tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-72820575667922014152024-02-19T01:46:41.903-05:00Are ya new here?Here I am trying in my own inept way to record family memories to pass on to my children and my grandchildren and hopefully all the generations to come.
Don't ask me who said it but someone once said, "You can't know where you are going if you don't know where you've been."
I invite you to join me as I explore where we've been.Dothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09841500661349030418noreply@blogger.comBlogger31125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7282057566792201415.post-16430565520482469602011-07-02T23:44:00.001-04:002011-07-08T10:43:27.341-04:00Grandma Webb's pie crust<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUkkn0Xkm2Jmtuk4PIvDXmW6N0Mg4gNjjbKmjNmqbGo5b9q_TaZ4HLjB-r2CEStPgqzIs0aTSuFcN1zUFWp0fl8_QBcGDyEIlohUYiRwho0RXqufOtXgz4xgd8lXOrDzSnDA1TN4K5Cg/s1600/pie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUkkn0Xkm2Jmtuk4PIvDXmW6N0Mg4gNjjbKmjNmqbGo5b9q_TaZ4HLjB-r2CEStPgqzIs0aTSuFcN1zUFWp0fl8_QBcGDyEIlohUYiRwho0RXqufOtXgz4xgd8lXOrDzSnDA1TN4K5Cg/s200/pie.jpg" width="145" /></a></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUkkn0Xkm2Jmtuk4PIvDXmW6N0Mg4gNjjbKmjNmqbGo5b9q_TaZ4HLjB-r2CEStPgqzIs0aTSuFcN1zUFWp0fl8_QBcGDyEIlohUYiRwho0RXqufOtXgz4xgd8lXOrDzSnDA1TN4K5Cg/s1600/pie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><div style="text-align: left;"> </div></a>When I was a little girl my great grandma & grandpa Webb lived in the yellow farm house at what is now 6998 Spearsville Road. Back then it had a Rural Route number, the yard had a fence around it and there was a huge stump in the side yard where we used to have tea parties. Grandma Webb always seemed tiny and birdlike to me even when I was little myself. When I picture her in my mind I see her with damp hair in a hot kitchen baking or sitting on the porch shelling peas. I learned a lot from her from "helping". She always let me roll out any leftover scraps to make cinnamon pinwheels. That's what I served at my tea parties on the stump in the yard. <br />
<br />
This is her pie crust recipe: <br />
<br />
Grandma Webb's pie crust:<br />
Put 6 cups chilled flour, 3 Tablespoons of sugar and 2 Tablespoons of salt in a large bowl.<br />
Cut in 2 cups chilled lard. (Use a pastry cutter or if you want to do it like she did use 2 knives. Keep cutting the lard smaller and smaller until no piece is bigger than a pea.)<br />
Beat 1 large egg. Add egg to mixture tossing with fork.<br />
Add ice water a little at a time until the dough can be gathered into a ball. Do not over handle.<br />
Roll out on a floured surface. <br />
<br />
This is still my favorite pie crust recipe for fruit pies or for meat pies. I especially love it when I make chicken pot pie in my biggest iron skillet. When I have bits of dough left over I still re-roll them, sprinkle them with sugar and cinnamon, cut them into pinwheels and bake them up for a treat... even if the grand kids aren't around to have a tea party. :^)<br />
<br />
I can't recall how many pie crusts this basic recipe made. I do remember my grandma Dorothy and great grandma Webb would make a lot of pie crust. They would get out all of their many pie pans. Each pan got a bottom crust, a layer of waxed paper and a top crust and another layer of waxed paper. When all of the pans were filled they were nested together in a stack wrapped neatly in plastic wrap and tucked away in the freezer for future use. The farm wife's version of convenience food.Dothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09841500661349030418noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7282057566792201415.post-17782916826344677562011-07-02T22:01:00.001-04:002011-07-02T23:27:33.837-04:00Fannie Farmer<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS9o1mHDAfAukr3dhzPXKEvjvcHTzBMbZcMpLvC4FTxoLxf2bOIs4Kwa5SCgNxvpvUV9Jfta_7iL0aHgDPSbSkFbqN_oQXKsesKzryi1gbUT7rQcm-3FYoGV4kgcvxXE_VBtma9-uY7A/s1600/Fannie+farmer+1959+cookbook+001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320px" i$="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS9o1mHDAfAukr3dhzPXKEvjvcHTzBMbZcMpLvC4FTxoLxf2bOIs4Kwa5SCgNxvpvUV9Jfta_7iL0aHgDPSbSkFbqN_oQXKsesKzryi1gbUT7rQcm-3FYoGV4kgcvxXE_VBtma9-uY7A/s320/Fannie+farmer+1959+cookbook+001.jpg" width="213px" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Fannie Farmer that mythical homemaker created by the Boston Cooking school in 1896. She was the inspiration for most of my mother's memorable meals and my introduction to the joys of cooking. I recently ordered a used copy of it for my cookbook collection because my mother won't let go of hers until her fingers are cold and gray. Can't blame her. It holds some of my best memories... I mean recipes. Sometimes those get pretty mixed up for me. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">My new-to-me copy is just about as well used as my mother's copy so I wonder who held it and leafed through it's pages over the years looking for just the perfect recipe to impress their in laws or feed their growing family. It's fun to guess what the favorite recipes were for it's original owner by looking at the wear and stains on the pages. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">I'm glad to have this old friend back in a place of honor on my bookshelf. In fact I'm thinking of ordering a copy of the original printing from 1896. We are moving so far from modern convenience foods it would be nice to have a cookbook from the time when my great grandmother was feeding her family from the bounty of the farm. </span></div>Dothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09841500661349030418noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7282057566792201415.post-22646100953070041172011-06-19T02:10:00.000-04:002011-06-19T02:10:39.365-04:00Ode to a cake and some really awesome icecream<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">When there was a special family occasion - such as the big family birthday party for the five family members who were special enough to be born in June- my mom made Orange Celebration Cake and Orange Ice cream. <br />
This is the cake and ice cream dreams are made of. <br />
There were layers of velvety yellow cake with creamy orange custard in between. Mom put chocolate icing all around the outside and then to top it all off -a glistening pool of yummy orange custard on top. And if that wasn't enough orange for you, she made orange ice cream. Not just ice cream, but <em>homemade</em> orange custard ice cream with a heavy emphasis on the cream. The cream she used was sweet and thick and came from Bossie, our family cow. It was the creamiest most orangey ice cream imaginable. The recipe called for orange juice but Mom used orange juice <em>concentrate</em> so it was extra orangey. <br />
<br />
Making the ice cream was a family effort. We used a hand cranked ice cream maker. We kids would take turns cranking until we either ran out of steam or drifted off to do something else more interesting like play tag or kick ball in the yard. As I remember my dad and grandpa got stuck with most of the cranking. When it was ready, we kids argued over who got the sweet, drippy, paddle. I'm drooling just thinking about it!<br />
<br />
I will admit I'm not much of a chocolate eater, so I picked off the icing and gave it to one of my chocoholic siblings. Which may be why I never wrote down mom's chocolate icing recipe. I was all about the orange custard and cake with a pile of orange ice cream. Mmmmmmm! I've never found cake and ice cream that could rival it. ... and believe me I've tried. <br />
<br />
For quite a few years we all thought Mom had lost the recipe for the Orange Celebration cake and the orange ice cream. I found them again recently written out longhand in the do-it-yourself cookbook that I've had since Junior High. Here they are: <br />
Cook, Eat, Celebrate, Love and Be Happy!<br />
<br />
<strong><em><u>Orange Celebration Cake</u></em></strong><br />
1/3c butter<br />
1/3 c shortening<br />
1 1/2 c sugar<br />
1 tsp grated orange peel<br />
3 eggs <br />
2 1/2 c sifted flour<br />
2 1/2 tsp baking powder<br />
1 tsp orange juice concentrate<br />
Cream butter, shortening, sugar, orange peel until light and fluffy. Add eggs one at a time beat well after each one. Add sifted dry ingredients altenating with orange jice. Turn batter into 2 greased and paper lined 9 inch layer pans. Bake at 450 degrees for 25-30 minutes.<br />
<br />
<strong><em><u>Orange filling:</u></em></strong> <br />
Combine 2/3 c sugar and 3 Tbspn flour in sauce pan. Add 1 cup orang juice made from 1/2 cup orange juice concentrate and 1/2 water. Add 2 egg yolks. Cook, stirring constantly until mixture boils. Cook one minute. Stir in 2 Tbspns butter. Cool. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<strong><em>Orange Custard Ice cream</em></strong><br />
<br />
2 c sugar<br />
1 c water<br />
Boil together for 5 minutes.<br />
Add 2 cups orange juice (As I remember mom used extra strong orange juice made from concentrate: 2 part concentrate to 1 part water)<br />
Scald 1/2 pint raw thin cream<br />
Add 2 egg yolks<br />
Cook and stir over hot water or very low heat until thick. Cool. Add the first mixture. <br />
Fold in:<br />
1/2 pint heavy cream beaten stiff<br />
Put it in the icecreem freezer and crank crank crank! <br />
<br />
Makes about 2 quarts. </div>Dothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09841500661349030418noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7282057566792201415.post-44646867797870827132011-05-27T11:00:00.002-04:002011-07-02T23:24:16.673-04:00Who knew?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8Cgf2gW5tMs8dH7zbYhTo9qVAh-e630ORgNDz3Wb-z-AhvKXfApK646kAw0wO1hkVD71ievvLd1FAH816_qnC6XjxkAXVTvizxIlkehuOLWr0I5yFz_uIF1fY5yvO9OzbozG2O8dPtA/s1600/Mom+Jordan%2527s+No+bake+cheese+cake+001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640px" i$="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8Cgf2gW5tMs8dH7zbYhTo9qVAh-e630ORgNDz3Wb-z-AhvKXfApK646kAw0wO1hkVD71ievvLd1FAH816_qnC6XjxkAXVTvizxIlkehuOLWr0I5yFz_uIF1fY5yvO9OzbozG2O8dPtA/s640/Mom+Jordan%2527s+No+bake+cheese+cake+001.jpg" width="393px" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><em>You can whip Milnot just like cream into stiff peaks? Well you can.</em></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">We had asked Brian's mom for some of her "secret" family recipes. Brian had been talking about his mom's no-bake cheese cake since we started dating. She gave it to us a while back and we finally got around to shopping for the ingredients that we don't usually have on hand - Milnot and lemon jello. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Now remember Brian's momma is of the generation that bought the whole "fast food for better living" that was promoted in the 60's and 70's. Less time in the kitchen you know and more time to do other things. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">We try to avoid processed food as much as possible. So no Milnot hanging around the kitchen at our place. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Once we had the Milnot and the jello I didn't have any excuse for not making the cheesecake so I got started:</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">8 oz of cream cheese softened was mixed with 1 cup of sugar (I started wondering if you could cut down the sugar or use honey instead... best not to experiment the first time you try something new.) Added the teaspoon of vanilla to this mixture and set it aside.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">1 cup of boiling water added to the jello to dissolve and that lemony mix was put in the fridge to cool. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Crushed the graham crackers and added butter (I refuse to use margarine. You gotta draw the line somewhere.) Pressed the crumb mix into my favorite pie plate. It seemed like an awful lot of crust. Brian wasn't around to ask and I didn't have Mom Jordan's phone number handy so I pressed on. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Then I took on the Milnot. I had chilled it in the fridge overnight. I poured it into a mixing bowl and attacked it with the beaters. Call me a skeptic, but I just couldn't believe you could make whipped Milnot. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">It didn't take more than a couple of minutes and I had stiff peaks. Really? who knew?</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Then the jello got mixed into the cream cheese mixture. At this point the directions weren't very clear to me, so I folded the cream cheese mixture into the whipped Milnot. OK up to this point I had been fighting the urge to taste it. It looked and smelled really good. I gave in and scooped up a dollop on my finger. Pretty good stuff! Sort of tasted like those yogurt "Whips" from the store. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">So then I poured it into the waiting pie plate. OOPS! there was way too much to fit in the pie. So I put the extra in some bowls. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Of course when Brian got home he informed me that his mom made it in a 9 X 13 cake pan not a pie plate. Oh and that I forgot to put a little sprinkle of graham crumbs on the top to make it pretty. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I'll do better next time. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Brian said it tasted just like mom's even if it was in the wrong pan and minus sprinkles. He loves graham cracker crust so he was happy it was extra thick. I don't really like graham cracker crust so I enjoyed the bowls of "extra" filling. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">It is amazingly good once you get your mind past the fact it has Milnot and Jello in it. I'm going to try making it with raw heavy cream, natural unflavored gelatin, honey and lemon juice the next time. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><strong></strong></div>Dothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09841500661349030418noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7282057566792201415.post-46111752047689659062011-04-09T21:53:00.000-04:002011-04-09T21:53:54.529-04:00Grandpa Webb's barn<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiUl5Yo0kl-MP8POc9R0RACjaWOvnJ9ZM6ohxEqZMQ20VCNxC_0-UAcY-fjnFEisVqbvc8ckpI_1199IGwkCedbjjR7bFAGVOj-LxiZVHqnvT1xN9gGQK55cUTuWJjERSLO_r2fx4png/s1600/webb+barn+pencil.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="234" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiUl5Yo0kl-MP8POc9R0RACjaWOvnJ9ZM6ohxEqZMQ20VCNxC_0-UAcY-fjnFEisVqbvc8ckpI_1199IGwkCedbjjR7bFAGVOj-LxiZVHqnvT1xN9gGQK55cUTuWJjERSLO_r2fx4png/s320/webb+barn+pencil.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiUl5Yo0kl-MP8POc9R0RACjaWOvnJ9ZM6ohxEqZMQ20VCNxC_0-UAcY-fjnFEisVqbvc8ckpI_1199IGwkCedbjjR7bFAGVOj-LxiZVHqnvT1xN9gGQK55cUTuWJjERSLO_r2fx4png/s1600/webb+barn+pencil.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="234" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiUl5Yo0kl-MP8POc9R0RACjaWOvnJ9ZM6ohxEqZMQ20VCNxC_0-UAcY-fjnFEisVqbvc8ckpI_1199IGwkCedbjjR7bFAGVOj-LxiZVHqnvT1xN9gGQK55cUTuWJjERSLO_r2fx4png/s320/webb+barn+pencil.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijaPppf56Ug-0ytGAoRydBcOeF6gUDilq_60sSo5azUWO9fN339NIzN_y00ZH1VblYil1xgzZ2oQ9xv_wFZGzMdfk2y1sqVMRA_jrq2-3OaWZEy7hHrJ6hxLI9BpuUsuLyhzgkNy0wZw/s1600/Webb+Barn+Drawing.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="234" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijaPppf56Ug-0ytGAoRydBcOeF6gUDilq_60sSo5azUWO9fN339NIzN_y00ZH1VblYil1xgzZ2oQ9xv_wFZGzMdfk2y1sqVMRA_jrq2-3OaWZEy7hHrJ6hxLI9BpuUsuLyhzgkNy0wZw/s320/Webb+Barn+Drawing.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I did these drawings of Great Grandpa Webb's barn when I was 12 or 13. I loved this old barn. It was dim and smelled of hay and manure. Dust motes danced in the sunlight from the open door in the hay mow. Swallows nested high in the eves. The beams were heavy and wide enough to walk along without fear of falling- but only if the grownups weren't watching.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">My grandpas, my Dad and my brothers stacked sweet smelling hay in the loft every summer when I was little.Later I drove the tractor while they picked up hay in the fields and I pushed the bales from the wagon onto the hay conveyor. Much later, I stacked hay in this old barn myself and milked my cow in the cool shade of it's lean to. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">My drawings don't show the garage that was added on the North side. Just the barn. I never did feel like that after thought of a garage really went with the rest of the building. Not so very long ago, they tore the poor old barn down and put up a big yellow pole building. A combination garage workshop and tacked on the back a milking stall for my mom's cow. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">It's just not the same. No swallows. No hay mow. No beams like massive wooden muscles holding everything together. No smell of hay and warm wood. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I miss that old barn. They just don't make them like that any more. </div>Dothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09841500661349030418noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7282057566792201415.post-6130689920239229072011-02-03T21:03:00.000-05:002011-02-03T21:03:26.848-05:00Cookie Sheet Chocolate Fudge CakeMixe together: 2 cups sugar, 2 cups flour, 1 teaspoon cinnamon, 1 teaspoon baking soda<br />
<br />
Heat 1 cup water, 3 tablespoons cocoa and 2 sticks margarine. <br />
Pour over sugar-flour mixture while hot. Beat well. <br />
Add 1 teaspoon vanilla, 1/2 cup buttermilk and 2 beaten eggs.<br />
Mix well, batter will be very thin. <br />
<br />
Bake at 400 degrees in a cookier sheet/ sheet cake pan for 20 minutes. <br />
<br />
Icing:<br />
<br />
Boil together 1 stick of margarine, 3 tablespoons cocoa and 6 tablespoons buttermilk about one minute. Add 1 box powdered sugar and 1 cup nuts. Mix and spread on hot cake.Dothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09841500661349030418noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7282057566792201415.post-65064096296890449312011-02-03T20:56:00.000-05:002011-02-03T20:56:31.996-05:00Pecan PieThis is Brian's mom's recipe. Brian always says she wasn't much of a cook, but she can make sweets!<br />
Preheat oven to 350 degrees. <br />
1 cup sugar<br />
3/4 cup light corn syrup<br />
1/4 teaspoon salt<br />
1/2 teaspoon vanilla<br />
1/4 cup margarine (melted)<br />
3 eggs lightly beaten<br />
1 1/2 cup pecan halves<br />
9 inch unbaked pie shell<br />
<br />
Stir sugar, corn syrup, salt and vanilla into margarine. <br />
Blend in eggs and stire in pecans. <br />
Pour into pie shell<br />
Bake at 350 degrees or until done.Dothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09841500661349030418noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7282057566792201415.post-73854244843294930132011-02-03T16:50:00.000-05:002011-02-03T16:50:24.925-05:00Brian's Mom's Potato Chip CasseroleBrian and his girls love this. I think it's tooooooo salty. <br />
<br />
1 can tuna drained<br />
1 can mushroom soup<br />
1 bag potato chips<br />
<br />
Mix all together. Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Bake for 30 minutes.Dothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09841500661349030418noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7282057566792201415.post-18776549690314201102011-02-03T16:42:00.000-05:002011-02-03T16:42:04.587-05:00Brian's Mom's relish recipeSo much of our family memories involve food. I thought I should start adding in recipes with the memories. <br />
This is Sandy, Brian's mom's, relish. I haven't tried it yet, but I think I will this summer. <br />
<br />
12 large cucumbers<br />
6 green peppers<br />
6 onions<br />
<br />
Chop all together. Put handul of salt on mixture and let stand one hour. Drain and put on stove and add 1 1/2 pints vinegar, 4 cups sugar and 1 teaspoon celery seed. <br />
Boil for 20 minutes. <br />
Drain. <br />
Put in jars and seal. <br />
<br />
The recipe doesn't say if she water bath cans... hmmmm I better ask.Dothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09841500661349030418noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7282057566792201415.post-70666772128188726142010-11-15T10:45:00.000-05:002010-11-15T10:45:12.383-05:00Grandma Dorothy's retirement letter<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvziIIMq4Mzgf_itggqRM48mG5h51Aro6rqlvTc1P3aYFI6AUPYfMHcrdyRAp3F2Nkad8I7ywwIvBGTMgSPGMwzcUO4l0OxjrIXJq36JbXBh32EBZxEiLO0eriOSYQDnrWWMTw3UIwpg/s1600/Grandma+Dorothea+retirement+letter.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" px="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvziIIMq4Mzgf_itggqRM48mG5h51Aro6rqlvTc1P3aYFI6AUPYfMHcrdyRAp3F2Nkad8I7ywwIvBGTMgSPGMwzcUO4l0OxjrIXJq36JbXBh32EBZxEiLO0eriOSYQDnrWWMTw3UIwpg/s640/Grandma+Dorothea+retirement+letter.jpg" width="450" /></a></div>Dothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09841500661349030418noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7282057566792201415.post-90910026684418123092010-11-12T17:20:00.000-05:002010-11-12T17:20:21.444-05:00One upon a time ...We had snow... bunches of snow. Snow days, snow icecream, sledding snow, shoveling snow... snowballs and snowmen. We built forts and igloos and played outside until we were wet to the skin. Then we went inside and laid our things out to dry in front of the fireplace and drank homemade hot chocolate made with milk from Bossie our milk cow. <br />
And when our clothes were dry we went out again. I sorta miss snow...<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtYKHkxA1RmrCqJjwDCsuSHFuimh8QAOmoBWzdKd-dmFUul0A8Uldw9gxLMB2IxqzXb5vSubBOqc3YOQ1hAC4PruIwFsxx5ePDITkmokP0sY0dhHki7n0qyyJjwUIsRvtpndpUSCEwbA/s1600/1977+gpas+dog+house.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="224" px="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtYKHkxA1RmrCqJjwDCsuSHFuimh8QAOmoBWzdKd-dmFUul0A8Uldw9gxLMB2IxqzXb5vSubBOqc3YOQ1hAC4PruIwFsxx5ePDITkmokP0sY0dhHki7n0qyyJjwUIsRvtpndpUSCEwbA/s320/1977+gpas+dog+house.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Chris the dog's house at Granpa Dave's 1977</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkvZB9ee3mlMK9lKhGK4Jt9b-rRPSlsXyYc6zyg2eoRks-gtsKp7cEAz3X2GNGKsyC501SruHlyUvmm-N0VhIOrFv1_xgC-NfwdaelYX4E-6dE3kezT_lVsYcsvN0yPheTYcesJKVwyw/s1600/1977+snow+cattle.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="224" px="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkvZB9ee3mlMK9lKhGK4Jt9b-rRPSlsXyYc6zyg2eoRks-gtsKp7cEAz3X2GNGKsyC501SruHlyUvmm-N0VhIOrFv1_xgC-NfwdaelYX4E-6dE3kezT_lVsYcsvN0yPheTYcesJKVwyw/s320/1977+snow+cattle.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Grandpa's cows</td></tr>
</tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4WmqkdKYOhoJlOMPX2KmGp3tSskaw4jfQ9FxoqvQOukw78JkpREFQZSh1PeK-agrOCRaEeXd5vRon2PS2KyhNbWivl76jUea-YREYwLsht5l8iYR7xqBFoAqwI_J4kbd6Uitf1lExpg/s1600/Jan+1977+valley.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="224" px="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4WmqkdKYOhoJlOMPX2KmGp3tSskaw4jfQ9FxoqvQOukw78JkpREFQZSh1PeK-agrOCRaEeXd5vRon2PS2KyhNbWivl76jUea-YREYwLsht5l8iYR7xqBFoAqwI_J4kbd6Uitf1lExpg/s320/Jan+1977+valley.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The house in valley snowy day 1977</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih9G_T0Vxn-fzQ1PHTimRWANvLe3ensxHB0aVXXtBuuBRkyFoMy1FQN9iNFK8vXslE3Ac4WhxNu9U2gTB0Ld74j_sp9l51OYyCdIBpYAtZbmsvXMtZAW_s-3jADI4tYHtoYeepXHIwkw/s1600/Old+Snow+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="224" px="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih9G_T0Vxn-fzQ1PHTimRWANvLe3ensxHB0aVXXtBuuBRkyFoMy1FQN9iNFK8vXslE3Ac4WhxNu9U2gTB0Ld74j_sp9l51OYyCdIBpYAtZbmsvXMtZAW_s-3jADI4tYHtoYeepXHIwkw/s320/Old+Snow+2.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pine tree in Grandma and Grandpa's yard 1977</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Dothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09841500661349030418noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7282057566792201415.post-1348406800443507702010-11-09T21:09:00.000-05:002010-11-09T21:09:48.347-05:00<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzH-2-OD0czraR0eS7HLDl1_fjqxKndiE6ZAm5-zdKPxfM5_Z0LMwRPYOOM0x_upkujJiVDPgZR-plHC9OGJ-IROAn77t1jCEAP3x6OXFexlMLiFNhIH338vq6MoI6WuP2zccuQVzuGA/s1600/ferris+sr+and+blue+boy+the+cat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" px="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzH-2-OD0czraR0eS7HLDl1_fjqxKndiE6ZAm5-zdKPxfM5_Z0LMwRPYOOM0x_upkujJiVDPgZR-plHC9OGJ-IROAn77t1jCEAP3x6OXFexlMLiFNhIH338vq6MoI6WuP2zccuQVzuGA/s320/ferris+sr+and+blue+boy+the+cat.jpg" width="221" /></a> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">This is my grandpa Ferris H. Parker Sr. As far as I know this is the only picture we have of him. On the back of the picture it says the cat's name is Blue Boy. I only met my Grandpa Ferris one time. He came back to Ohio once for a family reunion. I was pretty little. I remember riding in the car on the way to Ohio. I didn't feel good. My ears hurt. Somewhere along the way we stopped for lunch and I got spaghetti and meatballs. Dad argued with mom about whether I should be allowed to have something so messy. A really big napkin solved the problem. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I remember meeting my grandpa Ferris at the reunion. I thought he was big, and scary and had a really big cowboy hat. I remember the wind blew the cowboy hat off his head. He was bald. He was mad that the hat got away. I remember hiding under the porch swing because I was scared of him. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9OhBfhMKRTe_6AWmPGx6kjV_9EFemjJjKbYsJARAgd0km57z-0NpWCHMzG641aMmVJeB_JK4hIdYOfZikpNbGXB20ky50CCSnKbuIw2Zt0KLJUYRN3dHYpdCh3r05YtSQR3Czxhxh8Q/s1600/ferris+jr+and+larry+as+boys.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" px="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9OhBfhMKRTe_6AWmPGx6kjV_9EFemjJjKbYsJARAgd0km57z-0NpWCHMzG641aMmVJeB_JK4hIdYOfZikpNbGXB20ky50CCSnKbuIw2Zt0KLJUYRN3dHYpdCh3r05YtSQR3Czxhxh8Q/s320/ferris+jr+and+larry+as+boys.jpg" width="197" /></a>I was scared of him because my dad had told us stories about him. How he was a hit first ask questions later kind of parent. How he abandoned the family when my dad's mother died in child birth. As a little girl that was enough to convince me I didn't want anything to do with him. That was the only time I ever saw him. We didn't hear anything more from him until Dad was called to go to his funeral some years later. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">This is the only picure I have of my dad when he was a boy. It's my dad, Ferris Harmon Parker Jr. on the left and his brother Larry on the right. Dad had lots of siblings I remember Larry, Bobby and Rosella. I met some of the others but those three are the ones that I remember. Dad said they were so poor that he only had one pair of pants and Aunt Rosie would beat him up and steal his pants. Then he couldn't go to school. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">My dad didn't have a very easy early life. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div>Dothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09841500661349030418noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7282057566792201415.post-70553437315669576492010-06-20T01:23:00.000-04:002010-06-20T01:27:38.045-04:00Wringers, mangles and laundry day<div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.s-sgems.com/auction/images/collectables/DSC03595web.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" qu="true" src="http://www.s-sgems.com/auction/images/collectables/DSC03595web.JPG" width="214" /></a></div><div class="" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">When I was little my grandma Dorothy had a wringer washer. I loved to help her on laundry day. First we sorted the laundry: whites, lightly soiled colors, soiled colors (Grandpa's work shirts), then <span class="goog-spellcheck-word">darks</span>. After the laundry was organized in neat piles we ran the washer full of hot water using a hose hooked to the water heater. Add the soap. Add the laundry. Turn it on. Have a snack. </div><div class="" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">After the laundry was good and agitated came my favorite part - running the clothes through the wringer! <br />
"Be careful you don't get your finger caught," Grandma would say. "Your Aunt Ruth got her fingers caught once and ran her arm into the ringer clear up to elbow. You don't want that to happen." </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Grandma Dorothy taught me to fold the flat things like towels and sheets so they would run through the narrow wringer without jamming. </div>"Watch out for your fingers." Oops it almost got me. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Then she taught me how to release the wringer so I could get the towels that jammed out of the wringer and try again.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">She taught me to fold the blue jeans so that the zipper was protected. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">"Watch your fingers." Oops I felt the pull of the ringer on my finger tips. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">She taught me to fold anything with buttons so that the buttons lay flat and were protected from being crushed from the wringer.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">"Keep your fingers back." Near miss. It almost got me!</div><div class="" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">Laundry day was exciting!! All those close calls!</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Then one day Grandma went to an auction and came home with a "mangle". I was fascinated. It was a metal cabinet. Inside was a cloth covered roller. You plugged it in and it heated up. She said you could iron sheets. Who knew you could irons sheets. My mom folds the flat sheet and stuffs it along with the fitted sheet into the pillow case that matches so the set stays together. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">It worked a lot like the wringer on the washer. Feed the material into the roller and it came out pressed. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">"Keep your fingers out of the way or you'll get burned." Wow such danger and adventure in the laundry room!</div>Grandma told me if you were really good you could iron shirts and pants and skirts and dresses. And my grandma was THAT good. I never got that good, but she did let me iron the flat sheets and her table cloths.. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://imgs.inkfrog.com/pix/tspaw/mangle2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="153" qu="true" src="http://imgs.inkfrog.com/pix/tspaw/mangle2.JPG" width="200" /></a><a href="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4068/4307121681_73ca6e5589.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" qu="true" src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4068/4307121681_73ca6e5589.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Dothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09841500661349030418noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7282057566792201415.post-36968227314155042152010-06-12T02:05:00.000-04:002010-06-14T21:01:49.502-04:00June BirthdaysJune is a big birthday month in our family. My great Aunt Ruth on the first, my sister on the 7th, me on the 8th and my little brother, Chris, on the 9th. Sooo many birthday's so much cake. At some point that I just can't remember we started having one<em> family</em> birthday party in June. As a kid I all those birthdays got pretty muddled together. <br />
<br />
As an adult, I've made it a point to call the birthday boy/girl and sing them happy birthday on their special day. Ok it's off key usually and once I had to resort to texting, but the sentiment is there. <br />
<br />
So on the 7th, I got ready to call my sister, Laura. I asked mom if she wanted to help sing to her baby. She looked a bit puzzled. "Which one?" Even Mom has trouble remembering which one of us comes first. <br />
<br />
On the 8th, my husband, whispered "Happy Birthday" when we woke up. He's at least go my birthday down. <br />
<br />
So on the 9th I dialed Chris's cell and sang my song. "Thanks," he said laughing, "I know it's my birthday, but which one is yours?" <br />
<br />
That evening we got together at our house for one of our classic family pitchin dinners. Over dinner Chris confessed that he wasn't even sure which day was his birthday until he was almost 10 years old. <br />
<br />
So I told him how I keep it straight: Aunt Ruth was the oldest so she came First (6/1), Laura came before Chris so hers is the 7th. I know I was born on the 8th. Chris came latest so he is last on the 9th. Dad's birthday is easy for me now... it's also my anniversary on the 17th. <br />
<br />
Now I only have to consult my "Birthday Book" for my nieces, nephews, mother, cousins... Oh well I have June birthdays down. :^)Dothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09841500661349030418noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7282057566792201415.post-8442057557614632012010-03-15T01:12:00.000-04:002010-03-15T01:12:53.843-04:00Cowboy or Farmer?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhao05efWZd7wmWFatEd7mJqvnDba6ECiOGDkNgi8V_xMZ_1eJLGTYBP3OCKG_W-z7RHuS3TDErtiGd7eYNVeq0WhFah0h8KN69jMP5SyEGpJbPlbJb2hTtto3ICZCOvAa7eYLhobW73g/s1600-h/ander+ride+em+cowboy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" kt="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhao05efWZd7wmWFatEd7mJqvnDba6ECiOGDkNgi8V_xMZ_1eJLGTYBP3OCKG_W-z7RHuS3TDErtiGd7eYNVeq0WhFah0h8KN69jMP5SyEGpJbPlbJb2hTtto3ICZCOvAa7eYLhobW73g/s320/ander+ride+em+cowboy.jpg" /></a><br />
Anders loved this plastic ride around pony and he wore this pair of overalls until they literally fell apart. </div>Dothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09841500661349030418noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7282057566792201415.post-84354374055541035542010-03-15T01:11:00.000-04:002010-03-15T01:11:26.141-04:00WV<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKgoMjEJdbbmbV20Ry4JGF8jgvXQMiWI6D4W39laLQyXJYqdso3tYOlFLiv8i6oEujkj6oWD_no4uDlEgh5M1iyLO0ksldEDf1N_DcQ0aXlfd2_ghWKtWwBGZ8Mfloi4sO1HkdE7Ve8A/s1600-h/WV+butchering.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" kt="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKgoMjEJdbbmbV20Ry4JGF8jgvXQMiWI6D4W39laLQyXJYqdso3tYOlFLiv8i6oEujkj6oWD_no4uDlEgh5M1iyLO0ksldEDf1N_DcQ0aXlfd2_ghWKtWwBGZ8Mfloi4sO1HkdE7Ve8A/s320/WV+butchering.jpg" /></a><br />
Wadestown, WV : A bend in the road, a garage with a tiny store, a post office and a church. Turn the bend and head up the hill and you'll find a gate and a driveway on the right. Open the gate and head down the hill and you'll come to a rill and a foot bridge. Cross the bridge and come around the house and this is the sight you'll see in the fall when deer are in season. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">This is where my kids and I lived from 1988 until 1992. Wild and wonderful West Virginia. We lived in a tiny house without TV or internet. If you had to go to the bathroom and it was chilly out you had better plan ahead. The outhouse had a heater with a switch in the house, but you needed to turn it on about 10 minutes before you made the chilly trip out there or you would literally freeze your buns off. <br />
<br />
In the winter if you wanted a hot bath it involved a big galvanized tub pulled up close to the wood stove and heating water on the propane stove. You could have a hot shower in the summer, but you'd be showering out in the yard using the warm water from the garden hose. For a cold shower you could use the indoor shower, but that water was COLD. It came out of a spring on the mountain and flowed downhill to the house in a pipe. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div>Dothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09841500661349030418noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7282057566792201415.post-60820720853755888682010-03-15T00:50:00.000-04:002010-03-15T00:50:23.291-04:00I wanna be a carpenter<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLIdZPXjQqfeqbd_j8Cazz8a7C6y2vXQbiHJZQ4cSPGAVnaIstQiasshEBWUVwQ0cLRz4SNO6La0vrpgu8S2NgDDEJ2uSyPLQh9WJcWKjN7BqXL98NbmStueIjXIsTWDeiTI6QEHi1ng/s1600-h/anders+hammer.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" kt="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLIdZPXjQqfeqbd_j8Cazz8a7C6y2vXQbiHJZQ4cSPGAVnaIstQiasshEBWUVwQ0cLRz4SNO6La0vrpgu8S2NgDDEJ2uSyPLQh9WJcWKjN7BqXL98NbmStueIjXIsTWDeiTI6QEHi1ng/s320/anders+hammer.jpg" /></a><br />
This is Anders. That is Grandpa Dave's hat on this head and I suspect that is his hammer too. </div>Dothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09841500661349030418noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7282057566792201415.post-78215697835917786272010-03-15T00:48:00.000-04:002010-03-15T00:48:40.263-04:00Grandma Dorothy's guessing wall<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitpM7xaJC1aGbllTfebM_Fyu_OeuKaaOYYQny4Tkd7WcoOH7rlDDFINSG-pHZWBqab6Jkoj1Tjc6NYz0Rt5K5G-qXEuuCx370uXalKqg5_udbYn-VlU5lIAnXVolfk66ZT1J-smNu3RQ/s1600-h/old+farm+pics+001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitpM7xaJC1aGbllTfebM_Fyu_OeuKaaOYYQny4Tkd7WcoOH7rlDDFINSG-pHZWBqab6Jkoj1Tjc6NYz0Rt5K5G-qXEuuCx370uXalKqg5_udbYn-VlU5lIAnXVolfk66ZT1J-smNu3RQ/s400/old+farm+pics+001.jpg" vt="true" width="267" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
When I was little my Grandma Dorothy went to a lot of auctions. Her house was full of beautiful antique dressers, chairs, davenports and interesting old books. Some of her more interesting finds ended up on what I thought of as the "Guessing wall". Some things on the wall I knew what they were for and some things remained a mystery for years. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">A few of the oddities on the wall in this picture include: a calf weaning appliance that looks like something from a castle dungeon, a hand auger, a mold for making a "pudding", a kraut cutter, and a butter mold. <br />
</div>Dothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09841500661349030418noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7282057566792201415.post-62342996728128542142010-03-15T00:37:00.000-04:002010-03-15T00:41:51.747-04:00Now & then<div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2je9o5He3gWpC2oAzV1r53Qnu9hbA0xv-rdFzBmSB5gC8AZlljUCwplJy-x9Y2Lmq-Y44aTd5wsDvs_THELegIcViD0k0tOYp0oIHgNdhHlkfEZIfYpmlykwU6wskNgOQeiYXC8lxkg/s1600-h/old+farm+pics.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2je9o5He3gWpC2oAzV1r53Qnu9hbA0xv-rdFzBmSB5gC8AZlljUCwplJy-x9Y2Lmq-Y44aTd5wsDvs_THELegIcViD0k0tOYp0oIHgNdhHlkfEZIfYpmlykwU6wskNgOQeiYXC8lxkg/s320/old+farm+pics.jpg" vt="true" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzPGCMb6e09KINAF-YyNdG_ntqbGJSnp5BrFBewGpGMJ5HkGSWBYPTRdjI2IjZPOvkDc26TwMGsea8WPIWx2q_B9YuRb4IlCBWSJW0AVQ2ITCYc-z2btakokdQlOSFCUDfoIJFaq_zjg/s1600-h/March+9+2010+069.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzPGCMb6e09KINAF-YyNdG_ntqbGJSnp5BrFBewGpGMJ5HkGSWBYPTRdjI2IjZPOvkDc26TwMGsea8WPIWx2q_B9YuRb4IlCBWSJW0AVQ2ITCYc-z2btakokdQlOSFCUDfoIJFaq_zjg/s320/March+9+2010+069.jpg" vt="true" /></a><br />
My Great grandparents' house now . . .and a long time ago...<br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I love this old farmhouse. It sits at the front of our farm close to the road. There was a lilac bush in the front full of lavendar blooms in the spring and an apple tree in this side yard. We used to pick the little hard green apples and my Great Grandpa would whittle a short stick sharp on both ends so we could spear apples on it to make "dumb bells" so we could play "strong man". Ok so I'm a girl... at that age it didn't really matter. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">There used to be a big carpet in the living room that had roses on it. I remember sweeping it as a child and up until a few years ago I still had that carpet. Walking through the house now it seems small. But it was big enough to hold a whole lot of love. Years ago my great grandparents, my great aunt and uncle, my mom and her brother were all living there in the summer. Mom says she never felt like it was ever crowded. Years later my parents lived there and I moved in with them while I went to nursing school. </div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div>This is the house where my great-grandmother taught me to bake sweet rolls and big soft loaves of bread. The house where we would all sit down to dinner and when my great grandpa was full he would look up suddenly and say "Look at that bird!" When you looked he would slide his leftovers onto your plate. He was always full of mischief like that. <br />
<br />
There used to be a workshop on the back of the house with a ceiling so low that I still wonder how Grandpa Webb, who was tall, could ever have done anything standing up in there. The workshop is gone now, replaced a patio and a 3-season room.<br />
<br />
My daughter and her husband live there now. She's planted tulips beside the sidewalk and painted the rooms in cheery colors. That old house is still full of love.Dothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09841500661349030418noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7282057566792201415.post-31782598262475146282010-02-27T23:41:00.000-05:002010-02-28T19:06:33.359-05:00Rats are people too<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSzAyaWO9wGvSQvE167Yobv9oGKebjVRubVzNhhBho1pWVtG_6G1ZTGvlARZf4pRsjGSd014-Zb6QaGLa48GJVUKjng_oM0NR8ODu7oTVeo8lx-T5ueV3pwn1iqPRWkTCTJAcs-7ccOA/s1600-h/anders+and+the+rat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="331" kt="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSzAyaWO9wGvSQvE167Yobv9oGKebjVRubVzNhhBho1pWVtG_6G1ZTGvlARZf4pRsjGSd014-Zb6QaGLa48GJVUKjng_oM0NR8ODu7oTVeo8lx-T5ueV3pwn1iqPRWkTCTJAcs-7ccOA/s400/anders+and+the+rat.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>And they like story time as much as anybody. This is my son, Anders, and his pet rat reading together. Don't ask me what the safety glasses are all about, but this is one of my favorite pictures. He had put the arm rest cover on his head so the rat couldn't climb in his hair. That rat went everywhere with him.<br />
I believe the book in his hand may be either <strong><em>Fifteen Rabbits </em></strong>or <strong><em>Brighty of the Grand Canyon. </em></strong>Two of the first "chapter" books I ever read to my kids.Dothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09841500661349030418noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7282057566792201415.post-51960130895487411802010-02-26T13:28:00.000-05:002010-02-28T00:32:50.885-05:00Belle Pony<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioNKyyXyUMU3bv7SEmbgC5-8C9fOs8Yvr2B5xtFL4TFe1mdyF1ZuDd7ixJYIeoJU80P44S7JJARYCcLzzglaQtXNm9x65MVe10GoT-z65i2V4f4VXCXDbj5MUOujcczMuArDU1IDPCyA/s1600-h/belle+pony.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="272" kt="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioNKyyXyUMU3bv7SEmbgC5-8C9fOs8Yvr2B5xtFL4TFe1mdyF1ZuDd7ixJYIeoJU80P44S7JJARYCcLzzglaQtXNm9x65MVe10GoT-z65i2V4f4VXCXDbj5MUOujcczMuArDU1IDPCyA/s400/belle+pony.jpg" width="400" /></a><br />
This is Belle Pony as apposed to Bell the horse. When we were growing up we had both a horse and a pony named Belle. The pony came first and she stayed around the longest. Many of my childhood adventures have Belle Pony in them. Like most ponies she had some ornery habits. <br />
When you went to get on you had to be sure you had the off rein pulled tight to keep her head turned away. If you didn't she'd nip you on the knee as you got up. She could open any feed bin no matter how clever you thought you were about closing it up tight and pony proofing it. As a consequence of her over eating she foundered and needed careful hoof care and a watchful eye. <br />
Oh and I swear she deliberately stepped on my toes. <br />
<br />
But for all of her less than perfect ponyness, she was my favorite and my partner in adventure. When we were very little my mom and my grandma would load all of us kids on her bareback. At the time that was 3-4 kids on board. Then they would lead us around the field to check the corn. When the pony went around the corner we would all slip off into a heap. :) Grandma would put us all back on again and off we'd go.<br />
My best friend and I used to try to "roman ride" one Belle - like in the circus. One of us standing up on her broad behind while the other one lounged her in a circle until we lost our balance and fell or slid down to sit on her back. It's a miracle we never got hurt. <br />
<br />
I can't even count the lazy afternoons when I packed a "lunch" and headed out alone to wander over the farm. I'd find a likely spot for my picnic and tie Belle to a tree. More often than not while I was nibbling and daydreaming she would untie herself and light out for home leaving me to hoof it home on my own. <br />
<br />
Bell taught me about the circle that is life. The picture above is of Belle with one of her babies. Belle's was the first foal I saw born. And one year Belle was expecting and she caught pneumonia. She was my pony so it was my job to go out and give her an antibiotic shot each day. She coughed and she coughed for what seemed like forever to me. When she foaled the baby was stillborn. I buried the tiny foal in the rain up on the little hill behind the barn with a little stick cross to mark the spot. Then I led Belle up the hill so she would know where her baby was. I cried. Belle nuzzled my hand and we both trudged back down the hill with water dripping off of our noses. <br />
<br />
Belle lived to give my children rides when they were small. She died at the ripe old age of 36 on the home farm where we grew up.Dothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09841500661349030418noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7282057566792201415.post-1289132251627122032010-02-14T18:17:00.000-05:002010-02-14T18:17:13.354-05:00Meet me<div align="left" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnOEkqnQ-3FwikPE-HFkAHMJhNOxxBJ1pQRT8p9pSHyonnYibU4ZFizvN0bZMZGrYrZq1_RQTCg8cvgSlOIZPjDVuWTQ4NCWRytR2bnu6BMybQqv6iL73qn5LEFKaJs4kz0gXkVQBrew/s1600-h/scan0002.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ct="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnOEkqnQ-3FwikPE-HFkAHMJhNOxxBJ1pQRT8p9pSHyonnYibU4ZFizvN0bZMZGrYrZq1_RQTCg8cvgSlOIZPjDVuWTQ4NCWRytR2bnu6BMybQqv6iL73qn5LEFKaJs4kz0gXkVQBrew/s320/scan0002.jpg" /></a><br />
This is me 24 hours old and already looking around for something to get into!</div>Dothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09841500661349030418noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7282057566792201415.post-82850969276833309152010-02-14T18:14:00.000-05:002010-02-14T18:15:00.526-05:00The Spittin' image of my momma<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ36nS29grpbrDSnI7xY-Vs7JxWPzpckfXzEQU3_qW1HpptcSAW3f2u7YzgnAlr8S_fNUtlkjEqeItivZcflcHzaKN4qcyqFfK78fgvXtOHYbVxnNZt17QhnQPxNNz-Vd1KjI4qsYpyQ/s1600-h/scan0003.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ct="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ36nS29grpbrDSnI7xY-Vs7JxWPzpckfXzEQU3_qW1HpptcSAW3f2u7YzgnAlr8S_fNUtlkjEqeItivZcflcHzaKN4qcyqFfK78fgvXtOHYbVxnNZt17QhnQPxNNz-Vd1KjI4qsYpyQ/s320/scan0003.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">My great-grandparents, David and Laura Webb with my mother and her brother Lloyd on their laps. (I'm not sure who the dog is.) I didn't realize until recently how much I <strong><em>REALLY</em></strong> look like my mom!</div>Dothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09841500661349030418noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7282057566792201415.post-87472868431106799802010-02-14T18:09:00.000-05:002010-02-14T18:09:07.019-05:00A woman in a man's world<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-QHTpqqPmtaoBmyT5SWdsexi2DJ-8JmILvceIMUAUbgAPF94ku7TcZKbuDkZgnaGulS029yxBEm3m-eH-QrWedb81aV8GqXba4zF4-IHkxxgz-6dua_F6lBxbo4awAz9AmfhozaTdDg/s1600-h/Gma+Dorothy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ct="true" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-QHTpqqPmtaoBmyT5SWdsexi2DJ-8JmILvceIMUAUbgAPF94ku7TcZKbuDkZgnaGulS029yxBEm3m-eH-QrWedb81aV8GqXba4zF4-IHkxxgz-6dua_F6lBxbo4awAz9AmfhozaTdDg/s320/Gma+Dorothy.jpg" width="213" /></a>This is my grandmother Dorothea Cline. I was named for her. My grandma ran the Agricultural Stablization and Conservation Service in our county for 25 years and she ran my grandpa a good bit longer than that. She sewed all of her own clothes, made quilts and pies, kept an imaculate house and still had time to make us root beer floats on hot summer days. <br />
She worked very hard to convince farmers that the hilly country in Brown County Indiana wasn't well suited for row crops. That the farmers could earn more and save their topsoil by putting their land into pasture and raising beef and hay. She convinced land owners to manage their wood lots instead of just timbering off land with out thinking about the future. Grandma started the "Forestry Field Day" which I remember as one of the big events of the fall each year. She brought in foresters and other educators to teach about forest management for sustainability. What I remember as a kid was the rail splitting demonstration and the apple cider and homemade baked goods and walking through the crispy leaves listening to the forester tell about the different trees and did I mention the apple cider? <br />
Grandma encouraged farmers to take advantage of government programs that would help them to build ponds to store water. Our county doesn't have a lot of natural spring water and good wells were hard to come by. When I was a teenager Grandma was invited to Washington DC to receive an award from the president for her years of service. She was an amazing woman and way ahead of her time.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">When I was in first grade learning how to spell my name I wasn't too crazy about being named Dorothea, but now I am proud to be her namesake. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div>Dothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09841500661349030418noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7282057566792201415.post-2994654662889829222010-02-06T02:02:00.000-05:002010-02-28T00:20:02.049-05:00Grandma's cookies<div align="left" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7ZVbi9PH52BXzJJMpTYakUs_NRDSh-CD-vAKI_udEpqNd1pQv2v7f-wxhtiVWjkZufTgOmO9sHYEn9iSwFIDWeYD-R3ZfM5SrleD7_vxmVdbfnsGHaX8OFni-x_kbBhhVuUAinIgU6w/s1600-h/scan0007.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" kt="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7ZVbi9PH52BXzJJMpTYakUs_NRDSh-CD-vAKI_udEpqNd1pQv2v7f-wxhtiVWjkZufTgOmO9sHYEn9iSwFIDWeYD-R3ZfM5SrleD7_vxmVdbfnsGHaX8OFni-x_kbBhhVuUAinIgU6w/s320/scan0007.jpg" /></a></div><div align="left" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">My Grandma Dorothy and my Great Aunt Ruth were sisters. They both had cookie jars. You could tell a lot about them from their cookie jars. Aunt Ruth's cookie jar was glass with a screw on lid. Nothing fancy. Grandma Dorothy had two cookie jars one was shaped like a cabbage with a family of bunnies coming out of the top. It had been mended by my Grandfather more than once and showed the scars left by tape and glue. The other one looked like an apple.The cookie jars were always full of cookies -sometimes homemade and sometimes store bought. If we were walking from our house to Grandma's, we knew we could stop along the way at Aunt Ruth's and get a cookie and she'd let us pump up a glass of cold water from her well. Then when we would get to Grandma's of course we were "hungry" and needed a cookie. </div><div align="left" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I inherited my grandma's recipe box. The recipe for "Honey Jumbles" is in her handwriting. Try it. See if you like it. Let me know. </div>Dothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09841500661349030418noreply@blogger.com0