WHAT HAPPENED TO THE SAUCER?

As I was having my second cup of coffee, I wondered whatever happened to the saucer? It used to be that if you had a cup of coffee it was served on a saucer. And we don't really use a cup any more -- it is more like a mug.

If you go out to eat and order coffee, it comes in this "cup" that looks more like a little mug. I mean, I don't mind. . . it holds more than a cup, more like a cup and a half. But, as a child, I remember adults having coffee and it was served on a saucer. It seemed sorta classy. And it kept the coffee confined to the saucer if you slopped a bit out of the cup. Plus, it was a place to put a spoon if you like cream or sugar in your coffee.

I remember a grandfather, from my Dad's second marriage, who had coffee with every meal. He would pour some of his coffee into the saucer and let it cool a bit before he would drink it from the saucer. It didn't seem like bad manners. It was just something he did, like eating peas from his knife. There was always a saucer for coffee and hot tea.

If you went out anywhere to eat and ordered coffee, you got your coffee in a cup with a saucer. It was easier to carry. No burnt fingers. My sister has about a million teacups with saucers. They all are pretty and dainty, and she never ever uses them. They just set in a display case. Some are worth money. But the everyday cup and saucer? We hardly see them at all these days.

Maybe it's because of when we started to see flying saucers. They decided to do away with the cup and saucer and just have this mug thing instead. I have a few of my great grandmother's cups with saucers. They, too, set in a cupboard. I get them out every now and then. Maybe for a cup of hot chocolate on a wintery night. Or for a cup of real percolated coffee, and I think back to when families still sat around a table to eat, drink, converse, and be a real family.

I've found a place to eat that serves your coffee cup on a saucer. The cup is a little over sized, like a mug. It's good coffee. And the food is like moms used to make, when we were kids. I can close my eyes, smell the coffee, listen to the voices around me, and the tinkle of the spoon against a cup, and I am transported back to my childhood to a time that brings memories of family setting at the kitchen table, laughing, talking, and drinking their coffee. I hear the sound of a cup being placed back on it's saucer, and the room smelling of fresh perked coffee.

Maybe it's time to bring back the cup and saucer!

FEED YOUR FACE: Mountain Oysters

OK now, no belly aching. You should try things at least once, just to say you tried.

My great grandma, my grand mother, and grandfather handed me this recipe a long time ago. I will admit that, at first, I was NOT going to eat Mountain Oysters. But you know what? They do taste pretty darn good. So don't be a sissy! Give them a try.

So, here is how to fix them up.
1/2 cup flour
1/2 cup cornmeal
salt and pepper
garlic powder
vegetable oil
1 bottle of beer
1 dozen (ish) mountain oysters (fresh ones are the best, but you can use frozen if you need to)

Make the batter by mixing the flour, cornmeal, and beer. Season it with some salt, pepper, and garlic powder to taste. Try to make the batter a little on the thick side.

Slice the oysters about 1/4 inch thick, then dip 'em in the batter. Cook them puppies in hot oil until medium crisp.

They are best if served while hot, and with a dipping sauce of your liking. I like to make a little sauce of ketchup with horseradish.

Now, I know that a lot of people won't try this. But, you should really be adventurous sometimes and try something new now and then. Or if you have a relative or someone that you are not really fond of, invite them over to watch a football game, baseball, or whatever and serve these up. Tell them that's all you have for munching on. They won't be coming back to soon to your house.

The first time I had these, was when I was a little kid. It was at Thanksgiving. I heard my grandparents talking about having oysters to snack on before we had our big meal. I had just discovered seafood. I love it all.

But, when they served up these oysters (and they were good), I was a little upset that they were not the oysters on the half shell like I had eaten before. They didn't taste like the fried oysters I'd had at the seafood place, and I said as much to my grandparents. You could have heard a pin drop. Papa and Pappy got up and left the kitchen. Mama hollered at them to come back in the kitchen and explain to me just what it was I was eating.

Papa grabbed his coat, and out the front door he went. Pappy,just didn't move fast enough. He came back into the kitchen, beet red, just about ready to bite his pipe in half. 'Course, I've been munching the whole time on these oysters. Pappy just looked at me and started laughing. Mama, giggled, and grandmother, beet red, giggled. Pretty soon the whole family was laughing.

And I just kept on eating them oysters.

It finally came down to my uncle who owned a ranch. He told me what the oysters were. I didn't believe him for one minute and I kept on eating them oysters. Then he asked me if I remembered being on the ranch last summer, and how they took some of the young bulls and had the vet checking on them. He reminded me that old Joe was there with his pocket knife out and the bucket next to him. I said that I remembered that. Well, my uncle asked, what do you think was in the bucket?

OH MY GOD! Them poor young bulls!

I really felt for them. I think I even cried a little at the time on the ranch. Well, they didn't get the reaction I think they thought they were going to get after eating about a half dozen or so and having decided that I liked them. We had them about every other Thanksgiving after that. I even got Mama to fix some up when I would go to her house. Papa and I would just wolf them down and Mama would have to make another batch, just so she could have some.

So, don't be a baby. As they used to say, "Try it, you'll like it." Whip up a batch and FEED YOUR FACE!

DON'T MESS WITH GRAN'MA

We all have loved our grandmas. Some are great cooks. Some can sew and knit. And some, like my great grandma, can do all of those things and more. Her name was Pearl, but we all called her Mama. She married at a young age. Her husband, my great grandpa, was a farmer. His name was Luna, but we all called him Papa. They had a farm in Missouri for many years, before moving here to Colorado.

Papa was about 5'5". Mama was about 5 foot, or maybe a bit shorter. They were wonderful grandparents. They spoiled the you-know-what out of me and my sister. They had a tiny house in the town of Kremmling, with a small frontyard and the backyard was somewhat bigger, with the original homestead cabin. On one side of the cabin, Mama had her garden -- some potatoes, onions, carrots, squash, pumpkins, and a chokecherry bush.

She was really proud of her little garden. My sister and I were happy to help her in the garden. The one thing that really set her off was critters in her garden! Even if it was the cat from down the street, YOU DON'T MESS WITH THE GARDEN! My sister and I got spanked a few times for going into the garden. All we had done was take a carrot or two!

Well, one summer, my sister and I were staying with Mama and Papa. We were waiting to go out to the ranch that our aunt and uncle owned. To pass the time, that trip, I brought along my slingshot. I was pretty good! I could hit a can about every third shot or so. Well, as long as it was a good sized can. Like a number 10 can. And my sister was just about as good a shot as me. That is, when she could take my slingshot away from me.

So, there we were, setting on the back steps, me shooting my sling shot. My sister was wanting to take her turn. I used rocks as ammo. But! -- had just figured out that marbles worked SO much better than the rocks.

We must have shot over a 100 marbles that day. Not a single can or bottle in the neighborhood was safe from us. Mama came out to see what all we were doing and to find out why she didn't have any cans to put grease in.

As she came out the door, she said a dirty word, grabbed my slingshot out of my hands, loaded a marble in it, pulled back, and let it fly! My sister and I had no idea of what in the world she was
shooting at, let alone that she even knew how to use a sling shot.

After she made her first shot, she grabbed another marble and let it fly. We watched as she ran back into the house, then came out with a butcher knife and a big bowl.

She then started towards her little garden as fast as her little legs would carry her. Now, we had never seen Mama run before, and it was quite the sight: butcher knife raised up in one hand and that big old bowl in the other. Her hair net sliding off of her head, her apron sliding down around her hips, one stocking down around an ankle. And this kind of wild look on her face! She ran off around the old cabin to her garden, muttering under her breath about them brazzen little bast***s.

We ran after Mama and caught up with her as she reached her garden. Lying in the garden were two of the biggest rabbits I had ever seen, both of them flat-out dead, one with a parcel piece of carrot in its mouth.

Mama looked at us and said "Rabbit for dinner tonight!" My sister and I just stood there looking at her and them two rabbits. She laughed and said, "Close your mouths -- you're catching flies." We followed her back into the house, never saying a word. We watched as she dressed out the rabbits. We stayed in the house the rest of the day. My sister and I didn't really talk, or do anything. We just kind of sat there and watched Mama.

Later, Papa came home from work. He cleaned himself up and we all sat at the supper table, still watching Mama. Our plates were full, then Papa said grace and they began to eat. My sister and I, on the other hand, just sat and stared at Mama. Papa looked at us, asked if we were hungry, and -- if we were -- why were we not eating.

My sister and I both started to talk at the same time about how Mama had shot TWO rabbits with my slingshot.

Papa started to laugh, and Mama kind of turned red in the face and asked, "Haven't you two ever seen a grown up shoot a slingshot before?" We answered that we had, but we had NEVER seen a grandma shoot one before.

Well that was the wrong thing to say. Her face became even redder, and she kind of puffed herself up. She told us that she grew up shooting a slingshot, and that she helped her dad put food on the table when she was a little girl. She then got up and left the table.

Papa just sat there and tried to keep from laughing more. He told us that he was married to her for over two years before he found out that she was such a marksman with a slingshot. He said he came in one day from plowing and was washing up on the back porch when she came around the corner from the chicken coop carrying a dead raccoon. She had the coon in one hand and a slingshot in the other. He asked her what in the world she was doing, and she said that she was saving the chickens and wanted to know if he liked raccoon.

He told her NO, he didn't want any 'coon. Then he asked where she got that slingshot! She told him she made it herself, and that she and her brother used to make them all the time. Papa said he never knew that she could shoot like that. He had a old single shot .22, but she wouldn't touch it.

My sister and I just sat there, fascinated, and listened to Papa. He told about her chasing some fellow off the front yard with her slingshot. She nailed him several times in the butt. Papa found out later that the fellow she chased off was running for some office, and was making the rounds to get support for himself. Papa said the guy won his race, but never came to their place again.

The next morning, my sister and I got up, ate breakfast, and headed right outside. Mama was on the quiet side and sat there drinking her coffee. After we had been playing for a couple of hours, Mama came outside. She had a slingshot in her hand. It was old, you could tell. And it was a thing to behold. It was shinny, from years of being in someone's hand. You could see the grain of the wood. And it was bigger than my store bought sling shot. Hers had a bigger pouch to hold rocks and such. She had a leather bag in her other hand.

The bands on hers were flat, while mine was the round tube type of band. In that leather bag she had what looked like white and brown marbles. They were the roundest rocks I had ever seen, and some were real marbles. The white and brown ones were handmade marbles from clay. The round rocks, she got from a stream many years ago when she was a child.

Mama sat on the steps with us and we all took turns shooting at cans. She would shoot a tuna can standing on edge from about 20 feet or so, and hit it two more times before it stopped rolling and fell over. AND she could hit a bottle or can tossed up in the air! It was a great afternoon.

We never did make it out to the ranch. We were too busy with Mama, shooting our slingshots. When Papa made it home, he sat and shot also. He couldn't hit anything. But it was fun just the same.

When Mama went in to start supper, my sister and I sat out with Papa, had a Coke, and just kind of sat there. Papa laughed and said, "You know, I'd hate to really make that women mad. The way she can shoot that slingshot, I bet you couldn't get to the end of the street without her peppering your behind a dozen times."

As he got up, he said "Yep. . . don't mess with grandma."

Mama and Papa have long since passed. The memories of them and time spent are still with me and my sister. And that leather bag and slingshot of hers? Well, the last time I saw it, it was in her casket at the viewing, placed there by Papa.

REMEMBER WHEN

This story was posted sometime last year. I am posting it now because of a request from a few of my blog followers. For those of you who have already read this, I hope that you don't mind reading it again (if you want). So, enjoy.

How long has it been since you flew a kite? Remember when kites were homemade? Store bought ones flew just as good as homemade ones and on windy spring days, kites just seemed to appear in the sky.

You would bug your parents for a kite or to help you build one. I remember my Dad making me a kite out of The Denver Post. I helped by handing him scissors, paste, and string. The wood for the kite came from our garage, and the tail was supplied by my grandmother. It only took my Dad about half an hour and we had a kite to fly.

Once outside, he would unwind the string and walk backwards up our street. I would stand there and hold the kite gently. When my Dad gave the word, I would toss the kite above my head, and duck. The first couple of times, we couldn't get it off the ground. Some of the other kids would tell him he had to run faster. 'Course, this always made him a bit ticked off, but it did seem that he would run a bit faster each time.

After what seemed like weeks, my Dad would finally get the kite up in the air. He would tug the string a bit, let out more string, and tug it again. Now, there I was, standing by, waiting to fly MY kite. He would always say "just a minute." Well, the minutes would go by and we both would watch MY kite float along on the wind.

Pretty soon, he would be almost out of string, and the kite was way, way, way, up there. It seemed like it was higher and further than any of the other kites. He would holler at me to go in the house and get another roll of string.

Well, we had taken one spool of string from grandmother when we first made the kite, so we just used it for the flying of it. But now Dad wanted more string. So I went in to get more string. Pappy was sitting on the front porch as I ran into the house. As I came out with a big spool of string, Pappy stopped me in my tracks. I had taken grandmother's twine for wrapping packages. Pappy told me that I shouldn't use it. I told him it was all I could find, and I ran off towards my Dad.

Pappy never said another word, just sat there with his pipe in his mouth, puffing away. As I got to my Dad, he had about a foot of string in his hand. I handed him the spool of twine. And I finally got to fly MY kite, for all of maybe one minute. He tied the twine to the remainder of the string, and took back control of the kite. Now we had kids watching as he started to let out the twine. Nobody had ever done this on our street before. One spool of string to a kite was the norm. 'Course, they didn't know my Dad -- over-achiever, I guess, and he let out just about that whole spool of twine.

MY kite was almost out of sight! I mean, you could barley even see it in the sky! The only way we knew where it was was by the tail of our kite. Grandmother had shredded Pappy's union suit into rags, and MY kite was adorned with a red tail, about 4 feet long. Needless to say, it stuck out pretty well. (For those of you who do not know what a union suit is, it is long handled underwear for men, you know, the kind with the flap in the back.)

Well, the kite was real high in the sky, and just a little dot, except for its tail. The other kids were just opened-mouthed about how far it went and how much string has been let out.

Then all of a sudden the wind changed, and the kite started to drop. We knew, because the tail was now at the top. My Dad started to pull on the string, and tug, and run up the street a ways. He started to reel in the string. He reeled and reeled, and tugged and pulled on the string. And reeled some more. He reeled it in so fast that he started to miss the spool and had a big wad of string around his hand. He kept on reeling, and soon was getting red in the face.

Pappy was standing up, and looking off towards the kite. It was getting lower in the sky, and my Dad reeled in the string like a man on a mission. By then you couldn't see the spool in his hand because string covered his hand. It almost looked like one of the oblong bee's nests you see every now and then. Then Pappy was on the stairs of the porch, and his hands were moving like he was reeling in the string! The kids were telling my Dad to reel faster!

I was just standing there, watching my Dad and Pappy. Then Pappy was off the porch and hollering at my Dad to reel faster, and the kids were hollering to reel faster, and My Dad had this funny look on his face like he was mad, but just can't seem to keep a straight face, and he started to laugh.

We lost MY homemade kite that day. The kids talked about it until about the middle of summer. We never did get all the string and twine back. It was tangled and I spent I don't know how long trying to untangle it. My Dad had a hard time getting it off of his hand. I never got a piece any longer than about 2 feet.

Pappy went back to setting on the porch. Grandmother chewed us out for using her good twine. And my Dad felt so bad about the whole thing that he went out and bought me AND my sister store bought kites. He helped us put them together, but never offered to come out and help us fly them.

We did find our kite though. It ended up on the utility wires on Colfax, across the street from the Casa Bonita Mexican restaurant. I had just happened to look up and there it was, tangled up, hanging upside down, the red tail was fluttering in the wind. I pointed it out to Pappy. He chomped down on his pipe, his face turned red, and he said that that damn union suit got more miles on it now then when he wore them. Then he smiled.

You know, I just may buy me a kite and wait for the wind to be j-u-s-t right.

THANK ALL OF YOU

I want to thank all of you. Your thoughts and prayers mean so much to me and my family.

Sometimes a person does not really know how blessed they are. I feel that I'm very blessed by knowing all of you out there who read my little blog.

Things are getting better. Dad's funeral service was good. Just as they were playing taps, a flock of geese flew over, honking. Dad loved the sound of geese. Maybe that was his way of saying, "I'm home, and don't worry, I love you all."

Again, I thank you all for all the comments and prayers.

What are you wearing?

Jim is still grieving (and now he has a colossal cold), so you get me today (Kathi), since he didn't want the last post of the year to be on a sad note.

I thought I would tell you a story that involves Jim's dad. But it's a story in two parts.

My friend John (a gay man) and I had a joke that started when I was married to Mr. Poopie (in the "olden" days). Mr. Poopie thought that John and I were having an affair. The truth is that we, of course, just really liked each other. Oh -- and add the fact that John is gay. (Hello, Mr. Poopie?)

Before our divorce, I was carpooling downtown with Mr. Poopie because his car was broken, so I told him it was okay for him to ride with me. I was also going to pick up John, who lived downtown, because he and I were traveling for work together, and John didn't have a car of his own (since he lived downtown).

The deal was: I would call John when I reached a certain street. That would give him time to get himself and his suitcase downstairs and out front, so I would just swoop in and pick him up. When the time came to call John, I handed Mr. Poopie my cellphone and asked him to call John instead, and to tell him it was time to go downstairs.

I heard him make the call and saw a weird look cross Mr. Poopie's face, and when I stopped at John's I could tell he was about to burst with laughter he was holding in. But he didn't say anything.

When we dropped Mr. Poopie off, as soon as we pulled away, John did laugh long and hard, and I was waiting for my explanation!

John had answered the phone, since he knew it was me, in his sexiest voice asking, "What are you wearing?" Well, that really threw Mr. Poopie for a loop and further added to his suspicions. From that point on, John and I always answered the phone when the other one called by asking, in a sexy voice, "What are you wearing?"

Well, my father-in-law heard the story, so I started any future phone call with him with, "What are you wearing?" and his standard answer was, "Just my old geezer stuff." His old geezer stuff was a shirt, jeans, and lace-up boots, though I'm pretty sure he'd say the same thing even if he were wearing pajamas.

Now for the next part!

Before Jim and I bought the house we are living in, we looked around Mead, Milliken, Johnstown, etc. 'cause we had been told that it was possible to get one for less dollars than in the Denver area. Those cities are near Loveland, where Jim's parents live.

When we knew we were going to be in the area, I called them by cellphone in the morning to tell them that we'd be done looking in early afternoon, and that we'd call them then and maybe we'd all go to lunch. It was a plan.

We drove around and looked, and early on we saw one house with a promising sign in the window, so I called to get more information, but there was no answer. I wrote the number down and thought we might call again later.

Finally, we were tired of looking and hungry for lunch. I hit the redial button on my phone, 'cause I remembered that I had called my in-laws first thing that morning to tell them we were going to be in the area. The phone rang, and when my father-in-law answered, I said, "What are you wearing?" But instead of hearing, "Just my old geezer stuff," I got a response that was, "Well, my t-shirt, jeans, and my lace-up boots." I said that wasn't the answer I was expecting! My father-in-law said, "Well, that's what I'm wearing!" And I said I knew that's what we was wearing, but I didn't know why he didn't just say, "Just my old geezer stuff!" I was told that he might be old fashioned, but that he was no old geezer!

Okay. . . something wasn't right.

Oops. I just remembered that the last number dialed wasn't my in-laws', but that of the house with the sign in the window.

I was embarrassed, and gave the gentleman who answered the short version of the story, and he laughed, gave me some info on the house, than we hung up.

Of course, then I had to call my father-in-law and tell him about that. He thought it was the funniest thing! He chuckled about it all day.

This picture is of Jim, his son Bryan, and Jim's dad (also a Jim).

You will notice he is wearing his old geezer stuff.

PEDDLE YOUR A** OFF

This is more fun than riding a bicycle. When I was just a little kid, when we lived in Arkansas, I got a pedal car for Christmas. And, not just any pedal car -- it looked like a '57 Chevy. It was silver and blue. So, I forgot about my rocking horse and Wagon Train on the TV, and started being a race car driver who wore a six-gun and a cowboy hat.

No place in the house was safe! I parked that car right at the foot of my bed. It was parked only one night at the head of the bed, 'cause my dad came in one night to tell us good night and ran into my car, stubbing his toes and scraping his shin. So after that it was parked at the foot of the bed.

I would wake in the morning, jump to the foot of the bed, and then jump right into the driver's seat. And away I'd go. First stop? Potty. I would back into the bathroom, right next to the toilet, and stand on the seat of the pedal car, pee and -- when done -- away we went.

Next, a turn or two around the coffee table and then into the dinning room.

I was always stopped before I could drive into the kitchen. I was made to park my car out of the way while we ate breakfast. So, I parked it under the dining table. Now, I never let my sister drive my car 'cause she would break it.

Besides, she always wanted to put one of her dumb dolls in it. And that Christmas, she got the MOTHER of all dolls. This thing was as tall as she was. There was no way that the two of them would fit in my car. 'Course, there was the mom saying, "Share with your sister!"

Why?!! I didn't want her to share with me. All she had were them dumb dolls. Why would a race car/cowboy driver want to play with dolls!

One day I was out racing around the block and my sister had that mother of all dolls outside. She had roller skates on the doll, and she had her roller skates on and was trying to get this doll to skate down the sidewalk. On about lap 40, I came around the corner, took my legs and feet up off the pedals and was coasting down the sidewalk.

My sister and her doll were about half a block in front of me. Now, this is when that little devil that we all have in us as kids saw the doll in the middle of the sidewalk, and saw my sister in the grass walking and making this doll skate down the walk. Everytime I came up behind them, I had to slow down.

Well, not this time. I was coasting along like at 100 miles an hour. I hunkered down a bit in the seat and put the little painted hood ornament dead center on that doll. I hit that doll so hard that the hand and arm that my sister had a hold of was ALL she had. That doll flew! I mean, that thing must have been 50 feet in the air and was doing flips.

Me, on the other hand, got smacked by the doll's head as she started her first flip. One of the doll's legs was stuck under the front of my car and it was just big enough that it lifted the front end of my pedal car enough that the front wheels were off the ground.

The doll was 50 feet in the air, doing flips, I got smacked in the head by the doll's head, and I was teary eyed. There was a doll's leg stuck under the front end of my pedal car, so now I can't steer. And my sister is screaming her head off and chasing me down the sidewalk, swinging a doll arm.

Then I was off the sidewalk and headed towards a neighbor's driveway where his new Buick was parked. And then..... BANG! I hit the passenger side of the Buick. My pedal car stopped, the wedged doll leg slid under the Buick, my sister was still screaming, and she was starting to beat me with a doll arm. The doll had hit the ground and bounced into a rose bush.

I couldn't get out of the pedal car. I was trapped, not because of mangled metal, but because my sister had me by the shirt collar and was beating me to death. Mom heard the screaming of my sister, who was screaming like I ran over her instead of that doll. The neighbor lady who owned the Buick heard the screaming and came out to see what was going on. When she saw her new Buick, she started screaming also.

So everyone was screaming except for me. Mom got me out of my pedal car, and swatted my butt, and my sister was still swinging that doll arm from around mom. The neighbor lady wanted to swat my butt, too.

I was looking at my pedal car.

The front was crumpled some, the front tires looked a little out of whack, and there was this nice scratch of blue paint on the side of the white Buick. No ding, no dent -- just blue paint from my pedal car.

Mom grabbed me and my car, and dragged us to the house, saying the words that all kids dread: "WAIT TILL YOUR FATHER GETS HOME!"

Well he came home, asked me what happened, and I told him: I tried to run over my sister's doll because she would always make me slow down as I came down the hill and it wasn't fun going slow down a hill! My sister must have cried for something like a week, it seemed. It was maybe just a day. I was grounded for a week. You know. . . no TV and all that.

My dad fixed that stupid doll. One leg was scratched real bad. He managed to get the arm put back in and it had all of these little scratches from the rose bush. It's eyes didn't seem to work quite right after that. When you'd lay the doll down, and the eyes would close? Well, they kinda closed, but one eye kinda looked off to one side. And I never thought that I would see my pedal car ever again.

My dad somehow managed to fix it up. Or maybe one of the guys at the air base helped him fix it. It still worked, but the paint wasn't the same. It had a dent or three that couldn't be pounded out. The first time I took it around the block after it was fixed and coasted down that sidewalk, it seemed that it was going just a might faster than when it was new.

As I went by the neighbor lady, she gave me a crusty look, so I stuck my tongue out at her, and went right on by.

As I came up by my house, there was my dad with a smile on his face.

I don't know who, or how, but the Buick was fixed and repainted. It was the same color of blue as my pedal car. And the same blue as was still on the back of the legs on that stupid doll.

BUSY BUSY BUSY

Holy moly. I've been busier than a one legged man at a butt kickin' contest. It has been a lot of running from here to there and everywhere.

We got my Dad and Mom to go to the flea market last weekend. We pushed him around in a wheelchair, so several of us got a good workout. Dad, on the other hand, just kicked back and enjoyed the ride. He directed whomever was pushing, saying "Take me over to that table." "Cross over to that table, he has tools!" "Look at them kerosine heaters over there." "Find out what he wants for that generator." "Push me over to that table, it has tools." (I guess you can never have to many tools.) "What in the world?! Is that a old GI stove over there? Yep. Well, the whole damn thing is rusted on the inside."

And Mom just kind of followed along. I'm glad that Kathi went with. It gave Mom someone to talk to. Then we got to the fruit and veggie vendors. It was a little hard to to follow the conversation when trying to buy some fruit or veggies, but thanks to Kathi and her Spanish.

In Spanish, aout all I can do is ask for beer and count to 10. And maybe enough to get myself in trouble or get my face slapped.

We bought some tomatoes and some poblano peppers. My sister bought some corn, 25 ears for $6. So we loaded up everything on Dad's lap. It was kind of hard for him to see over everything there at the end. But, what the heck -- he had seen it all when we first got there!

After the weekend, Kathi had Monday off from work and I ran amok. Plenty to do. We roasted tomatoes and peppers. We took one flat of Roma tomatoes, smoked and roasted them in our smoker, along with the peppers. We then put the tomatoes in our slow cooker, and made spaghetti sauce. (Recipe to come later.)

We took the other flat of tomatoes and sliced them up, sprinkled garlic powder on some, oregano on some others, and a little bit of salt on some others. Then we thew them in our dehydrator.

The tomatoes took 23 hours at 140 degrees. Man, oh man, did they ever come out good! So, we may head back to the flea market this Saturday and see about getting some more. The sauce also came out great. There were about 50 some Romas to a flat.

I promise to post the sauce recipe next week. Yum. So, get ready to Feed Your Face!

THE CRAP MOUSE

It is about time for some scary stories, since Halloween is just around the corner. And just so you know, the mouse in this story was not hurt, though I did try really hard to do the little bugger in.

This takes place on the same hunting trip, that the Cactus Butt story came from.(Check it out from a while ago on this blog.) Just a different day.

So, it started out to be a pretty good day. It had snowed the night before, and we had about 5 more inches of snow. Now, like most people, the first thing you do in the morning is to make a call on Mother Nature. But since it had snowed, I was hoping that some one else would be the first to run out and use the toilet we had set up, so that the seat would not be all that cold. I mean, there were 5 of us in camp and we all had just gotten up. You would think that at least one of them could not wait, and they would run out and do their business so that the rest of us would kind of have a warm seat to set on.

But, alas, it was not to be. I mean, it is nothing to do number one. Just step out away from camp and go. But for doing number two, we brought a portable john. You know, the type that has short legs and has the toilet seat attached? It folds up like a TV tray? You attach a plastic bag to the bottom and do your paperwork. Well the one we had was not the sturdiest, and it didn't have a lid to put down when you were done.

So, when using this thing, you can't really put the full weight of your butt on it. And we just had a chunk of wood as a lid. So, as I'm waiting for someone else to go first, I'm kinda doing a little dance in place. I'm given a nice hot cup of coffee. There I was, trying to drink hot coffee, doing a little pee-pee dance, standing in the middle of our big tent in my union suit.

And I GOTTA GO! I couldn't stand it anymore.

So, out the tent I went. I set my coffee down on a log next to our john, and had paper in hand. Our make shift seat cover and toilet seat are under 5 inches of new snow. I swept the snow off as fast as I could, threw off the makeshift lid, looked around real quick, and didn't see anyone. I proceeded to drop my drawers, and lightly set down. Man, was it cold!

The next thing I knew, the bag below rustled and this damn mouse ran up between my legs and jumped off my lap! The mouse went one way, and I let out a girly scream like you never heard, and I went the other way! Down.

'Course, I'm sure every body in the whole valley heard that scream. My campmates came flying out of the tent, one or two of them had their sidearms out. There I was, butt sticking out, practically had frostbitten butt checks, the toilet seat stuck to my butt, and my drawers around my ankles. Thankfully, the stuff that was in the bag was frozen solid.

My campmates just stood there, mouths open. My Dad finally said that they thought that I had been attacked by a bear or a mountain lion. Yeah, right, like a bear was going to be out this time of year. The bears were all snug and sleeping the winter away.

I'm was still trying to get up off the ground, toilet seat still frozen to my butt, and I was trying to get my drawers up.

They laughed their heads off. They laughed while we ate breakfast. One had coffee come out his nose. I thought another was going to choke on his bacon. They laughed while we tried to hunt. I could pinpoint them all, just from their laughing.

And that toilet? Well, it ended up being used as a target holder. That's what we should have used it for in the first place.

As for that damn mouse? I tried, I don't know how many times, to get that little booger. But to no avail. He got away.

None of us got to fill out our tags that season. Between cactus butt and renegade mice and everyone laughing so much, I think that we pretty much scared off everything within 30 miles or more.

So, a warning and advice: check before you sit!

DRAGGING BUTT

Well, I missed posting Friday. About all I can do right now, is just hitting the keys. I spent the day Thursday helping my parents in Loveland. They had some things that needed to be done in their garden area.

It ended up being more than I thought it would be. At first, Mom asked me, if I could put down some ground cloth to keep weeds out. And she wanted me to put down some bark around where they used to have a garden. So, like a good son, I said sure, no problem. So away I went with Nugget to Loveland.

They had already been to Home Depot and bought like 40 bags of bark and ground cloth.

I thought that all I had to do was put down the cloth, pin it down, and spread the bark. Well, it turned out I first had to remove old bark that has been there since the dawn of time, and pull up the old ground cloth. With my dad's health not being the best in the world right now, it was Mom and I: me shoveling bark and she taking it to the back side of the shed.

I picked up all of the old bark, and I started to pull up the old ground cloth.

My dad came outside, set in a chair, and said for me to just leave the old stuff there, and " we" would put the new cloth over the old. And that was fine by me. But, putting down the new cloth was a little harder than I thought it would be, with me being such a "young" feller of 55. I do not know how many times I was standing, rolling out ground cloth, pinning it down, and making sure that there are no wrinkles in said ground cloth.

As I was doing all of this, Mom decided to start moving bags of bark to back where I am trying to lay the ground cloth. Now I have two projects going. Then I'm told that they also have a raised garden bed to put together. Third project.

Well, I had most of the ground cloth down when Dad decided that he was getting hungry. Mom had moved maybe four bags of bark to the ground cloth, as it's all she can do to move two bags at a time in the wheel barrow. And it is getting warmer out also.

After lunch, back to the yard. More up and down on my hands and knees. I got all the ground cloth down, over 150 feet long or more. Mom was trying to open bags of bark and spread it around. And we still needed to get the raised garden put together.

Well, to make a long story short, "we" managed to get all the ground cloth down and pinned got over half of the raised garden put together. And maybe dumped about six bags of bark. And then they both said that they had had enough and it was time to call it quits. So I quit.

I was stiff and a little sore and the drive back home went alright. But when I hit the driveway, I felt like I had been dragged through a knothole backwards. I suddenly hurt from head to toe. Plus, I had a bit of a sun burn, even after wearing all kinds of sun block. As soon as I sat down at home, I was done.

Friday morning it was about all I could do just to stand by the coffee pot. My butt hurts, my legs hurt, my arms hurt, my hands hurt, my feet hurt. In fact, about the only thing that does not hurt is the top of my head, and I attribute that to wearing a hat all day. I called my parents to talk to them.

Mom was already outside spreading bark, and my Dad was getting dressed so he could go out and help her. And here I am, I can hardly move, I have to drink my coffee with a straw and have no idea how I'm going to do breakfast. Nugget has already had his and is giving me that look, like, "I've had my breakfast. What are you going to eat?"

When it hurts to try to move your arms above your chest, I was amazed that I managed to get a box of cereal out, and managed to open it. I couldn't do more, so I just buried my face in the box, and pigged out. Nugget caught the overflow, what fell to the floor and even what was stuck to my face when I managed to set on the bed to try to get dressed. But I won't go there. That is a whole different story.

GIRL SCOUT COOKIES

Who does not like Girl Scout Cookies? I think I may have found the next new diet. Yep, thin mints. I love the thin mint cookies. Only problem, the boxes are now smaller, and that means less cookies. So we have to buy more boxes of cookies, to make up for the new smaller boxes.

Plus, that means we lose a little weight from our wallets. I remember when I could buy a box of thin mints for $1.00. Course that was way back in the late sixties. Now I don't know if this will work, with all the other type of cookies they have, but I'm willing to sacrifice myself to find out if this new diet plan works. I have not figured out the quantity to eat every day. I am still working on it. I also am not sure what the weight loss will be after so many weeks. So, there will be some trial and error along the way.

I figure that if this works, the girl scouts should be able to afford all kinds of new stuff. Who knows! I might even get my picture on the cookie boxes. Now I just need to see if I can get some family support, to see if they would be willing to purchase some extra boxes of thin mints for this project.

Let's see. . . one box per meal, plus half a box per snack, twice a day. Oh yeah, Don't forget the milk.

DID YOU KNOW? Fish. . .

"Did you know that fish are attracted to water?"

--Lynn Nevin (my sister) (1956- )

LAST OF THE GREAT HUNTERS

My parents moved out of Colorado in 1975 to a tiny little town called Green Forest, Arkansas: 120 acres of hilly ground. My Dad had always wanted to have a farm of some type.

So we packed up everything and I helped them move, then I came back to Denver, because I was 18 and full of wild oats. I needed to sow them oats. But that's a different story.

My Dad and Mom went whole hog, so to speak. They bought a few head of cows. Mom had them all named within a week. They got some chickens and Mom named them all, too. Then they got some pigs, and Mom named them. They put in a 100' by 100' garden, just for the two of them. Mom had no idea what she was in for.

So, those of you who have lived on a farm or ranch or in the country know what it takes to live that kind of life. (I wish I could do it myself right now.) There are all kinds of things that you have to put up with, and do, to make it all work.

Well, they had been farming for a few years and Mom was still getting used to being on a farm. The farm had grown. Cows, chickens, pigs, dogs, cats, and racoons, snakes, and mice -- just about any other type of critter you can think of.

One evening they were watching TV. The TV sat between two doorways. The doorways led to the bedrooms. As they were watching TV, this little mouse poked his head around the doorframe and looked about, then ducked back into the bedroom. About a minute later, he did it again, and then ran like the dickens, out of the bedroom, under the TV, and into the other bedroom, his little feet sliding on the tile floor as he ran.

Mom let out a screech, which made my Dad jump. He asked her what she was hollering about, and she told him about the mouse running under the TV. Dad said he would take care of it in the morning. So they settled down and kept watching TV. Pretty soon, the little mouse poked his head out of the room he had run to, and ducked back. About 30 seconds later, here he came, little feet sliding on the floor as before, under the TV and back into the room he had started from. Mom hollered again. And Dad jumped again. She made a comment about the mouse, and my Dad said he would take care of it.

This little mouse made about six different trips under the TV. Going back and forth from bedroom to bedroom. And Mom hollered each time. My Dad just sat there and kept watching TV. By then Mom was about to burst. She is one of those people who want things done, like NOW! So at the next commercial, my Dad got up and left the room. Mom went into the kitchen for some more hot tea. When she came back to set down, my Dad was in his chair, and had out his old 22 rifle.

He was seated in his recliner, with the foot rest up, the barrel of the rifle between his feet, and the butt of the rifle was in his lap. When Mom came in from the kitchen with her hot tea, she did not see the rifle in my Dad's lap. There they sat, watching TV. Pretty soon, the little mouse showed his face again, from the bedroom. My Dad was waiting, not watching TV. The mouse gave a leap, and he was off, under the TV, and into the other bedroom. Mom hollered, and my Dad said he would take care of it, and to quit the damn hollering every time the mouse showed up. Course, she lets out a little scream every time the phone rings (she's been a nervous type all these years).

As they were finishing up their show, the little mouse reappeared from the other bedroom and started his run under the TV. All of a sudden, there was a POP. Mom screamed and the mouse didn't make it to the other bedroom. My Dad had shot a mouse in the house!

No traps for this man. He is a man's man. (This is wear you are supposed to make a grunting noises like Tim Allen, from the show Tool Time.)

The rifle he used was as old as I am. It shoots 22 longs, shorts, and long rifle. He had loaded it up with one round of what is called rat shot. It is itty bitty, and I mean really small BBs. A few days after the great hunter had taken care of the rodent problem I got a phone call from Mom and Dad. Mom proceeded to tell me the whole story. And, of course, the great hunter did not say a word.

It was several weeks later that I made a trip to Mom and Dad's. The drive down was OK, except for crossing Kansas. It seems that it takes forever to get across. I would swear that I saw the same cow 5 times, and he was standing facing east every time. I think that they were longing for Colorado and the stock show.

When I pulled up to the house I had hardly gotten out of my car when I was grabbed by my Dad, dragged into the house, and made to get on my hands and knees to try to crawl under the TV. He was on his hands and knees with me, pointing to the base board on the right side of the TV. He had taken a pencil and circled the spot where he had done in the little mouse. As I was looking, I could see, just barely, the tiny little holes in the baseboard. Six little holes that looked like someone had poked the base board with a safety pin or something. He then proceeded to tell me, all over again, his side of the story.

It was pretty much the same as what Mom had said on the phone weeks before. But listening to him tell it, and the excitement in his voice, you would have thought that he had gone on safari or something. He was really proud of himself. 'Course so was Mom. And she told just about everyone she could get a hold of. I am sure that just about everyone in town knew about the great hunter. Plus, they never had any more mice in the house. In fact, the pack rat that lived in the wall by the front door must have moved out. My Dad said they never heard him any more in the wall after he got the mouse.

Mom still squeals at door bells, the phone ringing, and other noises. But she doesn't when there are mice around. I guess she finally got used to them on the farm. And my Dad has not been hunting for several years now. I guess that the mice in Loveland have heard of the great hunter, 'cause they haven't had any there!

My Fallen Hero

Those of you who know me personally know that we lost my nephew Grant in the war in Afghanistan just last spring.

Those of you who have seen the movie Taking Chance know of Michael Strobel, the real-life Marine who volunteered to accompany Chance Phelps' body home from Iraq.

Michael has a brother, Mark, who gets together with others each year to celebrate the Marine Corps birthday and honor fallen soldiers. This year, they included Grant, and here is the email that he sent my brother-in-law Robert, Grant's dad.



Dear Mr. Wichmann,

This past weekend, a few Marines assembled to celebrate the 235th birthday of our Corps. Although our birthday is November 10th, we had to use the weekend as it provided us opportunity to gather. As I had relayed to you back in July, a part of our intimate ceremony would include a reading of the names of our fallen. It was my pleasure to deliver my small part with a remembrance of your son, Grant. The following is an excerpt from that script:


Adjutant: Captain Strobl, report.
Captain Strobl: Sergeant Grant Arthur Wichmann, United States Army
3-61 Cavalry, 4th Brigade, 4th Infantry Division, 1st Corps

Adjutant: Condition?
Capt Strobl: Deceased, sir. April 24, 2010. In the line of duty.

Adjutant: Gentlemen, to our Army brothers.

ALL: (Glasses raised) To Our Army Brothers!

Throughout our dinner, a small glass of whiskey was placed next to the cover bearing Grant’s name place. That shot glass remained full. . . it was for Grant.

Sir, please know that the burden of your son’s loss is shared by every single man and woman who ever donned the uniform of the American fighting man. It is with great reverence that I was able to continue to honor Grant –not only for the man he was but also for everything he represents. The grotesque nature of combat etches memories that, I pray, my children will never realize. But for today, the world is a better place for men like Grant who took up arms and stood between good and evil. To this, a simple ceremony is the very least we can to for our brothers-in-arms who will never have the opportunity to say “Good Night” to their family again.
May the road rise to meet you and the wind be always at your back! And on the 235th anniversary of our Corps, I wish you a very, very Happy Birthday (you’re kind of “one of us” now)!

Semper Fidelis & Carry On,
--Mark “Rawk” Strobl, Captain, USMC (’88-’97)

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Tomorrow, I will share thoughts on some of the ways you can honor our country's veterans today and every day.