Fresh, Tasty, and good for the hands . . .?
We had manners in our family.
Bad manners are still manners, aren't they?
We had good manners in our family.
And some bad dinnertime pranks.
The evening meal was always special at the Stringam Ranch.
Mom was a terrific cook so the food was always good.
The conversation, with two parents, six kids and assorted hired men would be endless and, if not brilliant, at least entertaining.
The day's ranchwork was done, so the men were happy and relaxed.
And the pranks and hijinks were ongoing.
There were several tricks that ocurred regularly.
But the favourite had to do with the butter.
With such a large group at mealtimes, much passing of dishes from hand to hand was expected.
Most of it was done politely. With a nod and a 'thanks'.
But occassionally, someone would decide to 'liven things up a bit'.
And this usually accompanied the passing of the butter.
Now, the butter at the Stringam table was always freshly churned and delicious.
So it was passed frequently.
Now, I should point out here that it was good manners to receive a passed dish directly, especially if one had asked to have it passed. Thus, if one requested the butter, one should then take the dish right from the passer's hand.
But the trick at the Stringam table was to pass it in just such a manner that the receiver's thumb would get stuck in the butter.
Okay I don't know what that's called.
Inevitably, nearly everyone at the table would end up, at one point or another, with their thumb in the butter.
Good thing Mom made everyone scrub up 'doctor style' before meals or we might have gotten more than nutrition served with our food.
With 'butter dipping' a common prank, it was inevitable that the receivers would get more and more creative with their receiving.
A nod and a simple gesture to set the butter down on the table was usually the first attempt.
One that was inevitably ignored as the passer waited patiently for a more polite method of transference.
Finally, the receiver would put out his or her hand, thumb tucked as far out of sight as possible.
It just isn't very comfortable.
Inevitably, no matter how hard the receiver would try to avoid, one digit or another would go in the butter.
And the passer would happily return to their meal, content in the knowledge that they had contributed to the evening's fun-filled mealtime.
While the receiver carefully wiped their fingers on their napkin.
Oh, I forgot to mention – napkins were also a necessary part of the every meal.
Finally, because the prank became such a common part of the meals, people stopped receiving.
The passer could sit there forever with the butter dish in their hand.
No one would reach out to take it.
In fact, people had been know to simply put out their knife and take a bit of butter while the passer was still holding it.
But one night, my brother forgot the new order of things.
He asked my Dad for the butter and put out his hand to take it.
He did remember to tuck in his thumb.
Dad regarded the outstretched hand for a moment.
Finally, he simply turned the entire dish over and set it, butter side down, on Jerry's hand.
Dad went back to eating.
After that, no one went butter-dipping anymore.
1. 1. If there’s any possibility you’re going to be the driver . . .
2. 2. Don’t be stupid.
A re-post for a busy day . . .
Perched on a too small folding chair, expounding to his group of enthusiastic eager excited resigned youngsters.
He was always well-prepared and ready.
Eager to share what he had learned.
Still, he would show up for his class on Sunday morning, ready to instruct.
Me. Prospective laborer . . . and fashionista.
I was going to be minding one child.
And the best part? Someone was going to pay me for doing it.
It was my very first official baby-sitting job.
Actually, my first baby-sitting job of any kind.
I had just turned twelve.
And I was way past excited.
Imagine having a job and getting paid to do it. And fifty cents an hour wasn't uncommon. Why, some of my friends had even been paid a whole dollar an hour!
I could just picture the wealth that would soon be mine!
I reported for duty at precisely the right time, armed with everything I might need. Books. Games. Snacks.
Shannon, the little girl I was looking after, was four.
She played quietly and was fairly obedient.
I’d have to say it was a good first-time experience.
All too soon, her mother was at the door and my time was up.
Now, for the exciting part. Where I got paid for the work I did.
Or maybe I should clarify: Where I should have gotten paid for the work I did.
I packed up my kit and left. Okay, that was a bit . . . anticlimactic.
Wait, I thought. You asked my brother? My brother?! Why on earth would you ask my brother and not me?
Excuse me. He told you what?!
“So here’s your pay for two and a quarter hours.” She dropped two quarters, a nickel and two pennies into my hand.
I stared at the woman. Then at the money in my hand.
I had worked for over two hours for fifty seven cents?!
Suddenly my dream of riches made babysitting seemed like just that . . . dreams.
I still managed to smile and thank her.
I’m sure you can probably understand why I never hired him as my manager.
Oh, and I never really did much babysitting after that.
A few times when I simply couldn’t think of an excuse.
But I made up for it later by producing and raising six children.
Hmmm. I just realized that I never got paid for that, either.
Well . . . not in money.
Not everything was beautiful in Paris . . .
Living in Paris was an education for my Husby.
Young men between the ages of 19 and 21, most away from home for the first time.
Many of who have never done their own cleaning or laundry.
And only the very basic of cooking.
Like I said . . . an education.
Fortunately for the other seven young men in his apartment, my Husby did know how to cook.
The problem was, it wasn’t always his turn.
Oh, woe . . .
It was Hanson’s turn to cook.
Something that only came around every eighth week.
Which may explain why all of the young men returned home alive.
Hanson had made his specialty. Lentil soup.
Also missing was the all-important ‘flavor’.
I should mention here that Hanson was alone in calling it ‘soup’.
Seven young men were gathered around the great dining room table for dinner. I should mention here that one end of their long table had been pushed against the outside wall just below a large casement window which stood open in the pleasant summer air.
It had been a long and busy day.
All were hungry and casting yearning eyes toward the kitchen.
Finally, Hanson emerged, triumphantly carrying the pot containing the much-anticipated meal.
He set it down and removed the lid.
Seven anxious noses sniffed the air.
Seven noses came up empty.
“’Lentil soup’ again,” one of them said, sighing.
The first victim young man took a helping from the pot and passed it along.
The second followed his lead.
Finally, it reached Davies, seated next to the window.
He peered into the pot and made a face. Then he lifted it and before anyone could protest or even make a sound, he simply tossed it and its contents through the window.
It landed upside down on the lawn.
Where it sat for several days until someone finally got the courage to go out and retrieve.
Hanson was thereafter (good word) relieved of any future cooking duties.
You know, I was just thinking . . . it’s been forty years. I think Husby might nearly be ready to try lentils again.
Labels: Don't try making this at home . . .
The day had begun like any other that summer.
Plans to spend a few hours near or in the river.
Dad had taken my brothers, Jerry and George out to the field, haying.
Chris and I were helping Mom do'Mom' things in the kitchen.
Hey, it's an important job!
Shortly after lunch, Chris and I got decked out in our fancy swimwear, ready to head to the river.
Mom walked with us as far as the lawn. She glanced up at the sky.
I tilted my head back.
Much of my blue sky was no longer blue.
Instead it was rapidly being obscured by really ominous-looking clouds.
And we certainly hadn't seen enough of them in Milk River in the early 60's.
Our trip to the river was forgotten as Chris and I followed Mom back into the house and took up positions in the living room.
The clouds boiled up, obscuring the sun. The rest of the sky.
I should point out here that I had learned to count by timing the interval between the flash and crash of lightning.
With each flash, there was a shorter and shorter interval.
Well, my excitement level increased.
Mom was darting back and forth from one window to another, anxiously watching for her husband and sons return from the hay field.
I was little. I lived in a 'never worried, always happy' world.
Occasionally, I glanced at my worried mother curiously.
But that was the extent of my sympathy.
Finally, we heard a weird sound from outside.
A rising wind howling across the chimney.
And then we saw the wall of . . . something come towards us across the yard.
I moved to the couch beside my sister.
Her window had the better view.
Mom scurried into her bedroom and emerged with several pillows.
"Here, girls," she instructed, "hold these up against the windows!"
I stared at her. But if I held the pillow up against the window, I wouldn't be able to see the storm!
We all heard the shattering of glass from the kitchen.
Instantly, Chris pressed her pillow against the window.
Sighing, I copied her example.
I don't know how long the storm lasted.
Too long, according to my mother.
Not long enough, according to me.
After it passed, we stepped outside to see the damage/amazing-ness.
It all depended on your point of view.
The yard was four inches deep in snow.
Not bad for the middle of July.
I stepped out into it.
It was funny snow. Crunchy. More like pebbles than soft, white fluffiness.
I stomped around in it. Gathered a handful. Carried it back to my Mom.
She was standing where I had left her, just staring.
"Look, Mom. This snow is weird!" I tried to hand it to her.
"It's not snow, darling," she said. "It's hail."
"Huh." Yep. I was always on top of things.
As we were standing there, Dad's truck pulled into the yard and skidded to a stop on the slippery road.
He and my two older brothers got out.
At least I think it was Dad and my brothers.
Certainly they had the right size and shape.
But there, all resemblance ended.
They were caked with mud. Straws of hay and grass sprouted all over them.
They really looked like . . . monsters.
I was prepared to run.
Before I could react, however, Mom moved forward and wrapped her arms around the taller one, mud and all. Then she moved on to the shorter pair.
We all moved back into the house.
While Mom swept up the glass from a broken window in the kitchen, she and Dad told their stories.
His was far more exciting.
He and my brothers had been baling hay, with Dad and Jerry on the stooker behind George driving tractor.
When Dad had seen the clouds, he had tried to signal George to stop.
But George couldn't hear him over the noise of the tractor.
Finally, in his best Superman style, Dad leaped off the stooker, ran forward, scaled the tractor and turned off the key. Then he grabbed George, made another heroic leap, and shoved him and Jerry under the tractor.
Okay, it's always so much better in my imagination . . .
The three of them had gotten a very close up and personal view of the storm from beneath this rather sketchy shelter.
Fortunately, though the hail had splashed them with mud and debris, it hadn't caused them any permanent damage.
Not so the rest of the ranch.
Chickens and other birds, not quick enough to get under shelter lay in small heaps in the barnyard.
Fences had been smashed to the ground and the entire garden lay in ruins.
Appendages had been hammered off vehicles and other machines standing unprotected in the barnyard and many windows were broken.
And the grand new house being constructed behind the old ranch house where we currently lived was especially hard hit.
Besides other damage, the newly-installed siding had been hammered to bits.
Pock marks had been knocked clean through the painted boards.
And we hadn't even moved in yet.
There were two hail storms that summer.
The second just as nasty as the first.
Mom finally gave up all hope of getting any peas out of her garden.
And the hay crop had been ruined.
And there was a lot of repairing and clean up.
Most of which I . . . umm . . . supervised.
And, by the way, I still love storms.