Rainy Day People (Gordon Lightfoot cover) (click on the song title)
I Am…I Said (left click on the song title)
I’ve composed a Rain Walking trilogy inspired by the Good, Better, Best products in catalogues. Here is the one I classified as Good.
I freely admit, I am no poet. Dabbler yes, poet no. I appreciate those that can paint with words better than I….rdd
Walking in the Rain (Attempt #1 of 3)
I finally found someone
To rain walk with me.
After all this time,
How great it could be!
I had run into
An old girlfriend of mine,
Who said she’d aged
Like a fine bottle of wine.
So I took her along,
And it went well for a block.
She said the rain relaxed her
And, she started to talk.
She talked about her past life,
And what troubles she had,
Her mother in jail,
And the sins of her dad.
Then the wind came up,
And she began to complain
About her runny nose,
And the wet of the rain.
Now the only vehicle
Moving in town that day,
Hit the biggest puddle,
And threw it my way!
My shorts soaking wet,
Cold to the bone,
I’d had an earful so,
I took her home.
Never, never again,
Will I take someone along!
How could something so sweet,
Have gone so wrong?
© Copyright 2011 gottagosee (UN: gottagosee at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
gottagosee has granted Writing.Com, its affiliates and syndicates non-exclusive rights to display this work.
As told by Me, a Wandering Teller of Tales and Singer of Songs
In a world full of stories like a goose that lays golden eggs, frog princes, unicorns, and faeries, I’m going to tell of something you’ll find hard to believe, and to the best of my knowledge, is unquestionably true.
In a serene, and rarely spoken of, mountainous country in the interior of a vaguely known continent is a valley. From the bird’s eye view, this valley looks just like all of the many valleys on either side of it, except it’s quite a bit greener. The reason for the extra green is the part that you’ll find hard to believe.
One day, about two hundred years ago, a child was born to a, long thought barren, couple named Elle and Ferd. Their appearance was said to be Ogre-like but, to be sure, they weren’t Ogres. They did possess some of the lumpy characteristics and short, bent-over stature but; these were caused by centuries of manual labor in the fields and the isolation of their valley.
Elle and Ferd were members of a “kind” people that inhabited the middle valley of this mountain range’s series of valleys. Og valley people were rarely seen by anyone because a single two wheeled path passed by the entrance to each valley, which were like islands surrounded by mountains instead of water. All harvests were brought up the path to the only entrance of each island, and the harvests were picked up by sellers on their way the cities.
As far back as anyone could remember, the valley of Og out produced all of the other valleys both in size and the quality of the current harvest, whatever it might be. The reason for this anomaly was a closely guarded secret for decades.
Now that it is known, I can tell you, the Valley of Og’s bounty began a few years after the birth of a child.
Months before the birth of the boy, a dreaded Brown Tufted Honey Snatch, had entered the valley, made its way to the honey hives, ravaged them, and consumed the faeries’ entire winter cache’ of special honey.
Ferd discovered the destruction and quickly rebuilt the hives in time for the valley’s flowering season. The bees survived, the nectar was harvested, and turned into their special honey, averting a disaster for the faeries, and the people of Og.
The faeries were so grateful, they bestowed upon Elle and Ferd two gifts. One was the most precious gift the faeries could give. It was an enchanted child!
As the child grew, it was noticed where ever he whizzed, vegetation grew to enormous mass and height. Elle and Ferd, at first thought it was just their imagination, but as the boy grew up, so did their crops and trees. Enormously! The second gift from the Faeries.
Some of their neighbors noticed and remarked about the family’s continuous bountiful harvests. Elle and Ferd mentioned their discovery and what they suspected, to their neighbors.
It was decided “The Child”, would be loaned to the families that had land adjoining Elle and Ferd’s land, to see what would happen.
It worked! Each farm family produced the same amazing bounty. It didn’t seem to matter whether “The Child” whizzed directly on the specific plant or into the water supply for a whole crop. It worked! Everyone quietly celebrated the discovery. They wanted to keep their treasure a secret for as long as possible, for fear of exhausting the boy!
In the normal tradition of the valley, children were addressed as “Young Elle” or “Young Ferd” until their twelfth birthday. They were then named by making combinations of the name of their home, family, valley, or personality. It was decided to call the boy Wog to connect him with their valley. This is the name he would be known by, in the village and the valley, as long as the secret was kept. To the people, whose land connected to Elle and Ferd’s land, the boy would be known as ‘The Whizzer of Og’ (Wog)!
The boy kept on growing and the amount of whizzing he could do in a day, increased. He was remarkable! Soon, the whole valley benefited from the lad’s ability. It became extremely difficult to hide the reason for the fortune of Valley of Og.
Alas, the tale of Wog’s abilities eventually leaked into the next valley. The Valley of Od heard the rumor about the whizzing boy wonder and decided they would like to be whizzed on too!
One day, accompanied by a wagon of his remarkable “Mead” supply drawn by a donkey (mead is a beverage made from honey, water, malt, and yeast), Wog by himself, as usual, was busy doing his business, and happily humming.
Now the Valley of Og rarely had troubles and did not know evil. Wog was a strong, young man, so no one ever thought he would need to be protected.
Wog had few friends. His whizzer, and the job it did, intimidated most people including the fairer Ogidites, so for the time being, Wog would just drink his Mead by himself, wait a few moments, hum and whiz on the crops. On a normal day, he would go home at dusk to get rested for the next day’s work, regular as clockwork.
In the twilight of this late afternoon, just before Wog normally would leave for home, was nabbed by several hooded beings that had snuck up on the humming Wog. They threw a blanket over him and whisked him to their valley in a two wheeled cart. He did not offer resistance, as he did not know how to resist. He lay, bouncing in the bottom of the cart wondering what was happening, and where he was going.
The next morning, Elle and Ferd, became frantic when they found Wog had not slept in his bed. His Mead wagon and donkey were not in their shed. Not quite knowing what to do, Ferd ran to his neighbors, and into the village, telling of his missing son. It was decided the first thing to do was to search the valley. Everyone turned out for the search. It wasn’t long before they came upon Wog’s Mead wagon and donkey, quietly standing where left, waiting for the return of Wog.
In the next valley, that same day, Wog was introduced to the Od villagers. The leader of the hooded ones lied, and told his people that the “kind” people of The Valley of Og, had graciously loaned Wog to help them produce the greatest harvest they’d ever seen. The crowd cheered and set decorated tables for a feast and celebration.
Wog felt loved and wallowed in the attention. These Od people were throwing a party for Wog, something his village had never done.
The villagers in the Og valley had followed the two-wheeled cart tracks to the end of their valley, and found that the tracks turned left on the seller’s road. They left their valley and found it took another left into the next valley, the Valley of Od.
They went back to their own valley to plan. There were discussions by torchlight, meetings by candle light. They decided to enter the Valley of Od to recover their precious Wog.
Obviously, the secret of success, in the Valley of Og, was no longer a secret. They could call him his full name now. All of this uncustomary detective work and planning took time but, they managed to get ready for the retrieval attempt in a couple of days.
The morning after the celebration in the Village of Od, set out to see this miracle at work. The whole village followed “the hooded ones” and Wog to a field of strawberries close to town. Wog was supplied with all of their local mead he could drink.
There was stillness to the crowd, as the mead traveled. Wog began humming, and to energize the strawberry field, with a confident grin. At the sight and delivery pressure of his extraordinary whizzer, the crowd gasped at the wonder of it all. They had never seen such a thing!
Time after time, Wog went back to the supply of Mead, drank, waited and whizzed to the cheer of the crowd. When he felt his job was completed, with a little shake of his whizzer, and a nod of his head, to the hooded group’s leader, Wog and his entourage went back to the village to await the results. The villagers were stayed up all night excited and noisy. There wasn’t a celebration for Wog that night, but he was kept comfortable in a shed.
A young, handsome Od maiden, alone attended his needs. She brought warm blankets, food, and fresh straw for his bed. Not a word was spoken, but her attention was given in wide eyed wonder and admiration.
Wog could hear the celebration and wondered where the Od villager’s attention he’d received the night before was! He eventually reasoned they were waiting to see the results of his talent. Then, he would be their hero, and forever celebrated in this valley.
Early in the morning of the next day, the people from the Valley of Og quietly shuffled into the Valley of Od, with their farm implements held high above their heads, silhouettes in the dawn. Fighting was not their nature, but this had to be done, as “The Whizzer” was needed back at home. New crops had been planted. Time was short. Bravely, they marched on!
A crowd gathered outside of the shed, and Wog was escorted out. In anticipation, there was controlled, nervous applause.
To the field of strawberries they went, the back of the crowd straining to see in the dawn light. As they approached the strawberry field, the throng slowed. Something was wrong! At the corner of the field, they came to a dead, silent stop and stood still.
The whole field of berry plants was wilted. Wog had never seen anything like it before.
The owner of the field yelled something, high pitched, with an attitude. The hooded ones and the gathering of Od valley people grumbled and began to mill about angrily.
Wog was approached several times by different groups looking for an answer. All Wog could do was look astonished, shrug his shoulders shift his eyes from the people to the field and back again.
Soon, the groups of villagers began to suspect the legend was untrue. Wog had failed and didn’t have any magical powers or answers. The disappointed gathering headed back toward their village mumbling, while the hooded ones gathered in a circle meeting. Wog was left standing, alone, again.
The “hooded ones” agreed, the legend of Wog was not true, for he had destroyed an entire strawberry field in one evening. It was then decided; the Valley of Od no longer had a need to keep him. They got their two wheeled cart and escorted Wog to the end of their valley. Well, almost to the end of their valley! On the way, they met the armed villagers from the Valley of Og.
Abandoning the cart and Wog, they ran for their lives toward their own village. The cart, Wog, and an unremarkable pile of straw in the corner of the cart were happily escorted home by the group of successful Og warriors.
The return of The Whizzer of Og, as Wog could now be known, was the second celebration Wog had seen in three days. This time it was his own kind, his own village, with people who knew his abilities. There was a lot of hugs and smiles between Wog, his parents, and amongst all in the Valley of Og.
Wog noticed the self-celebration by the farmers of Og. He also remembered that before he’d been kidnapped, few people talked to him, and he had made few friends. They were friendly of course, and smiled, but, other than having him whiz for them, most didn’t want to have much to do with Wog.
The leader of Og took Wog by the arm and helped him up into the cart that brought him back from his ordeal. The bundle of straw in the back corner exploded and out came the little Od girl. She ran into the crowd, a trail of straw drifting to the ground behind her.
The look of surprise on the leader’s face was quickly dismissed by an irritated shrug of his shoulders, as he was anxious to get back to his prepared speech.
He proudly raised Wog’s arms in the air as you would raise a trophy. Everyone cheered as he was displayed.
Then, Wog surprised them. With all of his courage, Wog spoke up. He never spoke up, but now, he finally had something important to say. The leader of Og stepped down to give Wog the audience.
He first thanked them for bringing him back home. He then told them about how the people of the Valley of Od held a party for him when they thought he would be able to make their crops as bountiful as Og’s crops. Then, when he failed, he told them how they quickly turned against him.
He told the silent crowd, that the Odidites did not love Wog for who he was, but only for what he could do for them.
Wog asked the people if this was how they felt?
There was complete silence while the people of Og measured themselves.
One person somewhere in the crowd started a chant. Overcoming their shame, two, and then three spoke up. Soon everyone was applauding, cheering, and chanting “Wog, Wog, Wog!”
The handsome little Odidite, with straw in her hair and an admiring smile, took one step out of the crowd toward the wagon. A surprised Whizzer smiled back at her then quickly regained his composure. While the crowd was cheering, Wog stepped down from the wagon to hold her hand. The Governor of Wog stepped back up in the wagon.
As the leader of the village and the Valley of Og, he declared a festival every year, on this day, from now on, to celebrate the gift of Wog. He shall be called fully “The Whizzer of Og” and, his name shall be proudly displayed on a sign at the entrance to their valley. It shall declare:
The Valley of Og
Home of The Whizzer of Og
Population 1103 +1 Great Whizzer
There was a secret kept by the Og Valley fairies!
Why did Wog’s talents fail in the Valley of Od? Why did his ability work so well in the Valley of Og?
The secret of course was the second gift from the faeries, I didn’t tell you about.
The Mead was made with the faerie honey from the hives that Ferd had repaired. That honey was enchanted. The more Wog whizzed on the flowers fueled by the mead made from the honey, made from the flowers he whizzed on, the more powerful his whizzing became.
This enchanted honey plus the extraordinary talents of the child, combined to create the magic for the Valley of Og, and one of the greatest stories ever told.
That’s not the end of the story!
When The Whizzer introduced the little Odidite to the people of Og, she was accepted into the community. She was the first of another valley accepted by the Ogidites, as far back as memories could remember.
The Whizzer of Og and the brave little Odidite were inseparable. Elle and Ferd added a room for her, and in essence, she became their daughter.
There was a celebration in the Valley of Og. The pair of Wog and Mow (Mate of the Whizzer) were joined forever.
(More time passes.)
The sign at the entrance to the Valley of Og now reads:
The Valley of Og
Home of the Whizzers of Og
Population 1105 + 1 big whizzer and 4 little whizzers
All of this because of a kind man’s good deed and a thank you from the Faeries.
(I reserve the right to add a couple more of the little whizzers to the Valley of Od at a later date)
It was late in the spring and only the north side snow drifts remain. An acorn drops to the soft, moist ground and rolls into the sunlight past the tree’s shadow horizon. The little acorn is the hope of a magnificent oak tree; a mother tree that is standing alone in all her majesty, overseeing miles of rolling prairie.
In a nest placed high on a canyon wall, two young eaglets extend their necks and beaks skyward in anticipation. Below them, a swiftly moving stream roars, fed by the melting, high mountain snow.
Mom golden eagle flies across the river carved chasm toward that waving prairie. She needs to find the next meal for her children’s insatiable appetite.
Circling, her incredible sight detects motion. She measures the distance, speed, and direction of the victim. She stalls, gathers herself, and starts her hunting dive. The distance is closed quickly. At the last moment, the prairie dog screams the “eagle alert” and accelerates to try and reach her burrow before the eagle can catch her.
The distance to the entrance is just too far and the speed of the eagle, too fast. The blow of the talons knocks the victim from its feet. The eagle flares its wings and quickly grabs the prairie dog. Four hard wing beats, and the limp prairie dog is on its way to the cliff side nursery.
The still warm meal was delivered to the screaming offspring. Everything was devoured, except the fur, some bones, and the cached acorns. This waste was thrown overboard as the eagle did her nest keeping to keep the flies away and prevent diseases. The leftover fur floated in the updraft away from the nest, and the acorns bounced down the sides of the canyon. All but one acorn lodged in the stones and rocks on the slant of the canyons bottom. One acorn hit a boulder at the bottom and ping ponged into the white foam of the life giving stream.
On it went, up and down, riding the rushing water, getting caught in an eddy and escaping again. It rode the water through the canyon, all the while soaking up moisture and gaining weight. The force of a quick turn in the stream tossed the little acorn up onto a sandbar at the river’s outer edge. The small, pulsing waves pushed and pushed. Finally, as high as the acorn could go, the water washed sand over the seed and buried it.
During the “dog days” of summer, the river receded, and the high sun warmed the sand. The little acorn warmed enough to sprout roots and take hold. It had to grow and build its roots quickly, or the next year’s runoff would wash it away.
The summer suns and moons passed over, and the little seed grew two feet tall with roots that firmly anchored deep. It was a child worthy of its parent. It’s mother’s legacy to its offspring was to be strong and a survivor. If the prairie tree only knew, how proud it would be of her little vagabond.
Then, one cool day in the fall, a young boy nicknamed “Josh” was wandering along the relaxed streams shoreline. Shiny, polished rocks, amazingly shaped shards of wood, and other interesting treasures could be found here when the water receded in the fall.
The sun was getting low in the sky and the boy turned to head home. When he ‘about faced’ to retrace his steps, a proud two foot tall tree caught his attention. He’d often heard his mother say she’d like a shade tree by the back porch. It could shade the porch while she was doing the laundry on those hot summer days. Reaching down, he gently pulled the tree from the sand and carried it home.
After supper, while sitting on the back porch in the evening breeze, his mother asked the boy how his day had gone. She noticed the pile of his collected treasures on the top of the old wringer washer, and asked where he’d found it all. He told her of his walk along the stream.
Each collection is a mother’s reminder that she has a normal and curious boy. She knows not to throw this fine stuff away because these are her collection of precious memories.
She asked about the tree. He told her, it was for her shade over the back porch. Giggling, she explained that they had better plant it before it dried out and died. So, they dug the hole for the tree together and planted the little oak tree in the agreed upon ‘perfect spot’.
Summers went by; the tree and little boy grew. The good soil and rain from the downspout on the house gave the little tree more than enough to achieve the magnificence of its bearer. So it did. One strong limb had grown eight feet off the ground. It became the home of a rope and board seat swing.
His mother loved to sit in the swing and slowly push back and forth with her feet while his dad sat in an old rocking chair up on the porch. The rope would creak, and the rhythm of the swinging and rocking would provide a relaxing end to the day. His parents would run out of talk, tire, say “goodnight”, and go in the house. The screen door squeaked open, and slammed closed.
Joshua was left to sit by himself on the board swing, listen to the night sounds, and think.
He had educated himself as well as he was able in this little town. After school, the owner of the local drug store and soda fountain would allow him sit in the corner by the magazines and read everything for free. He’d read of worldly things, people, and places. Sometimes he would forget about time, so the soda fountain lady would have to remind him to go home for supper!
The boy grew in body and mind. His dreams and knowledge fueled his ambitions well beyond the boundaries of this little town. After he had finished High School, he took classes at the community college satellite and received an associate degree in fine arts.
Then one morning, all sameness stopped. His parents found him up, bags packed, and a twinkle in his eye. They asked what he was up to. He told them what they feared but knew had to happen with him. He had to leave in order to grow. He was going to move to the state capital and find a job, and go to college.
They asked how and when he’d thought of such a thing.
He told them, “I made up my mind last night, on the swing under the thinkin’ tree!”
They felt this day was coming, but didn’t say anything to each other. He had been quiet the last couple of weeks. They know he came from good stock, and did need room to grow.
As he answered, a bus horn sounded outside. He kissed his mom, shook his dad’s hand, and grabbed his suitcase. Carrying a piece of toast in his mouth, he said something about coming home every other weekend, as he ran through the doorway.
They watched him get on the bus. Through the open bus door, they could see him give his ticket to the driver. They could see his silhouette walking toward the back of the bus trying to find a window seat on their side of the bus. When he found one, he smiled a big smile and waved.
The bus kicked up a billowing cloud of road dust as it rolled toward the rising sun.
In his pants pocket, he had a “good luck” acorn from his “thinkin’ tree”. A grandseed from the mother tree was rolling again, a vagabond.
© Copyright 2011 gottagosee (UN: gottagosee at Writing.Com). All rights reserved. gottagosee has granted Writing.Com, its affiliates and syndicates non-exclusive rights to display this work.
I haven’t been home in thirteen years. The little mid-west town, of now forty five hundred, felt strange, nostalgic, nauseatingly exciting.
“I need to slow down!” I said to myself. “It’s only Twenty here.” The sign went behind me on the right. That speed limit hadn’t changed.
I stayed to the right as the “main drag” curved to the left. The cemetery was straight ahead. It’s guaranteed to be where I left it. I think my home town has lost enough people now, that the names count in the cemetery equals the “above ground” that are still living here.
Just before the cemetery’s wrought iron gate and the wrought iron overhead that says CEMETERY, is a sharp left by-pass that puts me back on the highway through town.
I must have used this turn-around five-thousand times in my ’53, sometimes searching, sometimes with my date close by my side.
Whoa, there’s a Casey’s Quick Stop, and there’s one of my classmates sitting out front in his coveralls having a soda pop. He’s supervising the traffic today.
To myself, “Slow down, idiot! You are going to be contributing to the deputy’s retirement fund like the people you read about in the mailed newspaper.”
Back in Tucson, if you don’t drive fifty-five in the forty-five mph zone, someone will run right up your tail pipe.
Two stoplights? We have two stoplights! There’s the one at Main Street and now, one at the highways intersection. It seems strange to stop where I’ve never had to stop before. Oh well, I waited for the green and drove on to the west edge of town.
“There it is The Town House Supper Club.”
The now chipped and hail damaged road sign at one time announced:
Now Playing Wed, Fri, Sat
JB and Soda
Smorgasbord Every Fri 5-7
It was a standing joke that I was the “da” in the name. The club owner/band leaders initials were JB, and the piano player Doug, quickly claimed the “So”.
Our band had a chance to go on the road so, the business was sold. It survived about a year. After twelve years of every Wednesday, Friday and Saturday with our band, it died the slow death of loneliness.
I heard someone turned it into an antique barn for a while, but the steakhouse was built on a slough and the building began to sink in one corner. I think it was suicide.
“Pull in. No, don’t pull in. Oh damn, I pulled in.”
They’re hauling everything out.
Look! They are rolling out a worn down piano.
It’s, it’s the one Doug played. There’s the pink “Teddy Bear” decal on the side.
Who would have believed this would be happening the one moment I pulled into memory lane?
(I hear in my mind)
Don’t wanna be….Your Teddy Bear.
I fell in to a burnin’ ring of fire!
That old piano was always a bit out of tune. But, this was good because, it made our music sound a little bit honky tonk which, added to the ambience of the place. It must have sounded ok because we packed the house with the best, hardest playing, and hardest working people in the world for a pile of years.
I walked up to the open front door of the now empty building. I didn’t get two steps in, and I could smell the stale beer smell that came up from the floor or out of the walls and ceiling.
At first, I thought it was the silence allowing the music in my memories to fire off at a tremendous, deafening pace. Then, I could see vapors of the dancers, dancing in front of me and my drums, and grinning. I could hear the echoes of the class reunion in the party room to the left. I thought I heard my name mentioned somewhere in that reunion crowd.
It was more than just memories. The place was talking to me. It almost seemed like a homecoming celebration was going on. When the dancers stopped to look in my direction, my heart began to pound.
I’m watering up. I gotta go.
“I told you not to come out here!” I consciously said to myself, scared.
As I turned to leave, I kicked an old beer bottle that must have come out of hiding during the emptying of the building. This, a real, tangible, noisy ghost had managed to hide from everyone else until this moment.
It spun and tumbled across the dining area, then skidded across the dance floor right through the dancers. The dancer’s eyes followed it as it came to rest against the riser of the old stage. When it hit, the brown bottle stood on its bottom with the label facing me as if to salute, Grain Belt Beer, another relic.
I don’t even remember going through the doorway.
I do remember the bead of sweat on my upper lip and the tremble in my hand as I put the key in the ignition.
……………………………… SOLACE ……………………………….
No insult intended to anybody else, but I did not realize I was on my last nerve. They were just being themselves and I tried to get some time in my ‘man sanctuary’, but with the heat and everything here ….
Anyway, I just took the most peaceful nap in my chair, golf with my earbuds in, dogs not startling me awake.
I think I’m healing from many directions at this moment.
Lots to do, but I’m not putting any pressure on myself today, except for a little headache in my eyes from allergy stuff.
I can fix that.
In my dozing, I can hear the water noises on the golf course. Good earbuds pick up those noises.
No planes droning overhead today.
Just quiet golf shots, no cheering except from across the fence, commentators speaking in normal voice. Rahm a nice lead, quietly working.
I dreamt I put one line in the water at a friends cabin, then found an inner tube and slowly drifted around a small island.
I realized I was getting a little far out, even on a glass lake, and slowly worked my way back passed the tip of the island to shore.
I couldn’t find the cabin or my rod, but did discover a rickety garage holding the bones of a Rambler (two tone blue).
I realized I had turned the wrong way on the beach and headed back.
Watched myself walking away.
At this moment, I have no stretched nerve and remark to myself, “I’ll bet the others noticed that I was wound pretty tight.
I also realize that way out there, as quiet as the stream noises, was the world, noisily destroying itself.
A column of smoke marks the distance … ….
Solace knowing that they won’t come here.
Too much quiet for them, and nothing to gain. rdd
Last of the Peppermint Stick
I can’t remember if there was an occasion that brought out this childhood joy, but I think more often than not, it happened on Lawrence Welk night!
You could see the Admiral from the small dining room table when it had the leaf on the room side flipped up and you put the back down on the first lazy boy in the small living room on 1st St.
Grandma Anna would come out of the kitchen with a cold box, presented on a tray. I don’t know why!
I think, for a grin and the drama.
I’d lean so close to watch that I had to be told to “get off the table!”
It was Neapolitan Ice Cream in a box.
A crazy time for me. These people never adventured!!!!
She’d lay that box open to the pink/chocolate/white (what my mind at that age saw)
Then, so we could bear witness, she slice it so we all get some of each color, down the middle and begin to divide it in perfectly equal portions for all of us, with always the slightly larger mistake end to the grandpa.
Seems a little strange that I should ask you if you remember Lawrence Welk night, as I sit here this morning satisfying my craving for Peppermint Stick ice cream this January 8th morning.
All of this is to remind you that Peppermint Stick ice cream is quickly disappearing with the season!
We’re on our last box, so get out there and check the shelves at your grocery!
A smart grocer would use it as a loss leader and advertise, “Last load of Peppermint Stick ice cream folks!”
And then add as a postscript.
First load of Chocolate Mint is arriving, January 14th!”
Make room! rdd
A Marshmallow World (click on this title)
I went to take an ‘after trip’ nap and found I needed to finish putting away the basketed clothes from the dryer still on my bed.
The dryer had created static which is a nothing to me. I’m in the bedroom next to a bathroom you see.
This reminded me of a day a year or so ago when Kathy was complaining about the static in the dress she was putting on in the same bedroom and I told her to slap it up against the bathroom faucet. With questioning eyes, she did do it, and the static went to ground, and the dress hung freely.
Of course you can put it on first and then touch the faucet with your tongue if you want (or finger) and get the spark orrrrrrrrrr, just touch the garment before you put it on! lol
So, on that day she asked me how long I knew about that trick, and I said “Probably all my life!”
Then she puckered up and scolded “You mean we’ve been married all of these years, and I’ve had this same problem and you just got around to telling me?” !!!!!!!
So, now you know the story, and for all of you people that I’m married to somehow (there is more than one way to be married to women…. it’s a possession thing I think), I’m telling you now!
Touch the friggin’ garment full of static to some grounded plumbing close by before you put it on.
You have now been told.
And, if it generates it’s own static while you’re swishing, spray the dress with the magical anti-static atomized spray that is made from old plumbing parts (I guess)! LOLOLOLOL rdd
Read the posts, read the news.
FOX stuck on the same few people again. Round and round we go.
Today, I’m thinking about American farmers.
I think it was triggered by the empty shelves in Florida where the hurricane preparations are taking place.
The food chain is a dynamic thing and we must be smart enough to support the farmers closest to our own. Especially when it’s under attack by ignorant politicians connected to big money and politics, and a world taught to grow things better, with our help.
I’m not there nor am I a farmer, but I drove the roads, saw the cycle of growing food supplies, met the people and went to school with the kids that were agriculturally oriented.
Each farm is a manufacturing ‘plant’ with individual style.
They maintain their own equipment with well worn hand me down tools and assimilated hand me down skills, taken for granted and carried for a lifetime no matter where they go.
The educated ones improve their land, don’t waste, don’t pollute, and think ahead constantly. From farm to farm, you can see management differences and skill, failures and successes.
I don’t live there at the moment, but I do go back to visit and am forced to re-absorb.
A little slower pace, a familiar palette for my eyes and ears, the roots that grow steeples, corn, silos, green everything that has a purposeful life circle.
I miss that!
I have to consciously downshift from my protective city attitude to recalibrate so, in a few days, I can become comfortable and enjoy a dose of real earth time, surrounded by dirt instead of concrete.
I have to say … it’s good for the heart. rdd
Ron’s World Famous Emergency Holie Guacamole Morning Toast on Sourdough
One Jalapeno gutted and chopped ( I wear plastic gloves because I get the essence in my eyes, up my nose, and on my lips)
One Lime well squeezed
One nice size Roma tomato, gutted and chopped
Some chopped Cilantro to taste (1/2 cup)
A couple cloves of Garlic finely chopped
Green pimento Olives 1/3 cup chopped into 1/8ths.
Your choice of chopped onion but purple works well.
Fresh ground mill pepper. A touch of your salt style.
A good Bear squirt of honey.
Three fair sized, just soft, avocados, your choice (not too ripe)
Don’t fine chop anything except the garlic
De-nut the avocado and scoop the meat into a mixing bowl with a flat bottom so you can crush the avocados with a manual potato smasher. (I have a vintage Cutco smasher with the square holes … perfect! Don’t mush it all into paste so don’t over crush, leave some pea size chunks.
Now, toast your best local ‘real’ sourdough like Goldminer Cracked Wheat Sourdough, until it’s crisp but not burnt. So I toast one end and then flip it end for end in the toaster and let the heat dry it out for a minute and then toast that half until just the way I like it. Crunchy!
Butter and add a thin drizzle of raw honey on the toast.
Slather this breakfast guacamole on each half, slice in two and enjoy with your coffee or whatever.
Now Guacamole tends to oxidize a bit. Don’t worry about it. Mix it up.
By the second day of marriage in the refrigerator, I tablespoon enough breakfast Guac into those smallest 4oz. glass condiment containers from Ball, date them and freeze these servings for the rest of your week.
I nuke them for 25 seconds and then 12 to thaw them while the toast is toasting. All gets done about the same time.
When I get down to three left in the freezer, I make a fresh batch, use that for two days, freeze that and use the earliest dated ones first.
It’s actually good for you!!! LOL … Try it and let me know what you think.
My pie pastry with lemon
(if you get this right, I promise the flakiest dough you’ve ever made)
3 cups of flour
1 1/2 tbsp. of sugar
1 1/2 tsp of salt
1 1/8 cups of shortening
2 small eggs separated
1 1/2 tbsp. of lemon juice
3/8 cup of milk
Combine dry ingredients
Cut in the shortening
Combine the egg yolk, lemon juice, and milk
Stir into the dry ingredients with a fork to make a soft dough just enough stirring to make a ball.
Roll out the pastry between two sheets of waxed paper
as needed for bottom and top
Flute the edges and brush on the spoon whipped egg white
and sprinkle with cinnamon and sugar.
Don’t forget to slice in some steam release holes in the top crust for apple or cherry pie.