It is raining here today. Made me think of how much I love rain. I wish I lived in a house with a nice porch and a porch swing or a nice rocking chair so I could just sit and watch the rain fall. I love rain and storms.
When we lived at the Spring Knob forestry tower there would be thunder storms where the clouds were down below the level where the cabin was. Lightening and thunder were so close it was like they lived inside the cabin with us. I was never afraid of storms and living there with them so intimately close is probably where I learned to love them.
When we lived at the big, white house in West Van Lear there was an unfinished space between the one, long room upstairs and the window that overlooked the road. My dad always wanted plenty of light around so we had one of those dusk to dawn lights on one of the electric poles right in front of that window and almost even with it. I can remember lying or sitting in there and watching the rain fall day or night. The now was really beautiful at night as it would fall slowly out of the darkness into the light and float gently to the ground.
The place I really loved the rain most though was at Nat's Creek. The house my grandparents lived in had an attic space with one bed in it. The roof was a 'tin roof' and there was nothing between the tin and whoever was sleeping in that bed but a few inches of air. I cannot describe the sound a hard rain would make on that roof. The attic was small in height and the head of the bed was back near the lowest point so when you were lying in bed the roof was only a couple of feet above your head. Like being inside the storm. If I ever have the money and the place I will build a replica of that old house and have my bed there just below a tin roof.
Nat's Creek is not a really large stream though when I was young it seemed plenty big to me. Between my grandparent's house and the house where I was born the creek was really shallow and ran over a gravel bed with large stones intersperses up and down. I was told there was a flash flood that came once and washed the stones out of Mill Branch. That was a little hollow that was directly across the creek from the log cabin where I was born. Made me want to see a flash flood.
I never did see a flood of that magnitude but I have seen the creek raise up pretty far. Every year it would raise enough to cover the garden space on the creek bank below my grandparent's house. When we lived at West Van Lear there was an itsy-bitsy stream but at its most flooded it was not very impressive. But I'd go stand on Mrs Huff's concrete foot bridge and watch it anyhow.
But the best place to watch a Nat's Creek flood was when we lived in the old Blessing Place between early 1967 and when I got married in 1973. When a big storm was happening I'd move my bed over by the window where I could lie there and watch the rain and the creek to rise. Over the years I witnessed many good floods. There was nothing build very close to the creek, up and down, so there was never much danger of anything being damaged.
We had a foot bridge from the road to our side of the creek and that was my gauge on whether it was a good rain or not. If the creek got over the foot bridge it was a good rain. There was also an old barn sitting a good bit below the level of the house which was up on a pretty good rise. There were a few times the creek even got high enough to be a couple of feet deep in the barn. Those were really good rains.
I also enjoyed rains and storms while I was out in the woods. I always carried a shotgun and thought of myself as hunting. And, I guess I was as if any critter that was edible happened along I'd shoot it but mostly I enjoyed being in the woods alone. I actually enjoyed being most places alone or at least most places my parents were not. But that is a story for a different time.
I knew most of the rock cliffs up and down the creek so when a rain would come I'd head for a close one and build a fire under the cliff and sit with the fire to warm me and watch the rain dripping from the leaves and listen to the fall of rain hitting those leaves even higher up. I'd put my shotgun over on the end of the cliff away from me in case of lightening. I have no idea what good that would have done as lightening never hit anything near me any how.
For me, falling rain, is one of the most peaceful things I have ever known.
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
Saturday, October 8, 2011
Some Thoughts and Memories of My Sister
My sister, Mary Jane, was ten years my senior. My parents wanted two children and they had my brother and my sister two years apart. Ten years later, once they thought my mother too old to conceive and stopped taking precautions guess what happened. Yep, me. So, my memories of my brother and sister during my childhood are somewhat limited as they were always "adults" to me and both of them left home early to escape my father. Or, so I believe.
My very first memory of Mary Jane, as I've mentioned earlier, was at the little, log cabin where I was born. She was sitting on the porch with her feet on the step and both my mother and my Dad were whipping her. Dad with his belt (his favorite weapon) and mother with a switch.
That is, perhaps, not my first memory of her although no one else will believe I can remember the episode as I was too young. She was on the kitchen porch rocking me and rocked off the porch with me. I can distinctly remember being in a rocking chair and looking at the rockers and the way they would move a little bit each time from where they were the last time. Maybe, I'm wrong but I think that must be the time it happened.
My memories of her are very limited in the next several years. I can remember her watching "American Bandstand" when we lived at Stafford. I remember her sweeping up the living room and throwing my brother's "playing cards" into the pot bellied stove in the living room. I remember she and my mother in the upstairs where my mother was ironing and they would not let me leave to go play until I could recite my ABCs and count to ten. I must have been around three then. Maybe four.
I don't recall her at all when we were living at Spring Knob. I think, though I'm not sure, she was living with my aunt Dixie. I will have to ask my brother about that sometime.
Even after we moved to West Van Lear just a few houses away from where aunt Dixie lived I can not really remember her staying with us a lot. Just a few vague memories of them needing a fourth for playing Rook and, there being no one else, they let me play. I did not really understand the game and was quite bad at it so they just quit playing.
I remember, after we moved to the second house we lived in up Burglar Holler (Burger Hollow is its correct name) she would not let me watch Mr Cartoon until after I finished my homework. No matter how much I promised to do it right afterwards.
That house had hardwood floors. I can remember after waxing them she would turn a throw rug upside down and let me sit on it while she pulled it around to buff the wax to a nice shine. But, most of the time I don't think she was there. I know she spent a lot of time living with aunt Dixie and I know she moved to Columbus, OH to babysit for a couple. I do not recall who that was but for some reason I think it may have been one of the Vargos. I keep wanting to call them the Fargos because at that time there was a western TV show on called "Tales of Wells Fargo".
I remember her coming home one time and fixing us a rump roast for supper. (Yes, supper dammit. Not dinner. Dinner is what you eat during the middle of the day. Supper is what you eat in the evening. There is a reason they called it a 'Dinner Bucket'.) I thought that was the best thing I had ever eaten. To this day I cannot be in the grocery and see a rump roast and not remember that.
And she told a story about the young boy she was babysitting for that all VanHoose's should relate to. Seems the boy did not want to eat his meal and wanted some kind of dessert. She told him he could not have any dessert until he emptied his plate and went about her chores in another room.
A few minutes later he brought her his plate to show her it was empty. She gave him his dessert only to later find all his food dumped in the garbage can. I mean, hey, she never specified he had to empty his plate by EATING the food. I have no clue now who the kid was but I like the way he thought.
But, most of the memories I have of my sister are as an adult. She, like my mother, was a very devout Jehovah's Witness and attended services at the Kingdom Hall on a regular basis. I am not sure how exactly it came about but she went to Daniel's Creek to meet a young man named Wayne Collins. I was never told the details but it ended up instead of marrying the son she married the father, Homer Collins. At the time of their wedding she was twenty-three and he was fifty-one.
I do not know that they were always happy because no one that I know is. But, I will say one thing for certain; with what came later I was happy she did marry him. But that will become obvious later on.
Jimmy Ray was the first child they had. He was born in nineteen and sixty eight. I spent a lot of time there doing other chores while Mary Jane tended to the baby. Memories of that time are somewhat jumbled so I'm not entirely sure of the true sequence of events but I'll relate them as I remember them. And, I'll throw in a few memories that are really not related to anything else. Just memories.
Odds and ends kind of things. For breakfast up until then I had always eaten my eggs with the yolk fried hard. Homer wanted his eggs with the yolk still runny. He would break the yolk on the top and put a chunk of butter inside it. I tried it and I liked it and to this day prefer my eggs "over medium" with a chunk of butter in the yolk. Funny how such tiny things stick with us so clearly.
After meals, when I was there, I would do the dishes. While doing those I always had the radio tuned to WSIP in Paintsville. Country music all the time. We were too far away from Huntington, Wv to get Key 101 or 103 or whatever. That was the top forty station and I always listened to it at home. Back then, at any given time, I could have given you the complete lyrics of any song in the top forty.
But I liked Country as well. The big song that sticks with me from those days was Tammy Wynette singing "D-I-V-O-R-C-E". I had my hands deep in dish water when the news about the RFK assassination came across on the news. I look back and wonder what a different world this would have been had that not happened. Better or worse I have no idea but I think it would have been different. For one I don't think he would have reversed Lyndon Johnson's Vietnam policy and that would have certainly changed the world. But, one will never know.
Another, off the wall memory is the beds hall had feather beds on them. Two of them, one for lying on and one for pulling over you. Man, no winter weather was cold enough to get through that. Snug and warm all night long. When they got more modern and got real mattresses my sister made pillows out of the feather beds. Only two pillows for each one. You could barely cram them into a king sized pillow case. I got a pair of those and slept on them for years and years. I still cannot stand thin pillows. I hate staying in a hotel. I have to steal all the pillows off the second bed and hunt for more in all the drawers.
There are a lot more things I'll go into at some later date. Enough for now, though.
My very first memory of Mary Jane, as I've mentioned earlier, was at the little, log cabin where I was born. She was sitting on the porch with her feet on the step and both my mother and my Dad were whipping her. Dad with his belt (his favorite weapon) and mother with a switch.
That is, perhaps, not my first memory of her although no one else will believe I can remember the episode as I was too young. She was on the kitchen porch rocking me and rocked off the porch with me. I can distinctly remember being in a rocking chair and looking at the rockers and the way they would move a little bit each time from where they were the last time. Maybe, I'm wrong but I think that must be the time it happened.
My memories of her are very limited in the next several years. I can remember her watching "American Bandstand" when we lived at Stafford. I remember her sweeping up the living room and throwing my brother's "playing cards" into the pot bellied stove in the living room. I remember she and my mother in the upstairs where my mother was ironing and they would not let me leave to go play until I could recite my ABCs and count to ten. I must have been around three then. Maybe four.
I don't recall her at all when we were living at Spring Knob. I think, though I'm not sure, she was living with my aunt Dixie. I will have to ask my brother about that sometime.
Even after we moved to West Van Lear just a few houses away from where aunt Dixie lived I can not really remember her staying with us a lot. Just a few vague memories of them needing a fourth for playing Rook and, there being no one else, they let me play. I did not really understand the game and was quite bad at it so they just quit playing.
I remember, after we moved to the second house we lived in up Burglar Holler (Burger Hollow is its correct name) she would not let me watch Mr Cartoon until after I finished my homework. No matter how much I promised to do it right afterwards.
That house had hardwood floors. I can remember after waxing them she would turn a throw rug upside down and let me sit on it while she pulled it around to buff the wax to a nice shine. But, most of the time I don't think she was there. I know she spent a lot of time living with aunt Dixie and I know she moved to Columbus, OH to babysit for a couple. I do not recall who that was but for some reason I think it may have been one of the Vargos. I keep wanting to call them the Fargos because at that time there was a western TV show on called "Tales of Wells Fargo".
I remember her coming home one time and fixing us a rump roast for supper. (Yes, supper dammit. Not dinner. Dinner is what you eat during the middle of the day. Supper is what you eat in the evening. There is a reason they called it a 'Dinner Bucket'.) I thought that was the best thing I had ever eaten. To this day I cannot be in the grocery and see a rump roast and not remember that.
And she told a story about the young boy she was babysitting for that all VanHoose's should relate to. Seems the boy did not want to eat his meal and wanted some kind of dessert. She told him he could not have any dessert until he emptied his plate and went about her chores in another room.
A few minutes later he brought her his plate to show her it was empty. She gave him his dessert only to later find all his food dumped in the garbage can. I mean, hey, she never specified he had to empty his plate by EATING the food. I have no clue now who the kid was but I like the way he thought.
But, most of the memories I have of my sister are as an adult. She, like my mother, was a very devout Jehovah's Witness and attended services at the Kingdom Hall on a regular basis. I am not sure how exactly it came about but she went to Daniel's Creek to meet a young man named Wayne Collins. I was never told the details but it ended up instead of marrying the son she married the father, Homer Collins. At the time of their wedding she was twenty-three and he was fifty-one.
I do not know that they were always happy because no one that I know is. But, I will say one thing for certain; with what came later I was happy she did marry him. But that will become obvious later on.
Jimmy Ray was the first child they had. He was born in nineteen and sixty eight. I spent a lot of time there doing other chores while Mary Jane tended to the baby. Memories of that time are somewhat jumbled so I'm not entirely sure of the true sequence of events but I'll relate them as I remember them. And, I'll throw in a few memories that are really not related to anything else. Just memories.
Odds and ends kind of things. For breakfast up until then I had always eaten my eggs with the yolk fried hard. Homer wanted his eggs with the yolk still runny. He would break the yolk on the top and put a chunk of butter inside it. I tried it and I liked it and to this day prefer my eggs "over medium" with a chunk of butter in the yolk. Funny how such tiny things stick with us so clearly.
After meals, when I was there, I would do the dishes. While doing those I always had the radio tuned to WSIP in Paintsville. Country music all the time. We were too far away from Huntington, Wv to get Key 101 or 103 or whatever. That was the top forty station and I always listened to it at home. Back then, at any given time, I could have given you the complete lyrics of any song in the top forty.
But I liked Country as well. The big song that sticks with me from those days was Tammy Wynette singing "D-I-V-O-R-C-E". I had my hands deep in dish water when the news about the RFK assassination came across on the news. I look back and wonder what a different world this would have been had that not happened. Better or worse I have no idea but I think it would have been different. For one I don't think he would have reversed Lyndon Johnson's Vietnam policy and that would have certainly changed the world. But, one will never know.
Another, off the wall memory is the beds hall had feather beds on them. Two of them, one for lying on and one for pulling over you. Man, no winter weather was cold enough to get through that. Snug and warm all night long. When they got more modern and got real mattresses my sister made pillows out of the feather beds. Only two pillows for each one. You could barely cram them into a king sized pillow case. I got a pair of those and slept on them for years and years. I still cannot stand thin pillows. I hate staying in a hotel. I have to steal all the pillows off the second bed and hunt for more in all the drawers.
There are a lot more things I'll go into at some later date. Enough for now, though.
Friday, October 7, 2011
False Memories
I've heard a lot about false memories mostly from regression hypnotist results. False memories of alien abduction and/or sexual abuse. I think that should make us all think about the things we are so sure we remember. In fact, law enforcement knows the least reliable evidence is eye witnesses. Kind of scary isn't it?
This is just a short anecdote on false memories. When I was about four years old we moved from Stafford to Spring Know Tower. I would swear I remembe a little, red spots car zooimng past our house going toward Spicy Gap on route 40.
It was not but a few minutes until we got the truck loaded (I have NO clue who provided the truck) and we drove off toward the Spicy Gap because that was where the old dirt road turned off to the tower. Just before we got to the foot of the hill I could swear on a stack of bibles I ssw that little, red sports car lying on it's top in the ditch on the right side of the road. We drove on past but it seems I can remember some conversation regarding the driver.
My brother who was there says he remembers nothing like that. I assume my sister was there but I don't recall ever questioning her about it.
Makes one wonder about the truth we think we know from our own recollections. That is a point to remember as one grows older. Those things we remember may or may hot have happened at all. And there is now way to know the difference as memories are nothing but chemical connections and nerounic links in the brain.
No matter how certain we are of what happened we should take our own memories with a 'grain or salt'. No matter how clearly we may remember something. It may have never happened.
Makes you wonder doesn't it?
This is just a short anecdote on false memories. When I was about four years old we moved from Stafford to Spring Know Tower. I would swear I remembe a little, red spots car zooimng past our house going toward Spicy Gap on route 40.
It was not but a few minutes until we got the truck loaded (I have NO clue who provided the truck) and we drove off toward the Spicy Gap because that was where the old dirt road turned off to the tower. Just before we got to the foot of the hill I could swear on a stack of bibles I ssw that little, red sports car lying on it's top in the ditch on the right side of the road. We drove on past but it seems I can remember some conversation regarding the driver.
My brother who was there says he remembers nothing like that. I assume my sister was there but I don't recall ever questioning her about it.
Makes one wonder about the truth we think we know from our own recollections. That is a point to remember as one grows older. Those things we remember may or may hot have happened at all. And there is now way to know the difference as memories are nothing but chemical connections and nerounic links in the brain.
No matter how certain we are of what happened we should take our own memories with a 'grain or salt'. No matter how clearly we may remember something. It may have never happened.
Makes you wonder doesn't it?
Thursday, October 6, 2011
A Few Words About My Father
My Dad had a rough childhood. In fact I doubt I could have coped with it. I expect that childhood, as with most of us, made him into the man he was to become. I'm sure the man I knew as my father was different than the man my brother and sister knew as father because they were so much older than I. But, probably not enough to make any real difference.
My Dad was born in June 1902. I am not sure how old he was when his parents foisted him off on his uncle Mac. The story of his parents is for another day though. Those times were different than what we grew up in and very different that how things are now. One of the things back then (as it is in some other countries now) when a meal was fixed the men ate first then the adult women then the kids.
There was some logic to this. The men were working hard (most of them anyhow) in the gardens and other chores necessary to life. The women were working hard doing the things needed done keeping house. I may have known at one time how many children Mac had but I have forgotten. But, my Dad, not being his child came in even behind the children when it came to eating. He said he was an adult before he knew a chicken had anything but a back and neck. Or, maybe, it was feet and neck. Yes, we cooked the chicken's feet. When you're country poor you don't waste anything that is edible.
Hunger played a big part in my Dad's life. Not just the growing up part but all the time. Just an opinion I have. I don't see how that kind of upbringing could just fade away. And, I must say, though we did not have a lot we always had plenty to eat. For that I am thankful.
He told me many times he was so hungry he would wander along the railroad tracks hoping to find a hobo that had fallen under a train and been killed. Well, you guess the rest. He said he had always wondered what a human tasted like.
I'm not sure what age it was my Dad went to West Virginia to live with his sister, Mamie and work in the coal mines. He could not have been too old though as he was involved in the Battle of Blair Mountain (Look it up. Pretty interesting.) in 1921. He would have just turned nineteen. He also worked a ferry for a while. For some reason I seem to remember it being in Charleston, WV. I could well be mistaken on that though.
For an unknown reason he joined the Navy in 1922. He was only 5' 4" tall and they had to get a special waiver for his height to let him enlist. He spent thirty years in the Navy and retired as an E7.
Military pay grades are either an 'E' for enlisted or 'O' for officer. The number is how far from the bottom you are. He ended his Navy career as an Aviation Ordinance Chief.
There are many stories from his Navy days and I'll relate some of them at a later date. I don't mean this to be too long.
He retired from the Navy in 1952. I've been told his retirement pension was forty-some dollars a month. From that paltry amount (these days) he raised three children and supported my grandfather and grandmother until they were old enough to get their "old age" pension. Like I said, it was a different time. I, personally, remember four cent postage stamps. Candy bars were a nickel. Bazooka Joe bubble gum was two for a penny. Soda pop was ten cents a bottle. Gasoline was twenty something cents a gallon.
Then, he supplemented our diet by hunting. We had plenty of squirrels and a variety of other wild critters for the pot. It is not a big thing in a lot of the country but when and where I grew up squirrel hunting was a big thing and an important source of food. Until I was an adult (almost) "hunting season" was just a theory. We hunted almost year 'round.
We moved around some and in 1961 we ended up in West Van Lear, Ky so I could attend a school other than the one-room school at Preston Gap. Those were good and bad years for reasons I will not go into here.
My Dad was not a patient man. Well, he was fifty one years old when I was born and now I'm in my fifties I kind of understand. Old men like he and I should not have children unless they don't have to be around them much. He and my mother did not agree on much but "Spare the Rod and Spoil the Child" was something they were one hundred percent in agreement on.
A biref sojourn back to my Dad's days with Uncle Mac. Seems Mac had some 'funny' ideas on discipline. Instead of whipping my Dad when he messed up he would just tell him that was a whipping he owed him the next rainy day. When it would cloud up Mac would "slip down under the river bank" and cut as many switches as he had promised my Dad whippings. Then he would take Dad to the barn and proceed to "wear out" each and every switch on him. How many of you would have found that hard to deal with? Or even impossible? Knowing my Dad it is a miracle Mac never woke up with an axe in his head.
My Dadl lived until November of 1992 and was ninety years old when he died. He changed a lot after my mother died. Not in all things but in some. He lived with my (now ex) wife and I from right after my mother died. Over the years he and my (ex-) wife became closer than he and I ever were. I was not close to either of my parents. I feared them and that was about all. In my teen years I spent as much time away from them as possible.
But, my two girls were the 'apple of his eye'. They never knew in papaw the man I grew up with. He called them Knothead and Squirt.
Ok, enough for today. I thought to write a brief synopsis but as I go along more and more memories are coming back and I don't need to write a novella today.
My Dad was born in June 1902. I am not sure how old he was when his parents foisted him off on his uncle Mac. The story of his parents is for another day though. Those times were different than what we grew up in and very different that how things are now. One of the things back then (as it is in some other countries now) when a meal was fixed the men ate first then the adult women then the kids.
There was some logic to this. The men were working hard (most of them anyhow) in the gardens and other chores necessary to life. The women were working hard doing the things needed done keeping house. I may have known at one time how many children Mac had but I have forgotten. But, my Dad, not being his child came in even behind the children when it came to eating. He said he was an adult before he knew a chicken had anything but a back and neck. Or, maybe, it was feet and neck. Yes, we cooked the chicken's feet. When you're country poor you don't waste anything that is edible.
Hunger played a big part in my Dad's life. Not just the growing up part but all the time. Just an opinion I have. I don't see how that kind of upbringing could just fade away. And, I must say, though we did not have a lot we always had plenty to eat. For that I am thankful.
He told me many times he was so hungry he would wander along the railroad tracks hoping to find a hobo that had fallen under a train and been killed. Well, you guess the rest. He said he had always wondered what a human tasted like.
I'm not sure what age it was my Dad went to West Virginia to live with his sister, Mamie and work in the coal mines. He could not have been too old though as he was involved in the Battle of Blair Mountain (Look it up. Pretty interesting.) in 1921. He would have just turned nineteen. He also worked a ferry for a while. For some reason I seem to remember it being in Charleston, WV. I could well be mistaken on that though.
For an unknown reason he joined the Navy in 1922. He was only 5' 4" tall and they had to get a special waiver for his height to let him enlist. He spent thirty years in the Navy and retired as an E7.
Military pay grades are either an 'E' for enlisted or 'O' for officer. The number is how far from the bottom you are. He ended his Navy career as an Aviation Ordinance Chief.
There are many stories from his Navy days and I'll relate some of them at a later date. I don't mean this to be too long.
He retired from the Navy in 1952. I've been told his retirement pension was forty-some dollars a month. From that paltry amount (these days) he raised three children and supported my grandfather and grandmother until they were old enough to get their "old age" pension. Like I said, it was a different time. I, personally, remember four cent postage stamps. Candy bars were a nickel. Bazooka Joe bubble gum was two for a penny. Soda pop was ten cents a bottle. Gasoline was twenty something cents a gallon.
Then, he supplemented our diet by hunting. We had plenty of squirrels and a variety of other wild critters for the pot. It is not a big thing in a lot of the country but when and where I grew up squirrel hunting was a big thing and an important source of food. Until I was an adult (almost) "hunting season" was just a theory. We hunted almost year 'round.
We moved around some and in 1961 we ended up in West Van Lear, Ky so I could attend a school other than the one-room school at Preston Gap. Those were good and bad years for reasons I will not go into here.
My Dad was not a patient man. Well, he was fifty one years old when I was born and now I'm in my fifties I kind of understand. Old men like he and I should not have children unless they don't have to be around them much. He and my mother did not agree on much but "Spare the Rod and Spoil the Child" was something they were one hundred percent in agreement on.
A biref sojourn back to my Dad's days with Uncle Mac. Seems Mac had some 'funny' ideas on discipline. Instead of whipping my Dad when he messed up he would just tell him that was a whipping he owed him the next rainy day. When it would cloud up Mac would "slip down under the river bank" and cut as many switches as he had promised my Dad whippings. Then he would take Dad to the barn and proceed to "wear out" each and every switch on him. How many of you would have found that hard to deal with? Or even impossible? Knowing my Dad it is a miracle Mac never woke up with an axe in his head.
My Dadl lived until November of 1992 and was ninety years old when he died. He changed a lot after my mother died. Not in all things but in some. He lived with my (now ex) wife and I from right after my mother died. Over the years he and my (ex-) wife became closer than he and I ever were. I was not close to either of my parents. I feared them and that was about all. In my teen years I spent as much time away from them as possible.
But, my two girls were the 'apple of his eye'. They never knew in papaw the man I grew up with. He called them Knothead and Squirt.
Ok, enough for today. I thought to write a brief synopsis but as I go along more and more memories are coming back and I don't need to write a novella today.
Wednesday, October 5, 2011
A Childhood Treat
I have mentioned before I helped my mother in the kitchen. Most times it was the every day stuff like biscuits, bacon and gravy. Those were good as I was always hungry. But there were two times that were really special. The first was when my mother made Vanilla Custard Pies. I got to stir the filling and help beat the meringue. And, I loved those pies. I still miss them. I'm not sure what the difference is but no one has made anything that came close.
But, as much as I loved the pies I loved the crust trimmings. You know, when you put the crust in the pie pan and run the knife around the edges to trim off the excess. We kept all that and since my mother made at least three pies in a day there was a pretty fair amount of crust left over. (No store bought frozen stuff either). We'd put that on a cookie sheet (or baking pan as we referred to it) and bake them until they were a nice, golden brown. Yummmmmmmmm. I loved it. I am tempted to go to the store for some frozen crusts and just cut them in irregular shaped pieces to bake.
The other big treat was home made 'meat skins'. Now there is a HUGE difference in home made meat skins and what is sold these days as pork rinds. Home made is closer to the "washboard" style pork rinds or the things they sell as crackings. Neither are just right.
When I was a kid we had bacon every morning but we never had sliced bacon. We bought it in 'slabs' with the skin on. Of a morning we'd take one of the slabs from the refrigerator (when we had electricity) and slice off as much as we needed. These days when you buy "sliced slab" bacon they slice all the way through the skin. We just sliced down to the skin then across the skin to release the bacon slices. Sort of like filleting a fish.
The skins were never discarded as they were too precious. Once we got enough of them (every couple of months or so) my mother or I would cut them in pieces of about two inches by four inches and put them on a cookie sheet. (modern term) or baking pan (what we called it) and put them in the oven to bake. None of that wimpy, puffy, air filled crap either when it came out. Hard as nails, full of greasy, pork flavor and absolutely heavenly. I dearly loved those things. I kind of have to smirk and feel superior when we go down the snack aisle and I see what they are selling people these days that they pass off as pork rinds. I bet nobody in their entire company has had a real "meat skin" in their life.
But, as much as I loved the pies I loved the crust trimmings. You know, when you put the crust in the pie pan and run the knife around the edges to trim off the excess. We kept all that and since my mother made at least three pies in a day there was a pretty fair amount of crust left over. (No store bought frozen stuff either). We'd put that on a cookie sheet (or baking pan as we referred to it) and bake them until they were a nice, golden brown. Yummmmmmmmm. I loved it. I am tempted to go to the store for some frozen crusts and just cut them in irregular shaped pieces to bake.
The other big treat was home made 'meat skins'. Now there is a HUGE difference in home made meat skins and what is sold these days as pork rinds. Home made is closer to the "washboard" style pork rinds or the things they sell as crackings. Neither are just right.
When I was a kid we had bacon every morning but we never had sliced bacon. We bought it in 'slabs' with the skin on. Of a morning we'd take one of the slabs from the refrigerator (when we had electricity) and slice off as much as we needed. These days when you buy "sliced slab" bacon they slice all the way through the skin. We just sliced down to the skin then across the skin to release the bacon slices. Sort of like filleting a fish.
The skins were never discarded as they were too precious. Once we got enough of them (every couple of months or so) my mother or I would cut them in pieces of about two inches by four inches and put them on a cookie sheet. (modern term) or baking pan (what we called it) and put them in the oven to bake. None of that wimpy, puffy, air filled crap either when it came out. Hard as nails, full of greasy, pork flavor and absolutely heavenly. I dearly loved those things. I kind of have to smirk and feel superior when we go down the snack aisle and I see what they are selling people these days that they pass off as pork rinds. I bet nobody in their entire company has had a real "meat skin" in their life.
My Dad's Other Woman
A FaceBook post string with my oldest made me remember this. My family, Dad especially, heard things that were not there. My Dad told me the family (his when he was a kid) was sitting on the porch when they all heard singing and preaching at the nearby graveyard. Having heard of no recent deaths they went down to find out who had dies.
Upon reaching the graveyard they found no sign of anyone being there and no fresh grave. And, in later years when he was an adult, he went up the creek to the house of some of my cousins as they were supposed to meet that night to go 'coon' hunting. He said when he got to where the road became the creek bed just below their house he could hear people talking. He thought it was the people he was supposed to meet but when he got to their house he found all was quiet and everyone had gone to bed and was asleep.
I realize these place names will mean nothing to most everyone but I was told by my Dad my grandfather was walking to Chestnut and from where they lived to get there he had to go through the "Walter Osborne" gap. There was a small dog that appeared and followed him. He yelled at it and threw rocks at it trying to frighten it away. When it kept following him he pulled his pistol and tried to shoot it. He emptied the weapon and the dog paid no attention to it. He then threw his gun down and ran.
There are several other stories from my Dad and Grandfather regarding unusual happenings but this is in particular about my Dad's woman. She was not a physical presence but a voice only he heard. He said he could hear her voice but could not make out the words. I can recall when we lived at the tower at Spring Knob seeing my Dad wearing nothing but a T-Shirt carrying a shotgun in one hand and a flashlight in the other going outside to see who it was talking to him. He never did find anything, though. I'd say the explanation for that is obvious.
Finally, out of frustration, he told her, "I don't mind you talking to me but at least talk so I can understand you". The voice then told him, "You better put on a coat because it is going to be cold".
He said he never heard her after that.
I read of a specific hearing disorder which can cause people to hear voices that are unintelligible. Perhaps that was all this was. I know there are times when I'm lying in bed I can hear distant voices and sounds like a radio on in the distance. If I raise my head off my pillow they go away and when I put it back they return. Sounds like some physical cause rather than supernatural one to me but I do not discount anything. I know craziness is a family trait and, perhaps, some psychic ability is also there. Quite an interesting combination don't you think?
Upon reaching the graveyard they found no sign of anyone being there and no fresh grave. And, in later years when he was an adult, he went up the creek to the house of some of my cousins as they were supposed to meet that night to go 'coon' hunting. He said when he got to where the road became the creek bed just below their house he could hear people talking. He thought it was the people he was supposed to meet but when he got to their house he found all was quiet and everyone had gone to bed and was asleep.
I realize these place names will mean nothing to most everyone but I was told by my Dad my grandfather was walking to Chestnut and from where they lived to get there he had to go through the "Walter Osborne" gap. There was a small dog that appeared and followed him. He yelled at it and threw rocks at it trying to frighten it away. When it kept following him he pulled his pistol and tried to shoot it. He emptied the weapon and the dog paid no attention to it. He then threw his gun down and ran.
There are several other stories from my Dad and Grandfather regarding unusual happenings but this is in particular about my Dad's woman. She was not a physical presence but a voice only he heard. He said he could hear her voice but could not make out the words. I can recall when we lived at the tower at Spring Knob seeing my Dad wearing nothing but a T-Shirt carrying a shotgun in one hand and a flashlight in the other going outside to see who it was talking to him. He never did find anything, though. I'd say the explanation for that is obvious.
Finally, out of frustration, he told her, "I don't mind you talking to me but at least talk so I can understand you". The voice then told him, "You better put on a coat because it is going to be cold".
He said he never heard her after that.
I read of a specific hearing disorder which can cause people to hear voices that are unintelligible. Perhaps that was all this was. I know there are times when I'm lying in bed I can hear distant voices and sounds like a radio on in the distance. If I raise my head off my pillow they go away and when I put it back they return. Sounds like some physical cause rather than supernatural one to me but I do not discount anything. I know craziness is a family trait and, perhaps, some psychic ability is also there. Quite an interesting combination don't you think?
Thoughts Stemming from my Daugher's Wedding.
Sunday is going to be a big day in our family. My baby girl is getting married. It that is not an occasion for reminiscing I don't know what is.
She was born at the Moncrief hospital on Fort Jackson, SC in 1988. Made her twenty-three this year but she is still my baby girl. And, I don't know where all those intervening years have gone.
She was concerned whether I would be able to walk her down the aisle. I have developed a bad hip and from that I am having quite a bit of knee pain. It may come closer to 'limping' her down the aisle but there is no way I'm letting leg pain keep me from doing that.
I'll rub down my leg with pain cream (odorless) before we leave for the chapel. I'll take one of my narcotic pain pills and a couple of OTC Ibuprofen about thirty minutes prior to the walk through. That should carry me through. My wife will be driving to the wedding. I have and old Ford Ranger with a stick shift and anymore the only place I drive it is to work and back.
But if it is anything like I remember my oldest daughter's wedding that 'step, pause, step' pace should fit right into my limp, timing wise. :-)
I like the man who is going to be my last son-in-law. I think he will make a good husband and great father. Those two jobs are one's I found myself to not be very good at. I am sure my daughter is going to be a wonderful Mom as well.
Shame, though, they did not get married on September 10th. 9/10/11. Be hard for a man to forget his anniversary with those numbers.
Trivial, I know, but after her wedding I'll be the only VanHoose in Columbia, SC. If one counts the 'family line' as passing down through males it makes me (and my older brother) the last ones of our particular family. He had daughters and I had daughters. My sister had boys but they do not pass along the family name.
Well, at least the OFFICIAL family line. From what I know of my grandfather and my own father there might be quite a few unknown cousins of mine running around out there somewhere. :-)
In almost every way this wedding will be a joyous occasion for all. At the same time I feel some melancholy. When in the world did I get this darned old?
She was born at the Moncrief hospital on Fort Jackson, SC in 1988. Made her twenty-three this year but she is still my baby girl. And, I don't know where all those intervening years have gone.
She was concerned whether I would be able to walk her down the aisle. I have developed a bad hip and from that I am having quite a bit of knee pain. It may come closer to 'limping' her down the aisle but there is no way I'm letting leg pain keep me from doing that.
I'll rub down my leg with pain cream (odorless) before we leave for the chapel. I'll take one of my narcotic pain pills and a couple of OTC Ibuprofen about thirty minutes prior to the walk through. That should carry me through. My wife will be driving to the wedding. I have and old Ford Ranger with a stick shift and anymore the only place I drive it is to work and back.
But if it is anything like I remember my oldest daughter's wedding that 'step, pause, step' pace should fit right into my limp, timing wise. :-)
I like the man who is going to be my last son-in-law. I think he will make a good husband and great father. Those two jobs are one's I found myself to not be very good at. I am sure my daughter is going to be a wonderful Mom as well.
Shame, though, they did not get married on September 10th. 9/10/11. Be hard for a man to forget his anniversary with those numbers.
Trivial, I know, but after her wedding I'll be the only VanHoose in Columbia, SC. If one counts the 'family line' as passing down through males it makes me (and my older brother) the last ones of our particular family. He had daughters and I had daughters. My sister had boys but they do not pass along the family name.
Well, at least the OFFICIAL family line. From what I know of my grandfather and my own father there might be quite a few unknown cousins of mine running around out there somewhere. :-)
In almost every way this wedding will be a joyous occasion for all. At the same time I feel some melancholy. When in the world did I get this darned old?
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