Mama had this maternal instinct in her to provide for us even when she wasn't quite up to it. I cannot tell you why, but she always had one of those hams on hand. We would open it, slice it up and serve it. Voila, supper was saved.

To this day, when ever my brother sees one of those canned hams, he refers to it as our salvation. "Do realize how often we would have starved had it not been for one of those?" Well, I think that's carrying  it a little far, but there were many nights I was damn glad to see one when I opened up the refrigerator.

Excursions on High Acres

 With our guests on High Acres for holidays or long weekends, we would quickly size them up. The ones who did not care to get outside were culled from the beginning and left at the house. (Obviously, they came with someone fun, because we could not imagine any other reason they wanted to be there.) That left the rest who were up for an adventure.

So after a round of Bloody Marys at breakfast, a plan for the morning needed to be made. There were several options. We had a jeep and a truck. Depending on the number of folks we had, we would load up one or two vehicles and go roaming about the farm. There were barns, 'the lake', a water fall, a creek (Big Hungry), several pastures, and apple orchards - enough places to ride around for hours if you had enough gas, ice, and libations. Usually, we were prepared.

The other option was horse back riding. This was the preferred option. And, we had equines of all types to suit every rider, even those who had never sat on a horse before. (And, cameras to record it all for posterity.) I always rode English, Daddy rode Western,  as did most of our guests. As, I said we were prepared. And, if you really did not want to ride, that was OK too, because the jeep was always close by since it carried the roaming bar. Riders get very thirsty.

So after the mass confusion of who was riding which horse, quick riding lessons to those who had never ridden before, and minor adjustments to tack, we would be off. There was a long winding road that went down to Big Hungry and the waterfalls. It was shady so that was a pleasant trek if it happened to be warm. If I were riding by myself it may take me 30 minutes to make the round trip, counting a good 5-10 minutes resting at the creek. With the crew, we could do it in a good 2 hours. (Bar stops take a while.)

By now it would be time for lunch back at the house. Riding wears anyone out, so after lunch, next on the agenda would be naps or reading for a while. (Or, enjoying a beer or two on the back deck.) Then it would be time for another tour. This may be to see the cows or  visit the neighbor's apple orchard, where there were apples on the trees as opposed to on our farm where the cows ate most of the apples before we could get any.