Goofus and Gallant

 

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Memories
Light the corners of my mind
Misty watercolor memories
Of the way we were

- Barbara Streisand

Memories are a funny thing.  I have trouble remembering computer passwords.  I can't remember any of my loved ones' phone numbers anymore because I just press their names on my phone.  But I can remember all of my grandparents' phone numbers from 1976.  I can remember the strong chlorine smell in the hallway going to swimming lessons at the YMCA in Lake Charles where I learned to swim.  I can remember all the lyrics to Jim Croce songs, John Denver songs, and even "You light up my life" by Debbie Boone.  We sang all these to the top of our lungs riding in the very back of the Oldsmobile station wagon facing backwards as Mom and Dad drove down the interstate.

I can also remember the horror, the absolute dread and fear of going down Oak Park Boulevard as a kid on the way to the dentist.  Dr. Morrissey, I'm convinced, led a double life working for the CIA torturing captured spies for information related to threats against our homeland.  On days he wasn't pulling toenails out or performing Chinese water torture on captured espionage agents, he doubled as a children's dentist.  It was a very effective cover.  

He was rough.  Although, I figure, he was a pretty good dentist, he wasn't compassionate.  I don't think he liked kids much.  I get queasy just thinking about what it was like as a kid waiting in the waiting room for my name to be called. In my mind's eye I could hear muffled screams from the poor kids that had gone before me. There was one thing to pass the time while you waited for the hammer and chisel that awaited on the other side of the wooden door.  There was a magazine called "Highlights" on the table in the waiting area.

I always turned quickly to my favorite section of the magazine.  It was a cartoon called Goofus and Gallant.  It, not so subtly, pointed out good behavior from bad behavior and tried to instill in children a desire to be well-behaved, respectful, and courteous.  Goofus was always doing the wrong thing.  He was rude and disrespectful, mean and selfish.  The point was made clearly by Highlights magazine - Don't be like Goofus!  In all actuality, I figure Goofus is currently residing in Angola State Penitentiary.  That guy, if a choice was to be made, always chose the wrong one, a contrarian by nature.

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Gallant, on the other hand, was perfect.  This dude was thoughtful, obedient, kind.  Gallant never picked his nose and never said a cross word.  I wanted to take the magazine back to the dentist chair with me, because if my Mom ever read it and saw Gallant's model of behavior, well, I was in big trouble, because no one could measure up to Gallant.  I wanted to keep the bar low and not have Mom knowing about Gallant.  Why, she'd end up wanting her children to be like Gallant.  That was too high a hill to climb.  

About that time, I would be called back to be water boarded (cavity filled).  I'd walk to the back obediently to face my executioner like I assume Gallant would have done.  I guess there was one other bright spot to the visit than reading Highlights.  At the end of the visit, I would get to pick out a cool looking plastic spider ring out of a big candy jar.  Goofus, I'm sure, would've taken two, but I had been conditioned to be like Gallant and take one and say through numbed lips, "Thank you."  

For Whom the Bell Tolls

In 1976 my family moved from town to the country.  Dad had bought a 5 acre piece of land that was chockablock full of pine trees.  We quickly began thinning some out and building big fires to burn off the cleared timber and pine knots that we had piled up.  To a ten year old, 5 acres seemed like a section of land.  I felt like one of the members of Lewis & Clark's team as I explored, in my young eyes, never seen before land.  Squirrels jumped from limb to limb high above my head.  It seemed like I had forever to roam before I came across a fence that marked the property line.

Timber companies owned the surrounding land.  They grew these pine trees as crops and every so many years some would be cleared for pulp wood.  Boise Cascade had a plant in a neighboring town that manufactured plywood and OSB.  Another neighboring town to the north and west made paper from the trees harvested.  But until the land was clear cut, it was as if the Amazon rain forest was at my disposal.  

We made forts and dug holes that served as bunkers in WWII war games.  We found shelters in those holes as the Germans sent mortars that exploded around us in the Battle of the Bulge.  About that time my parents bought us a Honda Z-50 mini bike.  We cut trails through the thick woods and built ramps and raced that mini bike through the forest, pretending to be racers or spies.  We had a zip line (we called it a shoot to shoot) where we would launch off a platform and glide 50 feet across the woods.  We discovered sassafras trees and would dig the roots, smelling the "root beer" fragrance.  After washing them good, we'd put the roots in pans of water and make sassafras tea.  It was red and fragrant and delicious.  My grandfather taught me to hang the leaves of the sassafras tree until they were fully dry.  Then we'd grind the leaves into a powder, making gumbo file'.  Gumbo file' is added to gumbo to thicken it and add a rich 'earthy' flavor to chicken & sausage gumbo.  I still use it today.

We'd hunt in the woods, dropping fox squirrels from the pine tree tops with a bolt action 410 shotgun.  The 'tree rats' would make a dull thud when they would hit the ground.  Farther back behind the property line some old unused irrigation canals held water and wood ducks adopted that habitat as their home.  I killed my first wood duck back there.  We found a swampy area that had mayhaw trees in it and would collect the berries for making jelly.  From time to time we ran across old trash dumps where, in years long past, people threw their trash.  We'd 'excavate' the old refuse piles, finding old bottles, specifically Purex bleach that was in brown glass jugs, old extract bottles and others that didn't have screw on lids, but had corks.  I still have some of those bottles stored away in a box in the attic probably at Mom & Dad's house.  We had to be careful because the land was full of black widow spiders.  Amazing that we never got bit!

There was so much adventure and excitement in the woods.  I couldn't wait to get home to see what kind of discovery we'd make back in the woods.  Of course there were no cell phones back then.  Mom and Dad knew that their explorers were on important expeditions and would be 'out of pocket' for quite a while.  What happened if they needed us?  How do you contact a couple of guys that are out on an important and dangerous expedition far, far away from civilization?  Smoke signals?  

They crafted an ingenious form of communication.  They erected a cast iron bell atop a 4x4 post.  When they needed Hernando Cortez or Ponce De Leon, they could ring that bell.  The bell called us home for supper or for school or to baseball games or trips to the library.  The bell rung loudly and we could hear that cast iron bell calling us home.  Had that thing not rung, we might have finally discovered the fountain of youth or that chest of gold that we sought in those woods.

Sometimes I wish that we could throw away these cell phones that tether us much too close to civilization and that we could return to simplicity of the tolling of the cast iron bell.  It may be my imagination, but there are days where, if I sit very still, I can hear the bell calling me home.

Ruminations - Is Bigger Really Better?

Earl Butz, Secretary of Agriculture under President Nixon from December 1971 to October 1976, promoted policies that favored large-scale corporate farming and an end to programs designed to protect small farmers.  He essentially said, "Get Big or Get Out."  I was 10 years old at the time and much too young to be concerned with such things.  That thinking set into motion what seemed to be an unstoppable wave, and end to a way of life.  The death of the small family farm.

I was driving down the road the other day and something caught my eye that got me to thinking about this.  Look at the photo below.  You know what that is?

Those are Butler bins.  For those who don't know these are what harvested rice is put into in order to be dried and stored until sold and sent to the rice mills.  We had a small set up bins like this on our farm.  These bins seem like toys compared to the bins of today.  We eventually got rid of these little Butler bins and replace them with bigger ones that seemed grandiose compared to the little Butlers.  Oh my goodness.  With the sizes of the combines today, one combine load of rice would surely fill a Butler bin.

Once the old obsolete Butler bins were gone, the reminder of them were the circular slabs upon which sat the bins.  As kids, we'd keep those slabs swept and clean, because we used them as pads to park plows and planters and other equipment.

The bigger bins held more rice.  As I drive around today, I realized that our bigger bins seem like toys compared to the million dollar structures being put in today.  I'm told that they are computer operated and can be programmed by your phone.  You don't even need to get out of your truck.  You simply push buttons on your phone and magic happens.  

There are a lot of differences in farms of yesterday and today.  Farms of yesterday required people.  Farmers would walk the levees with a shovel resting on their shoulder, looking for muskrat holes that caused leaks.  That shovel came in mighty handy when you encountered a cottonmouth water moccasin aggressively coiled atop the levee, not wanting to yield his ground to you.  You always had to have your eyes opened for such things.

Springtime involved crop duster pilots flying overhead in AgCats planting rice in flooded fields.  Early spring is mostly silent now as a lot of rice is dry planted.  Instead of water leveling and working the land, a lot of grass is simply 'burned down' by Round Up.  Back then, you'd drive on the back roads and farmers would come upon one other and kill their trucks in the middle of the road, roll down the window (you would actually roll them down) and talk about what the crop was looking like, what kind of weather was coming, and the hopes of higher prices for rice.

The back roads were bustling with people on ditching tractors, old pickups or three wheelers, checking irrigation wells, fixing busted levees, scouting for weeds and disease.  Now things are different.  The workers you come across are imported from a different country.  They speak a different language.  They don't have familial ties to the land.  The small farming communities once had machine shops and parts houses that served the local farmer.  Farmers dropped by to trade and drink coffee and talk about hopes of a better crop next year.  FFA clubs were popular in the high schools, people proudly wearing those blue corduroy jackets. 

Much of the community was involved and intertwined in agriculture.  It was important to the identity of the town.  Things have changed.  The old storefronts down Main Street are either shuttered or have changed, serving different clientele.  You almost expect to see tumbleweeds rolling down the road.  Many of the old farming families' children have moved off to the city or at least commute to the city to work.  Dollar Generals, subdivisions, and solar panels now sit on once productive farm land. 

The machines have gotten bigger, enabling fewer and fewer people to manage larger and larger parcels of land.  The old John Deere 4020 tractors that once were the workhorse of the farm now sit rusting in the tall grass, looking like a boy's play toy compared to the behemoths that now pull huge implements across the ground. The capital involved in farming is prohibitive for most people.  The family farms of yesteryear are large corporate farms now.  Foreign governments are buying US farmland now.  Get big or get out has been achieved.  Mr. Butz' policies have come to fruition, a wild success some might say.

But I beg to differ.  Sure, farming is more efficient.  But what's the real cost?  The small family farms that were the glue that held communities together are rapidly disappearing.  The children reared on those farms, learning work ethic and civic pride have left, never to return.  The way of life we grew up with is gone, changed, like it never existed.  A distant memory in the cobwebs of your mind.  But some of us still remember what a good life it was.  Is bigger really better?  The answer, in my humble opinion, would be an emphatic NO.

Items on my Desk

I have way too much junk on my desk.  Mainly books, photos, trinkets, reminders of things from the past.  This evening I looked at these old artifacts.  Were you a member of 4-H when you were growing up?  Do you remember why the club was called 4-H?  In other words, what do the four H's stand for? (Answer Below)

Head, Heart, Hands, Health

We'd meet in the gymnasium and would stand for the Pledge of Allegiance.  Then we would remain standing for the 4-H Pledge.  I still remember it:

I pledge my head to clearer thinking,
My heart to greater loyalty,
My hands to larger service,
And my health to better living,
For my club, my community, my country, and my world.

4-H was just a club, but I still remember my advisors and activities that we did and important life lessons we learned, trips we went on, and friendships we developed.

46 years ago I was awarded that wooden ruler shown above for participating in a Forestry Slogan Contest.  I don't remember what slogan I came up with.  Forestry was a big deal in our area.  There were 'tree farms' where pine trees were grown.  Right down the road from where I grew up there was a nursery where pine trees were grown for the timber business.  When large areas of pine trees were clear cut, the land was replanted with pine trees from the nursery.  

To protect the tree farms from fire, there were fire towers in the area.  People were positioned in the tower to scan the horizon for smoke.  If fire was threatening the trees, trucks with bulldozers were called out to the area and fire lanes would be made to stop the forest fires from damaging and destroying the trees.  There are big facilities in Allen Parish and parishes to the north and west that make plywood.

Back to 4-H.  4-H was a fun club.  We all looked forward to going to Camp Grant Walker in Pollack, Louisiana during the summer.  We'd attend Achievement Day where we'd be tested on Seed Identification, Leaf identification, Livestock Judging and all other sorts of things.  Demonstration Day was a day that made your knees knock.  You had to get up in front of the class and give a demonstration on something.  It was your first real shot at public speaking.  I was terrified!

As I look back on it, I think of how naïve and simple the times were.  One of the more popular demonstrations was, "How to Clean a 12 gauge Shotgun."  Yes, we would bring shotguns to school and break them down and show how to properly clean a gun.  No one thought anything of it.  It was innocent.  It's kind of amazing, if you think about it, how much we've changed since then. 

The Parish Fair was a blast!  I would bring my sheep to show in the fair and would win ribbons like the faded one above.  People throughout the parish would bring all sorts of things that they grew in their gardens, or farms, or pickled or canned.  We'd walk through the barns after judging to see who grew the best looking potatoes, or who had the biggest rabbits.  Of course there were the rides!  We'd ride the Twist-A-World, and The Scrambler, The Ferris Wheel, and the Rock-O-Planes.  I got sick and threw up on the Rock-O-Planes!

It's funny how some old trinkets on your desk can transport you back almost five decades to good memories! 

Times, They Are A-Changin'

Since Benjamin has moved back in with us, we've been watching old episodes of "The Wonder Years."  If you have never seen it, it is a beautifully written TV series that ran from 1988 to 1993 about growing up in the 60's and 70's.  We'll generally watch two episodes in a row and sit in silence for a few seconds and just say, "Wow."  The story lines are so poignant and tender.

For a nostalgic like myself, this show brings back feelings and memories that were previously catalogued and filed away neatly in hermetically sealed boxes way back in the corridors of my mind.  The episode we watched tonight was about the pain a father feels when his kids grow up and move out on their own, sometimes taking on different values than those they were taught.  The episode closed with the Bob Dylan song, Times they are a-changing.

Times are a-changing, aren't they?  My wife and I were just talking about this today.  I'm an old-fashioned dude.  I'm not an extremist or a radical.  Heck, I have the same values as that of my father and my grandfathers.  How does one become an extremist if he hasn't changed?  Those values are tried and true.  They worked.  I haven't moved.  It's just that everything else has.  I don't know how to live another way.  I don't want to live another way.  My anchor is down. 

Funny how times change.  Times always change.  This morning my work brought me to the town I grew up in, right next to the field where I used to play Little League baseball.  Here is a photo of the third base line:

The Volunteer Fire Department now sits right on the infield.  The best I can figure, home plate was at the near corner with the third base line running down where the garage doors are.  There was a fence in the back.  I never hit a home run in this park, unfortunately.  Right over the fence were the railroad tracks where the Missouri Pacific Lines trains would run, blowing their horns loudly as they passed.  We'd leave pennies on the track and pass back and pick up the flattened pennies to take home as souvenirs.

Just past the railroad tracks was the Kinder Butcher Shop.  We would walk over in our uniforms and cleats with all the spare change we could find.  When you would open the door, the smell of smoked meats would greet you.  If I close my eyes, I can smell that aroma.  There were always some Hitachi Rice Cookers warming hot boudin on the counter.  We'd buy links of boudin to eat and a Dr. Pepper and walk back to the park, now prepared nutritionally to play ball.

This here is the first base line:

There was a concession stand just to the left of the corner of where that building now sits that we would frequent, purchasing delicious, big dill pickles from a gallon jar, so sour they made your mouth pucker.  Then we'd buy blue raspberry snow cones to wash the pickle down that would stain our tongues and lips blue, not to mention our white uniform pants.

I played for a team called the Pirates.  A lawyer in town was my coach.  I remember we had a hot shot pitcher from a neighboring town that threw straight fire from the cannon that he had for an arm.  I was the catcher, crouching behind home plate, absorbing his salvos.  His fastball broke my thumb.  I was in a cast for a while and on injured reserve.  I straightened a coat hanger to scratch down in the cast where it itched.  I had everyone sign my cast, and wanted to save the cast for a souvenir, but by the time it was cut off, the doggone thing stunk so bad, it needed to be disposed of.  I couldn't wait to get back behind home plate and play ball with my buddies.

The ballpark is long gone.  Many of the buddies I played with are gone, but all the water from the Fire Station's hoses can't put out the flames of all the memories of good old times shared there.  Which leads us back to where we started.  Times change.  You can't go back.  Apart from your memories, those times (and many of the people) just don't exist anymore.  But from a cultural standpoint, what if you don't want to go forward in this brave new world?  The answer for me (everyone has to make the decision for themselves) is to remember to magical time we grew up in, but live life now, make memories, trust God, be joyful, and be true to your core values.  Contra Mundum.

The Sunday Drive

The Sunday Drive.  It's largely a relic of a bygone era.  With no particular destination, you piled in the car and let the vehicle "just roam around," like Jerry Jeff Walker sang.  I remember we had station wagons, several of them over my childhood, with a luggage rack on top, spoiler and simulated wood grains on the side.  The very back seat faced backward.  Your perspective on the world was framed through that big back window on the Oldsmobile during family vacations or Sunday Drives.

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With gas prices at all time highs right now, driving around for no particular purpose carries with it a high price tag.  However, memories that you can make on these Sunday drives are priceless.  As I sit here reminiscing, I recall breakdowns, running out of gas, playing the license plate game, playing I-spy, having family conversations, singing "You Light up my life" and "Smoky Mountain Rains" at the top of our lungs, engaging in fights with siblings, and I even recall bad odors wafting through the cavernous interior prompting the windows to be quickly rolled down.  

Those family trips in the car seemed like wasting time just to get to the destination, but in retrospect, as I look back, I realize that there was a lot learned and experienced in the trip itself.  My oldest son, Russ, shared a song with Tricia and I last Sunday that really resonated.  I'm going to apologize, because it is a very emotional song and video, at least to me.  My eyes started leaking a little bit as a watched and pondered the lyrics.  Click on the arrow below to watch and listen to Brett Eldredge sing, "Sunday Drive."  I've posted the lyrics below the video.  Perhaps it will dredge up some fond memories for you as well.  Further below the video, I've posted the thoughtful lyrics.  I hope you can recall some of your memories of Sunday Drives...

Sunday Drive

Brett Eldredge

They didn't ever say where we were going
We just climbed into the backseat
Eyes wide open to the picture show outside
I guess we really didn't understand it all
Remember looking up at them in the front row
Hands touched together, almost out of sight
It's been a long, hard week, but now the slow release
Of a Sunday afternoon

And we were only young
But they were trying hard to reach us
How was I to know
That there was something so worth keepin'?

'Cause we were
Watching the world through an open window
Trees lined up like dominoes
This old car could find its own way home
It's the ordinary things that mean so much
That's where I learned it all from them
To fight, to love, to laugh again
Man, I thought we were only wasting time
Out on a Sunday drive

The sun warms your soul just like an old friend
Singing songs along that ribbon of a road
And everyone you love is sitting there so close
You're never thinking that you'd ever get old
No, you'll never get old

Just watching the world through an open window
Trees lined up like dominoes
This old car could find its own way home
It's the ordinary things that mean so much
That's where I learned it all from them
To fight, to love, to laugh again
Man, I thought we were only wasting time
Out on a Sunday drive, oh

I never said where we were going
I just helped them to the backseat
Dad just laughed and said, "Son, don't drive too far
Your momma gets pretty tired these days"
After a few miles I guess they recognized some places
And I listened as they reminisced
About a world that they had always known
And how it's changin'
Probably never gonna be the same again

I caught 'em in the mirror
They were holding hands and smiling
Looking younger than they'd been in years
Oh, through all the years

And they were
Watching the world through an open window
Trees lined up like dominoes
This old car could find its own way home
It's the ordinary things that mean so much
That's where I learned it all from them
To fight, to love, to laugh again
Man, I thought we were only wasting time
Out on a Sunday drive

Out on a Sunday drive

Out on a Sunday drive

Out on a Sunday drive

A Random Memory from My Past

It was a very sad week as I learned that a childhood friend and classmate passed away at 55 from a heart attack.  We drove to the funeral home for the visitation and spent time with my friend's family and classmates and friends that gathered to mourn his passing.  What a tragedy!  Grayson and I were friends from as long as I can remember.  We grew up together, went to church together, spent the night at each other's houses, and went to school together.

Grayson was a gear-head.  If it had an engine and wheels, he could keep it running.  He had go-carts that he would race around his yard at break-neck speed, taking corners like Mario Andretti.  He built ramps and would, in Evil Knievel-like fashion, fly through the sky in his go-kart.  When he grew up, his profession was keeping the fleet of law enforcement vehicles in a neighboring parish running.  It was fitting.  He was always good at what he did.

In "big church," we'd flip through the hymnals randomly and try to count how many Fanny J. Crosby songs we knew.  We'd sing a song called "Joy, Joy, Joy, Joy, down in my heart."  The last verse said, "And if the devil doesn't like it, he can sit on a tack."  We would sit down like we sat on a tack and fly off the metal folding chair making a huge racket.  The volunteers in the youth department got more than they bargained for with us hooligans, for sure.  We got into trouble sometimes at church.  One time in the choir loft, during the hymn "Higher Ground," we decided it would be a good idea to add our own motions.  When it said, "Lord, plant my feet on higher ground," we pretended to dig a hole with a shovel and plant our feet.  You had to be there, but our faces were red from laughing so hard.  Our parents didn't see the humor in our antics.

As we stood around the funeral home and reminisced for two hours, we mined a depth of memories of Grayson.  We showed livestock together in 4-H in elementary school.  Sheep are finicky, sickly creatures.  It's been said of sheep that "they are born looking for a place to die."  We had great fun showing sheep at the parish, district and state livestock shows, but the actual shows were in the COLDEST part of winter.

Grayson had an answer for that.  He always had a number of catalogs.  JC Whitney, for one, to get Auto parts.  Crutchfield, for another, to get speakers, tuners, and amps, and the all-time favorite catalog, the Johnson-Smith Catalog.  In this catalog, back in the 70's, you could order all sorts of pranks like fake vomit, fake poop, and whoopie cushions.  It contained everything a kid could want!  I could be off-base, but I think it was from this catalog that Grayson solved the problem of being cold at livestock shows - the Handwarmer!

We all ordered them.  You would remove the cap, pour lighter fluid in the bottom until the cotton was saturated with fluid.  Then you'd light the coil and allow to burn until they were glowing.  At this point, you would replace the cap and place it in a red flannel bag with a yellow drawstring and place in your pocket or coat pocket.

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It would stay warm ALL DAY LONG!  Grayson saved the day.  The livestock shows were bearable with the trusty Jon-E Handwarmer.  Somewhere in the attic at my Mom & Dad's house, tucked away in a box is my old handwarmer (and probably my brother's Millennium Falcon Star Wars spacecraft and action figures).  Both are probably worth a lot of money.  At least they bring back priceless memories of a great childhood.

As often is the case, you grow up, move away from your hometown and lose close contact with old friends and classmates.  You never, ever forget them, though.  It's sad, but we have many memories to dredge up and relish.  Grayson, old friend, may you rest in peace!

Here's the Buzz

The honeybees in our column continue to work.  They work building their colony within the column and work pollinating.  They'll also make honey although we have no means of accessing it.  We enjoy having them around.  Let me restate that.  I enjoy having them around.  Tricia?  Not so much.  She has repeatedly stated that it is not very hospitable to have a swarm of bees at the entrance to our home, but these bees have never stung anyone.  They are friendly bees.

This evening I stepped outside to check them out.  They're coming in after a hard day's work and long commute.  "Honey, I'm home!"  I think I heard one say.  (Sorry for the bad joke)  They enter the column from an opening where the column meets the roof of the entryway.

At night, the honeybees don't rest.  They continue to work.  One of the odd things they do is burial detail.  The bees remove their dead brethren and toss them out of the hive where they lie at rest for the viewing.  Then Tricia sweeps them into the flower bed.  Each night there are 10 to 15 (at least) dead bees.

As I was watching the bees, I recalled an incident from my youth - not with bees, but with hornets!  It was around the year 1976.  I was ten years old and we moved from town out to the country.  Five whole acres of woods to roam around and explore.  We didn't spend a lot of time indoors.  We made trails.  We built forts.  We dug up sassafras trees and made tea.  We dug holes.  We also found a Coral snake and Copperhead moccasins.  We found Black Widow Spiders and Bull Nettle, a stinging plant.

We were at an area of the property we named "Muddy Village" There was a stand of sweet gum trees that we needed to build a log-cabin-like camp.  With ax in hand I began to chop the tree.  It was perhaps 10 inches in diameter.  As I chopped, I began to become aware of a strange humming sound, getting louder and more pronounced with each swing of my ax.

Finally, I looked up and saw a big hornet nest attached about 20 feed up to a branch in the tree I was chopping.  Not only that.  The hornets were not INSIDE the nest.  They were quite agitated with my chopping.  They were swarming.  They identified the source of their agitation - ME, and decided to come after me.  

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I dropped the ax, hollered at my brother, and we began running at a pace that would have pushed any Olympian star you can think of.  We were scared!  We finally made it back to safety without getting stung.  But we learned our lesson.  We didn't venture out to Muddy Village again until it was winter.  The hornet nest had actually fallen out of the tree and was lying on the ground.  It was the size of a basketball.  Fortunately, its occupants were gone.  We poked at it with a stick, counting our blessings for not getting stung by a swarm of hornets.

Fast-forward 44 years.  I like our bees.  I still hate hornets.  The honeybees can stay.  If, however, hornets move in, I guarantee you, they will not be welcomed.  We will evict them - with fire!

How We Used to Watch TV

I can remember growing up we had TV trays.  Whatever happened to them?  I distinctly remember going to my grandmother Bumby's house as a kid and we'd get the TV trays out in front of the TV.  For some reason, I remember breakfast the best.  Bumby would bring us a big bowl of Rice Krispies and a sugar bowl with a teaspoon in it.  We would sprinkle sugar over our Rice Krispies and listen to Snap, Krackle and Pop.  Meanwhile she was in the kitchen.  Bumby made the best Cinnamon Toast ever!  She had a toaster oven and would put butter, cinnamon and sugar on the toast.  It would come out hot and so delicious.  She would put it right on our TV tray while we watched whatever we were watching.  It was fun until one time I remember my brother had this shiny racing jacket that he was very proud of.  My grandmother had a space heater glowing bright red in the den.  My brother got a little too close and melted his favorite jacket.  (Crazy things you remember!)

At my other grandmother (Myrtle Lee's) house, she had TV trays too.  We would park ourselves in front of the TV and eat rice and gravy and sausage.  Our cola was set down on the tv tray for us in aluminum cups that were FREEZING cold.  We'd watch Gunsmoke, Barnaby Jones, Hawaii 5-0, The Rockford Files and then we'd eat my grandpa's favorite ice cream - Ozark Black Walnut ice cream.  We would visit, for sure, but the TV tray allowed us to park in front of the TV, visit, and eat.  Multi-tasking at ist best.  Then we'd clean up the dishes and play solitaire.   The tv trays had legs that would fold out and you could put a chair down and pull it in front of you.  Whatever happened to them?  Today, we always eat at the table. 

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I guess the reason I was thinking about TV trays tonight is because for the past few days with the freezing weather, we've brought a modern version of the TV tray into existence:

Tonight we had homemade beef and vegetable soup and a bowl of salad in front of the fireplace.  While we didn't have a TV tray, we had the next best thing.  We set our bowls down on the hearth, said grace, and gazed into the warm fire while eating and visiting.  So relaxing!

Once done, we cleared dishes away and pulled up our chairs to the fireplace .  Our improvised TV trays are much more sturdy than the old ones, allowing us to kick up our feet and warm our toes. 

TV trays, while great, were not that sturdy.

Grandpa's Pocketknife

Back in September 2012, I posted this: Pocket Knife Post from 2012  It is about pocket knives.  I came into possession of a pocket knife recently that reminded me of that post.  Here is the knife:

My cousin, Patrick, mailed me a package containing this knife.  It belonged to my grandpa.  He called it his couteau (knife in French).  I didn't recognize the knife, but looked on the Internet and discovered that it is a Remington pocketknife, likely manufactured in the 1930's.  The acorn shield on it tells you that one of the blades is a leather punch.  It is the blade on the left hand side below:

Remington Arms Company manufactured pocket knives for Boy Scouts.  In the above link, I have a photo of my scout knife.  It is very sad to me that 2020 finds the Boy Scouts in bankruptcy.  That is a story for another time.

Not many carry pocketknives any longer.  I use one daily at work, so I carry one.  I carry a cheaper "throw-away" knife that clips to my pocket.  I probably go through two or three a year.  They aren't meant to last like quality knives of the past.  I don't want to carry knives like my grandpa's as I would hate to lose it.  Also, you risk getting it taken from you by the TSA if you are boarding a plane.

I can distinctly remember my grandpa always having a pocketknife with him in the pocket of his coveralls.  After he retired, he'd drive out to the farm and watch the rice harvest.  His truck would drive in and a cloud of dust would billow up and cover us as we sat underneath a big cottonwood tree seeking shelter from the hot summer sun.  The whine of the combine engine roared in the distance.

My grandpa would walk up to us and say, "How's it going, Old Top?"  He always called us "Old Top."  He would sit on the grass next to us and set an old, worn brick down in the St. Augustine grass that grew around the old homeplace we waited around with the rice truck.  He'd reach in his right front pocket and pull out a pocket knife (probably the one shown above).  He would spit on the brick, open the knife, and begin a slow, rhythmic motion of sharpening the blades.  The knife rubbing against the wet brick would make a scraping sound and a fine orange sand would appear from the brick, soon darkened somewhat by the blade.  He'd shave the hair off his arm in a spot to gauge the sharpness of his knife.

Knives were everyday tools back then.  Why, you could whittle a stick while passing the time (no cell phones).  You could clean your fingernails or dig out a splinter from the palm of your hand.  You could open a can of Steen's cane syrup.  You could clean a squirrel or skin a catfish.  A man without a pocket knife was like a fish without water or rice without gravy.  True story:  One time my grandpa had set a trot line to catch fish.  Trouble is, a big bird got tangled in the lines.  My grandpa eased up in his boat and put the bird out of his misery.  Then he proceeded to use perhaps this knife to cut the bird up and re-bait the trot line to catch more fish!  (You gonna fish or cut bait?)  Both!

This knife must have been special to my grandpa.  These days when my $9.99 Amazon special knife breaks, I throw it away and get another.  This particular knife broke on my grandpa, but he didn't throw it away.  One side is made of bone.  If you flip the knife over (below), you'll see it has been professionally repaired with wood.

I imagine it broke and it was too special to throw away or put in a desk drawer somewhere.  No, he wanted to continue using it, so he had it fixed.  The precision of repair is pretty remarkable.  You can see below how a slight groove was carved in the wood so that my grandpa could put his thumbnail in the indention and flip the small blade open to clean used motor oil out from under his index finger nail.

Like my grandpa's old pocketknife, I'll keep the memories of him and good times of the past around, pulling them out, spending time with them, careful to not lose them and hopefully keeping the memories sharp and in good repair.

15 Calves on the Ground

Last year the cows at the farm in Oberlin decided that they didn't like fences.  They liked wide open spaces.  That created problems and they got an all expenses paid trip to the Sale Barn.  Fast forward to the end of the year and Dad and I decided, "Let's buy some more cows!"  We did.  We purchased 16 bred heifers and put them back at the old home place at the farm.

They had more grass than they could ever eat.  They remained fat throughout the winter and just recently began to bag up.  Calves began hitting the ground.  One after the other.  Before you knew it, we had 16 calves.  Let me correct that - 15.  One of the calves was born but the sac never burst and it suffocated and died.  Well, as someone smarter than me one said, "You can't lose 'em if you don't have 'em."

We decided to get out on Saturday.  We drove to Oberlin and opened the gate and drove in the pasture.  Right inside the gate is an enormous live oak tree like you might see in a painting.  I would think that if it could talk, it would tell you many stories.  My grandfather was raised in a house right on this property.  Now the house is no longer there, but the tree remains.  And the cows and calves do too.  We gave them a holler and they began walking toward us.

The Old Live Oak

The simplicity and serenity of the place is astounding.  It is easy to forget when you are sitting beneath the tree watching the cows that there is a pandemic.  Being out in the country is plenty of social distancing!  The cows curiously began to walk toward us and check us out.  I was quick to notice that they weren't following the "6 foot rule."  For shame!

The calves all bunched toward the front.  The momma cows and the calves are all healthy and butterball fat.  They look like they enjoy life in the country.  As we sat there watching the cows checking us out, we observed yellow flowers blooming across the pasture.  The wind gently blew and the flowers from the thistles growing in the distance floated in the air like little white parachutes.

Mom & Dad drove up and we pulled lawn chairs out of the trunk and we sat in the shade and talked for the longest time.  It was a pleasant afternoon.  The boys climbed up in the huge limbs of the live oak like I did as a boy.  The limbs are laden with Resurrection vine (appropriate for the day before Resurrection Day!)  Resurrection fern looks like it is brown and dead, but as soon as it rains, it greens up beautifully and completely covers the limbs with its lush foliage.

In the background of the above photo, you can see an old pecan orchard planted by my great-grandfather.  One of the old pecan trees has broken in half.  We'll cut up the wood for firewood.  It is a reminder to me that some things like the pecan trees succumb while other things like the live oak perseveres.  It is nice in a world of rot and decay that there are things that live on - like the live oak, like the memories.  And it is encouraging to know that new calves are on the ground and new memories can be made while enjoying those of the past.

The Old Fruit Bowl

Oftentimes, Tricia watches the Chip and Joanna Gaines "Fixer Upper" show where the couple work together to renovate an older home into something that is more modern and decorated nicely.  They talk to the buyers and find out what they like and will often incorporate something old and meaningful into the home.  Do you have things like that in your home that you've reclaimed?

I like things like that.  For instance, in the house I grew up in, my mom and dad incorporated old bricks from some landmarks from their childhood into the fireplace.  Things like that have a nostalgia factor.  It creates a great conversation piece and helps personalize your home and bring back memories.  It doesn't have to be part of the construction.  It can be a piece of furniture or a decoration or an old keepsake.

This evening I was looking at something in our home that brings back memories.  It's an old fruit bowl.  Not that it necessarily only contained fruit.  This bowl was my grandmother's.  We called her Bumby.  This bowl was in her kitchen on a countertop right next to an old International Deep Freeze.

Bumby normally had a few bananas in this bowl that were on the brown side.  Shortly before they turned completely brown, she transformed them into banana bread or banana pudding.  Let's see, what else was in this bowl?  Well, if I close my eyes and try to remember, there was also a pack of Juicy Fruit Gum in the bowl, a Baby Ruth Candy bar, a Snicker bar, various nuts, Bumby's car keys, the day's mail, the bulletin from Sunday Church Service, some butterscotch candies and a cinnamon disk candy or two.

Bumby passed away years ago, but seeing her old fruit bowl on the island in our kitchen reminds me of her and brings back good memories of spending time with her. 

Thank God I'm a Country Boy

This weekend I came inside to get some cold water after working in the garden.  Tricia was in the kitchen and had music playing on a speaker from her phone.  She was listening to John Denver's Greatest Hits.  Did that ever bring back some childhood memories!

Image Credit

Growing up, we had John Denver's Greatest hits album and I think my brother, sister and I knew the words to most every song.  In fact, I fondly remember that when my cousin, Patrick would come visit us from Dallas, we would have concerts in my Grandma's living room for my parents, grandparents and my aunt and uncle in which we'd sing:

• Thank God I'm a Boy (I got me a fine wife, got me old fiddle...)
• Grandma's Feather Bed
• and Country Roads (Take me home, country roads, to the place I belong...)

I laugh and think that it probably took the patience of Job for them to sit and listen to our 'concerts!'

John Denver's music was so good.  As I stood in the kitchen on Saturday and listened to him sing Leaving on a Jet Plane, Rocky Mountain High and Annie's Song, the memories of childhood flooded over me.  Annie's Song is perhaps the most sincere love song I've heard:

You fill up my senses like a night in a forest,

Like the mountains in springtime,

Like a walk in the rain, like a storm in the desert,

Like a sleepy blue ocean.

You fill up my senses, come fill me again.

Come let me love you, let me give my life to you,

Let me drown in your laughter, let me die in your arms.

Let me lay down beside you, let me always be with you.

Come, let me love you, come love me again.

A little John Denver trivia I learned:

• John Denver was born on New Year's Eve in 1943 in Roswell, New Mexico,
• He wrote the song Country Roads about West Virginia country roads, but had never been to West Virginia,
• John Denver's real name was Henry John Deutschendorf.  I think he picked a good name to sing under!
• There is a monument for him in Aspen, Colorado
• He died on October 12, 1997 near Pacific Grove, California when the experimental plane he was piloting crashed.

I was thinking about all the singers I could think of that died in plane crashes.  Right off-hand, other than John Denver, I can think of Jim Croce, Buddy Holly, Ricky Nelson, Patsy Cline.  I looked up on the Internet and it reminded me that Glenn Miller and Reba McIntire's entire band died in plane crashes as well.

Although John Denver died an early and untimely death, his music and the memories invoked by his songs still live on...

Like A Rock

From time to time I'll get on You Tube and listen to a song that I've been wanting to hear.  You Tube, in a very smart and crafty manner, has songs that populate on the right hand side of the screen that are in the same genre or timeframe as the song you are listening to.  I have discovered that it is impossible to listen to just one song.  You have to listen to more songs.  In fact, I find myself going down a 'worm-hole' of songs only to emerge much later realizing that I have other things to do.  Isn't it amazing how songs can bring you back to memories and times you had forgotten?

Such is the case with the song, "Like a Rock," by Bob Segar.  It was recorded in May 1986 and hit #1 on the music charts.  In perhaps one of the most successful advertising campaigns in history, Chevrolet used the song, "Like a Rock" to sell many, many pick-up trucks.  In fact, when I hear this song, I think of watching a football game on TV and the commercial comes on.  In my memory, I can hear "Like a Rock" playing and see dirty pickup trucks driven by cowboys bouncing down dusty gravel roads or Chevy trucks at a construction site being loaded by guys with hard hats.  Sadly, the Chevy commercial is the first thought that comes to mind.

According to Wikipedia, Bob Seger said the following regarding the inspiration of the song: "it was inspired partly by the end of a relationship I had that had lasted for 11 years. You wonder where all that time went. But beyond that, it expresses my feeling that the best years of your life are in your late teens when you have no special commitments and no career. It's your last blast of fun before heading into the cruel world."

Just read the lyrics:

Stood there boldly
Sweatin' in the sun
Felt like a million
Felt like number one
The height of summer
I'd never felt that strong
Like a rock

I was eighteen
Didn't have a care
Working for peanuts
Not a dime to spare
But I was lean and
Solid everywhere
Like a rock

My hands were steady
My eyes were clear and bright
My walk had purpose
My steps were quick and light
And I held firmly
To what I felt was right
Like a rock

Like a rock, I was strong as I could be
Like a rock, nothin' ever got to me
Like a rock, I was something to see
Like a rock

And I stood arrow straight
Unencumbered by the weight
Of all these hustlers and their schemes
I stood proud, I stood tall
High above it all
I still believed in my dreams

Twenty years now
Where'd they go?
Twenty years
I don't know
Sit and I wonder sometimes
Where they've gone

And sometimes late at night
When I'm bathed in the firelight
The moon comes callin' a ghostly white
And I recall
I recall

Like a rock. standin' arrow straight
Like a rock, chargin' from the gate
Like a rock, carryin' the weight
Like a rock

Like a rock, the sun upon my skin
Like a rock, hard against the wind
Like a rock, I see myself again
Like a rock

The songwriter draws a picture of youth.  Strong.  Lean.  Invincible.  Bulletproof.  It reminds me of the way I felt in high school, thinking the world was my oyster.  Running around with my friends, playing football, listening to music in my truck.  Eager, wide-eyed with anticipation about what life had in store.  With a few miles on my odometer now (to use an appropriate Chevrolet metaphor), I realize that a whole lot of the emotion in that song is illusory.  While we may, in the arrogance of youth, feel like a rock, we are not.  Or at least I am not.

In the comments in the bottom of the video of the song I link below, an astute writer named Kevin H. apparently feels the same way and captured what I'm trying to say more eloquently than I can.  I cut and pasted his comment below:

Life will destroy you. Work will grind you down, and you will fail as a husband and father. You will look back on the illusion of competence and control you once possessed and wonder how you could ever have been so naïve. One of the most heartbreaking songs about being a man ever recorded.

Although I'm standing on the Solid Rock, I have come to understand that I am not like a rock at all.  Maybe that is the point of it all.  Perhaps Chevy trucks are dependable, but truth be told, there's only One who is dependable.  He's not like a rock.  He is The Rock.  Click the arrow and listen to Bob Seger sing it:

The View From the Fender of a 4020

I've always been of average height - not too short, but definitely not tall.  When in crowds or at parades I always have to stand on tip-toes to see anything.  I do remember, when just a kid, when my perspective was a little different.  I had the perfect vantage point to see the whole world from a bird's eye view.  It happened to be when sitting on the fender of a John Deere 4020 tractor.

The old 4020 was a workhorse on the farm.  It was old, but dependable.  The paint was a little faded, but it didn't matter.  I remember the yellow seat on it was comfortable and it had lots of spring in it with armrests and a back support.  It had screens on either side that were held in place with springs.  The screens would fill up with Vaseygrass seeds, so you'd have to run your fingers down the screen to remove the seeds to allow air flow.  It was easy to work on, unlike the new computer driven tractors with circuitry and fuses.  Although I remember driving it, I mostly remember sitting on the fender riding on farm roads.

Although this is not our 4020, I found this photo on the Internet of one that looked kinda like it

When riding on the 4020 with my Dad, I sat on the fender.  My legs would dangle off the front and my rubber boots would hit against the rubber grips on the tire that passed underfoot.  The fender was wide, smooth, and comfortable to sit on - unless it was summer.  Then it was as hot as a blast furnace.  There was no air condition on the 4020.  I take that back.  You could control the speed of the "air condition" by how fast you drove.  Believe it or not, the old 4020 could move pretty doggone fast!  There was a rubber-lined hand-hold on the fender, like you see in the photo below, and that is what you'd hold onto while riding on the fender, with your hair blowing in the breeze.  Sometimes my cap would even fly off!

Sometimes after harvesting rice, we'd burn the field's stubble with a forestry drip torch.  It had diesel mixed with gas.  While the driver drove, the fender sitter held the torch and dripped burning fuel down into the rice stubble all around the perimeter of the field and along the levees.  You could see rabbits and rats running and the smoke rising high into the sky.  As the day turned to evening, you could see pillars of fire coming from fence posts that had caught fire.  If the fire got out of hand, the 4020 had a ditching blade on it that you could drop and make a ditch to break the path of the fire and put it out.

As you rode on the backroads around the farm sitting on the fender, the diesel from the exhaust would blow back and envelope you, but I learned to love that smell.  It seemed that you could see everything from that fender.  You could spot the cow that had just calved and had her baby hidden in the tall grass.  You could see down into the gully and watch the striped head turtles jump off of logs or nutria swimming with their noses sticking up above the water or bullfrogs in the cat tails in the irrigation canal.  You could see the steam rising from puddles on the asphalt road after a thunderstorm blew through and then the sun came back out.  You could watch red-tailed hawks circling in the sky above, then swooping down to snatch a rat from the fence row.

Today's tractors are nice (and expensive) and big.  They dwarf old tractors like the 4020.  In today's monstrous tractors, you ride in comfort in a hermetically-sealed environment in air-conditioned comfort, listening to country music in ergonomic chairs.  Computers and GPS control everything.  We unfortunately sold the old 4020.  I haven't forgotten the magic, though, of riding on its fender, seeing the world from the eyes of a ten-year old with my hat on backwards so it wouldn't blow off, while singing Conway Twitty, Crystal Gayle, and Don Williams songs to the top of my lungs while holding on to the rubber handle on the fender for dear life.

The (House) Coat of Many Colors Quilt

Beginning in Genesis 37 and proceeding through the end of the book, there is a wonderful story about overcoming adversity.  It is a story about having great faith and persevering even when things look bleak.  It is a story about patience and blessing and restoration.  It is also a story about a father's great love for his son.  Jacob made his son, Joseph, a "coat of many colors" and presented it to him.  It was probably an ill-advised move, as it showed favoritism and his other brothers began to hate him.  If you ever feel that you have a dysfunctional family, you need to read this story!  It will make you feel better.  The coat of many colors started a daisy chain of events that causes Joseph's life to go from bad to worse, but the story finally culminates with a happy family reunion, great blessing and shows that God has a plan even when things seem bleak.

I was thinking about the story of Joseph today and thought, "I have a coat of many colors" too!  My maternal grandmother, whom we called "Bumby" always wore what she called "housecoats."  To me they were like a gown or a robe.  Bumby also called the couch or sofa a "davenport."  Bumby was quite a lady and I have many fond memories of her.  Bumby passed away almost 12 years ago, but I always like to keep memories of loved ones alive, and so it was with great pleasure that my Mom & Dad presented me with Bumby's "Housecoat of many colors" quilt.

Mom gathered a bunch of Bumby's housecoats, cut the fabric and had a quilt made out of them.  I think it was a fantastic idea.  You can see it below:

We keep it on our bed during the cold months and as I look at the quilt, I can recall Bumby wearing the housecoats represented by each square of fabric as she made us cinnamon toast and served us Rice Krispies with sugar sprinkled on top as we'd eat breakfast in her den on TV trays.  I remember her laughter and funny faces she'd make.  I remember how she'd make us pimento cheese sandwiches and prepare games for us to play in the car to keep us occupied on family vacations.

I'm grateful that I have the House Coat of Many Colors Quilt to help keep Bumby's memory alive.  The quilt keeps us warm and provides us with warm memories, too.

Counting Cantaloupes

Image Credit

This afternoon I fed the meat birds out in the chicken tractor on the pasture and then watered the sweet potato slips that I planted in the garden.  By the way, I'll show you more of that in a couple days.  Things are looking good in our heirloom sweet potato experiment.  There are times when things work out.  There are times when things don't.

As I passed by the raised beds by the sweet corn, I checked on the cantaloupes that I have planted there.  They look sickly.  Although full of blooms, they are a sickly yellow color.  It looks like a soil issue to me.  I need to make time to take soil samples this weekend of the pasture, garden area and raised beds in the side yard. I'll be sad if we don't make any cantaloupes.  I was really looking forward to some cantaloupes soon.  As a variation to the old adage, "Don't count your cantaloupes before they're ripe", I guess.

I stood there by the spindly yellow cantaloupe vines and began to think about memories of the fragrant, sweet melons.  As a child we'd go to my grandmother's house (Bumby, we called her) and she would always have slices of ripe, sweet cantaloupe in a bowl on the Sunday lunch table that were picked out at the Supermarket.  That cantaloupe probably had a soft spot in it and it wouldn't sell, so Bumby would bring it home, cut out the bad parts, and put the remainder on the table.  Nothing went to waste!  I still live by that motto.  My grandfather (Poppy) owned that store. The Kinder Supermarket was established in 1947 and he had cantaloupes that were arranged in a prominent place right by the bananas in the produce department.

It's funny how my mind will run off and recall things from the past.  In 1993 we moved to Kinder and I managed the Kinder Supermarket.  There was an old fellow, I'll just call "Mr. Jo" for reasons you'll soon understand.  Mr. Jo sold cantaloupes for a living.  Each summer, we'd see him turn off of Highway 190 and drive into the parking lot, parking his truck in the shade underneath a big old oak tree.  He would then shuffle across the parking lot with a slow, almost painful, uncomfortable gait. He would step on the automatic door mat, opening the door and would make his way around the checkout counters and up to the office.

"Hey, I got some cantaloupes for sale.  Wanna come take a look at 'em?" he'd say. Mr. Jo talked in a voice that sounded like he had a mouth full of gravel.  "Yeah, I'll go look at them," I'd say.  "Oh, they're super sweet, Mr. Kyle," he would brag, "You'll never taste anything like 'em in your life."  I'd follow him out to his pickup truck. The sweltering summer heat would beat down from the sky, radiating up from the asphalt parking lot and into the soles of my shoes as I felt drops of sweat run down the small of my back.  Mr. Jo drove an old white truck with a camper shell on the back.  He had a crudely hand painted sign on the side of his truck that said, CANTALOPES.  (Spell check wasn't invented in 1993 yet, I don't think).

He would lift the back pexiglass door to the camper shell and ask me to hold it open since the little hydraulic arms on the door didn't work to hold it up.  He had an old broom stick that he had cut off at the perfect length to prop the door open when wedged against the bed of the truck.  He then dropped the tailgate.  The overwhelmingly sweet aroma of cantaloupes would overtake me.  It is a smell that I still associate with summer.  He would slide a wax-coated cardboard box of cantaloupes onto the tailgate and open it, pulling out a ripe melon and thrusting it to me.  "Smell that," he'd say.  I would put the broken-off stem end of the ripe cantaloupe to my nose and slowly inhale deeply.

"How much?" I'd ask.  You see, I wanted to be able to sell them at $0.99 a piece and still make money. Old Mr. Jo would tell me, "$10 for a case of 12 cantaloupes."  That math worked.  "Sold," I'd say, "Gimme 15 cases"  At that point in time I would go inside and Mr. Jo would get a cart, load it up with 15 cases and bring the boxes of cantaloupes inside as I'd go to the office and write out a check to him for $150.  I emphasized the phrase "at that point in time" because experience quickly taught me that Mr. Jo played a little trick to give himself extra cantaloupes to sell further down the road.  While I would be writing out the check, Mr. Jo would deftly remove one cantaloupe out of each case.  After he was gone, we opened the boxes to discover that there were only 11 cantaloupes in each box and not 12.

From that time forward when he drove up, we courteously provided an escort to Mr. Jo and 'chaperoned' him at all times.  We'd count the cantaloupes in the store prior to me giving him the check.  That way we'd end up with all the cantaloupes from Mr. Jo. In similar fashion, I'm hoping I end up with some cantaloupes this year from the garden.

"Sanford & Son" Maintenance Projects

Ah yes, I can still easily recall the instrumental theme music of Sanford & Son and see Fred Sanford sitting out in front of his business establishment reading the newspaper as Lamont drove up in the old red 1951 Ford pickup truck.  I can still recall old Fred saying, "You Big Dummy" or "This is the big one, Elizabeth.  I'm comin' to meet ya honey!"  As a young boy I watched that sitcom as it aired between 1972 - 1977. Fred and Lamont ran Sanford & Son Salvage, which was essentially a junkyard.

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In some ways I think that Sanford & Son made an impression on me.  By that, I mean that I have a certain affinity for 'junk.'  I always look at things destined for the garbage and think if there is any way that they can be used again.  Weird, maybe? I have containers of nuts, bolts, washers, and screws on my workbench from things I take apart before throwing away.  The general idea is that I'll use them again in another project, but often I either waste a lot of time looking through the containers for the items that I need, that it would have been simpler to just make a trip to the hardware store and purchase a brand new part.

While I am a pack rat, I don't like clutter, so all my piles of junk are neatly stacked in piles hidden from view and are mentally cataloged so I'll hopefully be able to find them when I need them.  There are definitely times when that junk item that should probably reside in the Jefferson Davis Parish Landfill, actually comes in useful.  I'll show you an example today.

Our kids' old swing set RIP

In THIS BLOG POST FROM 2014 I talk about disassembling the kids' old swing set.  It was sort of an emotional thing for me.  I'm an old softie on some things. While, as the post describes, many of the pieces of the disassembled swing set went to the landfill, I did save the tubing that made up the six supporting legs and top bar for the swing set.  They have been occupying a spot between the rain collection barrels and the air conditioning units, just lying there, biding their time until their opportunity presented itself to take on a second life and become useful again.  This weekend that time came.

Back when the kids showed goats around 2002, my Dad, Greg Meaux, and I built a small barn.  The barn still stands, but is in need of some repair.  The cows, goats and chickens use it as a place of shelter in rain storms or cold weather.  Over time the 2 X 4 bottom supports have come into contact with the ground and completely rotted.  All it would take is for one of the calves to hit the tin siding of the barn, and without any bottom bracing, the tin would bend upward.  This weekend I was going to make a trip to the local hardware store and buy some treated lumber and fix it, when I thought about the old swing set!

I took my measurements and pulled out the old swing set tubing and marked it. Using a grinder, I cut the tubing back until there was no more rust.  Then I took a 16 pound sledge hammer and flattened the two ends.  Finally I got a drill and drilled holes in the flattened ends, screwed the piping to the corner barn support posts, and then using metal screws, attached the tin to the tubing.  Voila!

A couple of hens inspect the construction

The barn is sturdy once more!

The swing set re-invents itself!

Now, not only is the barn repaired without having to expend any additional cash at the hardware store, but it is sturdier and will last longer than if I had purchased lumber.  There is one more benefit, too!

Still going strong - ~20 years later

When I'm puttering around in the barn and look down and see the familiar blue and green striping of the old swing set that is now holding the barn together, I'll have happy memories of when the kids were younger.  

A long, long time ago...

Eat your heart out, Fred and Lamont.  I've got my own salvage yard!