I Walk the Line

     Dad storms in the house and barks out, “Andee, go walk the ditches .” Beautiful music to my ears because I hate housework.  I dropped that dust rag on the nearest table and swept my hair back into a ponytail. I had my boots on in a matter of seconds and was running out the front door. I picked up a round-mouthed shovel on my way out to the field and hucked it onto my shoulder. The handle is old and rough. Damn, I forgot my gloves, so I do an about-face and head back into the kitchen to open the drawer that’s supposed to have 'em.  All I can find are two left handed gloves. Doesn't matter much to me, so I stick 'em in my back pocket.  

     As I’m heading out to the field I stop to slide a piece of green alfalfa out of its sheaf. I sucked all the juice out of the end and kept the rest to chew on as I’m walking across the field.  The alfalfa head is bobbing in perfect time with my steps. The smell of fresh alfalfa in the summer sun is mixed with muddy water. Farm fragrance.....ahhhhhhh.

     I get to the first row, pull my gloves from my back pocket, and put 'em on.  Takes a bit of doing on the right hand.  Positioning the shovel, I slide it deep as I can into the ground. Feels so good to sink that well-worn shovel into the mud. It makes a slow, wet, sucking sound as I release the clod from the ground’s hold on it.  I hurl it from one line to the next with a giant splash of water and mud mixed. The blend hits my Levi’s at knee level and all the way up to a once white T-shirt.  From the cold splat I can tell some also made it all the way up to my cheek.  

     Water flows into the furrow slowly at first pushing mud and crud out of its way, then a little swifter and smoother as it gains way. I move on to the next and the next.  It doesn’t feel like long but I’m at the end of the field.  I look back and I’m a good 50 acres from the house. Looking down at the design on my T-shirt, I smile.  I love dirt. Especially wet dirt.

Refrigerator Hash

Not often would mom go out in the evening and leave us kids alone with dad.  For this we were extremely grateful because when she did, dad would ‘cook’.  Now when I say cook I’m being mighty generous with that term. Let’s say dad was a preparer.  He knew how to prepare two things: refrigerator hash and pancakes with slyrup. 

This one particular night I remember watching mom drive away in our red Chevy station wagon, dust a flyin’.  It was late-afternoon and she didn’t say where she was going, but considering the speed with which she went, I figured she wouldn’t be home any time soon. So when it was dinnertime, Dad opened the fridge, pulled out all the leftovers, and put ‘em on the counter.  He got the largest cast-iron pan we had, put it on the burner, and turned it on low. Then he shoveled a wooden spoonful of lard into the pan and let it melt down.  Then one by one he took each leftover out of its container and dumped ‘em into the skillet.  Might be okay if you have leftovers that are similar in taste and texture. But if you have spaghetti mixed with mashed potatoes and gravy, green beans, tater tot casserole, carrots, corn, a little roast beef/extra-extra dry, and lima beans, it’s really not very good. What it is, is nasty!

I didn’t dare say that to dad.  He would have washed my mouth out with soap and then I’d still have to eat that hash. We all sat down to the table which Laurie, my older sister, set. Dad put a couple of pot holders in the middle.  He grabbed the hot cast-iron skillet with a few more pot holders and placed it in the middle of the table like it was the Thanksgiving turkey.  He was all smiles with his brilliant concoction. He scooped nice.......big......helpings on each of our plates and told us to dig in.  I scooched the food around trying to separate it out and just eat one food group at a time, but mostly that didn’t work.  I took small bites and washed it down with  loads of milk.  Dad dug right in with a healthy heaping-full on his fork.  You’d think with that big ol’ smile on his face he’d just invented some gourmet delight, some wonderful invention the rest of the world is just waiting to enjoy. You know …… like slyrup!

Multi-functional Bathroom

For most of my awkward, growing up years there was only one bathroom in our house. It was a little 6’ x 8’ (that might be a generous estimate of the room size) multi-functional bathroom.  You could sit on the pot, organize the dresser, and sort laundry all at the same time.  I could almost reach the sink, but my arms weren’t quite long enough.  The bathroom was not exactly level or elegant, but definitely functional.

Biggest problem with the bathroom, there was only one thing preventing someone from walking in while doing your business, and that was a little, tiny hook-and-eye lock.  Not real comforting.  An insistent tug could pull it right out of the wall, and as I remember, that happened a couple of times. 

The bathroom looked and felt like an afterthought; an add-on that could fall off any moment. The floor was springy.  Could be because it really wasn’t sitting on a foundation, just a few posts.  The bathroom was also, let’s say ….. moist. With the constant pile of dirty laundry and six people showering at multiple times during the week, it never completely dried out. 

Although the lock was a disconcerting problem, at times making it difficult to relax and go, the thing I hated most about our bathroom was the shower.  It was a DIY project for sure. You know the baseboard that you step over to get in, the one that holds the water in so it doesn’t flow all over the floor, every other one I’ve ever seen is made out of some kind of porcelain or plastic.  Ours was wood.  Warped, rotting, water-logged wood. The walls were one big gun-metal grey shell. Try as I might I couldn’t keep from leaning up against that cold shell with my bare behind.  I couldn’t help it; there were no shelves, so the shampoo and cream rinse were on the floor. When I’d stand back up straight the metal would make a loud popping sound that always scared the bejeebies out of me.  The shower-head was a yard sale find, and not a very good one I might add. The water pressure was hard, the shower curtain moldy and stained. It was just plain nasty.

But you gotta shower, right, and although I hated the shower itself, I loved being under water so hot I could barely stand it. So, one day I was getting ready to take a shower and I waited until everyone was gone, especially dad. I had to wait until he was gone ‘cause he would stand outside and watch the meter go ‘round. Then come back in and when I came out of the bathroom I’d get a 20 minute lecture on how much money I just wasted and the proper use of the shower which according to dad was:

ü  Get in

ü  Rinse off

ü  Turn water off

ü  Shampoo up

ü  Rinse

ü  Turn water off

ü  Apply condintioner and soap

ü  Rinse off

ü  Get out

Dad would scold, “You can get everything you need to get done in five minutes.”  

Just to defy him, I got in and took a luxuriously long, steaming hot shower without ever once turning the water off.  It felt amazingly good to let the water pour over my body uninterrupted.   I’ll bet I was in there for at least thirty minutes. Scandalous! Once I saw that I was a perfect pink from the hot water, I finally shut it off and opened the curtain.  I grabbed the towel I’d set on the dresser and was ready to step out when I looked down to see where I was stepping.  OMG!  Right there next to the rotting, nasty baseboard were two tiny, gangly, brown mushrooms.  Where the hell did they come from? One was a good 3” high and its friend was 2”. I got mushrooms in my bathroom!  What the hell!  Seriously?  

I am living on a farm where we grow mushrooms in our bathroom. Hey, wouldn’t want to be like all the other people who have just a normal everyday bathroom. Oh no! On our farm we have a moist, laundry ridden, squishy floor walkin’, too small, cramped, ugly, my brothers are gonna walk in on me anytime, bathroom.

I dressed, got a paper towel, picked those little suckers, and threw them in the garbage. I thought, someday life won't be so awkward. Some day.

Slyrup

Slyrup (sl-ur-up) noun A sweet, gritty, frothy concoction designed to enhance buttermilk pancakes and helps guarantee that friends will never want to come back once watching its creation and ultimate consumption.

Slyrup was created out of ingenuity.  On our farm nothing went to waste.  When an overabundance of one thing is present, what’s a farmer to do but figure out creative ways to use them up.  Simply put, slyrup is whipped eggs and sugar. Farm fresh eggs, still warm from the chicken, are cracked open revealing the deep golden color of the yolk, much richer than any store-bought egg can produce. I’d say a half a dozen will do for this morning’s meal so I’ll use a medium to large sized bowl.  Grab the egg beater and start whipping until the eggs are at least triple in size and a lovely, frothy consistency. Grab a healthy scoop of sugar by using the biggest serving spoon you can find in the drawer and let it cascade in sheets over the froth.  Whip until the sugar and eggs are all one beautiful, golden concoction.  Voila! Quite a creative use for an overabundance of eggs wouldn’t you say?

Slyrup, as I remember it, was delicious. The only downfall of it was the consistency.  The sugar didn’t dissolve completely so it was a little gritty, but sugar gritty is fine.  Hey, it’s sugar; you can’t go wrong with sugar.   Once the eggs and sugar are mixed together the frothiness turns to….well…..something else. Slyrup has a shiny but stringy consistency that when poured has to be ‘pinched’ in the middle, otherwise you get the entire bowlful on your pancake. Other than that, it’s fantastic if you don’t think about the eggs being raw.

To this day I can’t bring myself to recreate the frothy concoction even though I’ve had farm fresh eggs in which to do it. It’s still raw eggs. However, if you are a very frugal person with an overabundance of eggs or just have someone you’d rather not have over ever again, make a nice big batch of buttermilk pancakes, whip up some slyrup in front of them, pour and pinch a healthy portion on top of their pancake and set it right in front of them.  Serve yourself up, then dig in and eat hearty. 

Green Hornet to the Rescue

To say I loved my Green Hornet would be an understatement. She was, and still is, my favorite car.  Shamrock green, four door, 4-on-the-floor, bucket seats, tape player, driver’s seat fits my little butt perfectly, Green Hornet.  It didn’t matter that I had to leave the window down to reach in and open the driver’s door because the handle was broken. Or when it was winter and I crawled through the passenger door. Or when the passenger door handle broke and I had to climb into the back then up and over the bucket seats to get into the driver's seat.  I didn’t care. I loved that car.

I loved her so much because she gave me a freedom I hadn’t had before, but especially because I didn’t have to ride the school bus anymore.  However, it’s her fault I almost flunked 7th period P.E.  It was!  She would call to me from the parking lot and a few too many times I answered.  She’d smile at me as I walked up to her and roar for me as I turned the ignition to start her up.  We’d slowly inch our way out of the parking lot trying not to be too conspicuous.  She wasn’t quiet. As soon as we got a half mile down the road, I’d open her up so we could fly, windows down, hair whippin’, AC/DC blasting.

We were inseparable. I couldn’t go anywhere without her:  obviously.  To school, work, youth group, the river, grandma’s, town, wherever. It didn’t matter because we were together. I put a lot of miles on my little Green Hornet; she never let me down. But, one day she started wobbling, uncontrollably.  I had to pull over to check on her. 

Turns out I was driving her on a flat tire, for, oh let’s say three miles.  Apparently bad things happen to the structure when you do that.  Leaving her in some stranger’s driveway, I walked the last two miles home. Dad picked her up and brought her home. Much to my horror he didn’t drive her into the shop to fix her up, instead he put her in the boneyard.  I bawled.  I said, “She’s totally fixable dad, doesn’t she just need a new tire? I’ll pay for it. Please dad.” “NO,” was his definitive answer. She stayed in the boneyard.  She was dead, and I had killed her. 

She wasn’t alone though.  There was the pumpkin orange Chevy truck dad always let me shift when we drove around together. It was dead too. The blue Chevy Impala I crawled into the back seat of and took a nap when I was 10. There were a lot of trucks used on the farm that’d seen better days, along with old hay rakes, disc harrows, cultivators, and tractors, only John Deere. All dead. All decaying on a relatively small portion of the 265 acres of Old McDonald’s Farm.  

I missed her terribly.  My freedom was gone without her, and I was back to riding the bus.  Grass grew up around her tires each summer, snow buried her every winter. I hated seeing her that way. Neglected. Grass growing up  all around her. Apparently, dad was teaching me a lesson about responsibility. I learned it for sure, but not until my little Green Hornet had rusted beyond repair.  I always wished dad would just dig a big hole and bury all the dead stuff so the place wouldn’t look like such a junkyard.  Except my Green Hornet.  She’d be the headstone.

 

It's What's For Dinner

Growing up on a working farm we ate what we raised.  I knew not to get attached to the critters because they’d be on my plate, eventually. When it came to butchering, there were good butchering days and then there were the days we butchered chickens.  Good butchering days were days butchering beef because it always turned into a big family party with cousins, aunts, and uncles all coming to help. The men would do the cutting, rendering mostly familiar cuts of beef and some cuts I’m sure no butcher would recognize. The women would grind the odd cuts into hamburger and package the beef, all the while cooking the choicest cuts to feed the ravenous crew.  But butchering chickens was just the McDonald clan and it’s bloody, smelly, and exhausting.  I’m not talking about just a few chickens here. I’m talking 75-100 chickens. It takes all…day…. long. 
   

Each person has a job.  Dad and my two brothers were set up in front of the garage where there were big blocks of wood for the whacking off of the head and gravel to soak up the blood.  After they chopped off the head and let the blood drain, they’d toss ‘em into the grassy yard. The chickens flopped around for about a minute or so.  After they’re done twitching, my job is to grab them and dunk them in boiling hot water; one of mom’s jobs is to keep the water coming.  Hot water opens up their pores making it easier to pluck their feathers. It’s the worst job, I think, because wet chicken smell is…well….simply put, foul.  Chicken pluckin’ takes about 10-15 minutes per chicken; however, as the day drags on and my strength gives out it takes considerably longer.

Once stripped naked the next step is to burn their hair off.  That’s right, chickens have hair.  Makes you want to chomp down on a big, fatty chicken breast doesn’t it?  Burning the hair is dad’s job because he uses a blow torch.  One more dunking in a bucket of clean hot water to wash off any ash then back to the boys for the cleaning out of the insides.

Next step is into the house where mom and my sister package them whole or cut them up.  Either way last stop is the deep freeze. It takes us all day and pretty much the last thing I want to do is eat chicken, but that’s exactly what’s for dinner.

 If you’ve never had a home cooked, fried chicken dinner, with mashed potatoes, pan gravy, fresh green beans from the garden, hand pressed butter, home baked bread right from the oven, all accompanied with a great big glass of ice cold, fresh from the cow milk, let me tell you, you have not had the best meal of your life yet.  

I know it’s not the healthy choice, but every once in a while I've got to indulge.  And I do. When I bite into that tender, moist, delicious chicken leg, cooked in bacon grease, then savor those lumpy mashed taters, just like mom used to make, with perfectly seasoned pan gravy, it takes me back to the farm with my family, working long, exhausting days stocking our freezer, but mostly smelling that chicken fryin’ in mom’s giant, well-worn, cast iron skillet.

Milkin'

Love time spent by myself

Hate going to the furthest edge of the property 'cause she doesn’t want to be milked

Love that she walks right into the stanchion once we’re there

Hate that short, squatty stool

Love the galvanized bucket

Hate it when she slaps me with her shit encrusted tail

Love the sound of milk hitting the empty bucket and the frothing sound once it’s begun to fill

Hate it when she sticks her shit filled hoof in the bucket

Love all the critters lined up for a shot of warm milk

Hate throwing the milk out when the hoof makes it into the bucket

Love how soft my hands are using bag balm

Hate that I can’t figure out the squeezing technique to make it go faster

Love the warmth of her fur against my face

Hate that it takes me two hours

Love the milk, cream, and butter