Muggins

Most of us have had the privilege of having pets in our lives. Pets come in many different varieties and sizes. Some things that people call pets don’t seem to fit into that category, but that is a matter of individual tastes. Personally I don’t envision a snake as a “pet”!

I prefer a pet that is affectionate and will return affection and caring. Dogs and cats are the most common pets we all deal with in some way or another. Both can be loving and even caring for us in usual and unusual ways.

Growing up on the farm gave me opportunity to have many pets of many kinds. The rule on the farm was; the pet must be able to perform a function. In other words, it had to be useful to those that gave it food and care.

I know that there was a dog named Jack on the farm but that dog was mostly before my being aware there were such things as pets. The dog I grew up with was a mongrel named Muggins.

Muggins was a black and white, medium sized dog with a stump of a tail, which wagged endlessly even though there was nothing moving except his hind quarters. When he was happy, he was happy all over. His whole body would move in spasms of delight. His greeting on seeing any of us was instant and joyous.

Barking wasn’t his usual greeting, but often he just could not contain himself and would let fly with a series of barks that showed such dedication and joy that it was impossible to miss his enthusiasm over seeing any of us. He truly embodied the soul and spirit of a grand companion, watch dog and protector.

Muggins was my constant companion outdoors. Mother never, to my knowledge, allowed a dog in the house, not even Muggins. We never asked, because we knew the answer. He was always close by to bark a welcome or just sidle up beside you for an affectionate pat on the head, or in my case, a huge hug.

I was first aware of Muggins as a very small boy. As I said, he seemed to be always there from the time I could first remember. He was a family member, one with profound respect for his farm duties and dedication to his job of protectorate of one young boy, ME.

Muggins and I would wander the fields of our eighty acre farm, looking for whatever we might come across, and there was a lot to investigate and explore.

I was one small boy that turned over rocks to look for bugs or chased down snakes that seemed to move endlessly about the farm. This duo dug holes in the pasture/fields to see if the gophers were close by or just wandered endlessly exploring our world. All was investigated with a thoroughness of a master crime inspector. This often sent dirt flying five feet into the air as Muggins dug for that elusive creature just below the surface.

We had great fun. All I would have to do is say, “Sikum!” and point. Muggins would immediately start digging. I am sure he had no idea what for but out of duty to me he would vigorously dig. His nose would be buried in the dirt, sniffing and snorting in response to dirt up his tender nose. He always obliged me by digging for whatever I was after and looking to me to see if he had done it well enough. We spent countless hours thus energized and committed to the tasks at hand.

Muggins had an obsession about protecting me and watch out for me he did. He often circled me as we explored the meadows, woods and fields. Mother used to say there was little worry about me with Muggins about.

Visitors often came upon Muggins protective nature quite by accident. My sister had a boyfriend that came to visit once. He was a likeable fellow and seemed to join into the family fun. We had been visiting out on the back yard grass when the boy friend took me by the shoulders and began having fun with me, play fighting and acting like he was shaking me. Of course I shrieked with delight.

Muggins didn’t like the fracas and tried to stop the proceedings. He barked a warning and dove for the leg of the boyfriend. Fortunately the boyfriend sidestepped quickly and kept me between him and the dog until my parents were able to calm the dog. When he unhanded me, Muggins again returned to the docile pet I knew. However his demeanor showed much more caution and distrust of this new visitor.

The event was something out of character for the dog and it surprised all of us to see his reaction. The family then knew that they would have to deal with the dog if they were going to handle me in a way that the dog didn’t like. From then on all physical punishment, if there was any, was done in the house. The dog simply would not allow any one to put a hand on me if I objected.

When the two of us were out and about on the farm, Muggins was constantly moving in circles around me. It was companionable to me to have the dog with me as we explored our woods and fields. I can never remember ever feeling afraid of any thing. Together we explored just about every square foot of the home farm land.

Mother often remarked that she felt sorry for the snakes and other moving things we found. For a while we did make a dent in the snake population on the farm. If it was a snake all I had to say was, “Sikum” and he would grab the snake somewhere in the middle and shake until the life was shaken out of it. Snakes did become somewhat of a curiosity and we didn’t put an end to so many of them after that.

Having a constant guard, while I tramped around the eighty acres, was a blessing to mother and I suppose to the others on the farm. There was not so much to worry about because I was well protected. However Muggins could not protect me from every thing.

While we were exploring the woods, I came upon an animal that I was not familiar with. It had holed up in a hollow tree. The dog became quite excited and began his dance of intent, as I used to call it. He jumped about barking with agitation, much more than I had ever seen him do before.

He dug furiously at the bottom of the tree. The dirt fairly flew in all directions while I stood with awe and wonder trying to comprehend the sudden energetic actions. The hair on his back stood on end. His actions became more determined as he danced up and down and around the opening in the tree. Obviously this was something special and I truly wanted to see what it was. It was my turn to become determined to see what this creature was.

I tried pushing the dog aside but to no avail, he was resolute to get at whatever was in the tree. This certainly piqued my interest and I finally was able to push the dog aside to get a better look up inside the tree hollow.

It was a very dark hole. I could see nothing but was determined to find what I thought was a “rabbit” in the tree. I needed to get the “rabbit” out of the tree where I could get a hold of it. Muggins also seemed to be adamant about getting to the cornered animal in the tree hollow.

Nearby I found a rather good sized stick, just the right size to poke up into the tree. I could feel the stick poking the animal. Whatever it was took hold of the stick and wouldn’t let it go. This annoyed me. The stick finally dropped. Impatiently I pressed on with action and resolve. Now I was more determined than ever to get it out in the open.

My six year old mind was certain I should get the “rabbit” out of the tree and the dog continued his jig about the tree, barking frantically. As I have thought back over the incident in ensuing years, it was quite evident that Muggins was telling me to go no farther, let it be. But instead of paying attention to the dog, I bent down and proceeded to put my hand up into the tree to grab the reluctant animal.

What happened next has been forever seared in my experiencing phase of growing up.

There was a sharp searing, stabbing pain at the end of my hand which brought cries of desperation on my part. This absolutely sent the dog into spasms of frantic barking and furious digging at the base of the tree.

You can imagine the usually happy duo now, one frantically barking, and the other shrieking at the top of his little lungs. Something was wrong and neither one of them knew how to deal with the situation.

Fortunately there was a hired man working in the field just across the fence not more than a quarter mile away. I don’t know how he got over the fence and to us so quickly, but he was at my side almost instantly it seemed.

My hand was bleeding copiously and I was missing the tip of my longest finger on my right hand. The hired man scooped me up and ran to the house with me. His concern was equal to that of the dog. His labored breathing as he presented me to mother was evidence of that. Mother had heard us coming but was not really prepared for the disaster that presented itself to her.

Medical facilities were not the norm in our rural area. Mother was the one called upon when the doctor made house calls that needed assistance. She nursed everyone including me.

The finger was cleaned and bandaged. The concern and worry crossed her worried brow as it did the hired man, who looked out for me like a father while dad was away working.

Cleaned and bandaged and considerably more calmed down, mother took me on her lap and sang while she rocked me in the big comfy old rocking chair with the carved swans on the arms. She had a special way of singing she used to soothe all of us kids. It had no words only sounds, but it worked wonders to bring comfort and calm to us and me in particular.

The hired man returned with the dog to the troublesome tree. The dog let him know that whatever it was had not left the tree. He was frantic to get at the culprit that had injured his master and scouting buddy.

Gathering a few sticks and other burnable debris, the hired man built a fire at the base of the tree, not setting the tree on fire but producing a lot of smoke that filled the hollow of the tree.

It wasn’t but a few moments until the “rabbit” dropped down and attempted to scramble away. Muggins went into action, grabbing the animal by the neck and shaking with decided intent.

The large brown “rabbit” turned out to be a groundhog with very long sharp teeth. The inch long front teeth could easily be capable of chomping off more than the tip of a finger offered by the six-year-old.

The hired man brought the groundhog back to the house to show both mother and me. I don’t remember being afraid of the animal but looked at the dead animal was a mixture of awe and curiosity. The dark fur was thick and full ready for winter. Apparently he was ready to hibernate and we interrupted him.

It was a sad end to one of God’s creatures. We both were in the wrong place at the wrong time.

The finger grew back eventually. I still have a small scar on the tip of my middle finger that reminds me to be careful and don’t put my hands where I cannot see.

We moved from the farm when I was in the fourth grade. By that time Muggins was only a memory. I have never forgotten the pride he showed in taking care of me, greeting me when I had been away for a short while, or the absolute devotion he exhibited so often through the years he lived with us. Muggins was one of God’s beautiful creatures and I loved him dearly.

Feeding the Family

Our farm animals get fed on a regular basis. Not only because we think that is responsible but it also satisfies my concerned wife. The horses, geese, chickens and cats are most favored animals in the community. However they sometimes don’t act as though they believe it is true. They beg, haggle, plead, stomp and purr trying to gain some extra favor. I stand firm – until I cannot stand it any longer and just give in to extra treats.

Usually I feed the animals early in the morning. They all seem to be quite enthusiastic about eating and will greet me with such rambunctious antics I am seriously concerned for my safety. Fortunately they are on one side of the fence and I am on the other.

They lean over the fence, poke their heads through the gate or through some other unconventional opening in the fence. I am not truly sure about their intentions but I surmise they are after what I have to give them.

For the horses there is hay. It isn’t the alfalfa hay but a combination of grass and alfalfa. The one hundred percent alfalfa hay can be too hot and cause them medicinal problems. They may loose a little weight during the winter months but not enough to bring on any problems.

California has mild winters but the grass doesn’t seem to be good enough to nourish the horse population enough to carry them along, so we supplement the available food.

Last week I decided to feed the geese and horses soon after taking care of the chickens. As I walked toward the usual feeding spot the horses began bucking, kicking up their heels and cavorting about wildly, causing clouds of thick barnyard dust to drift over the whole area. I quickly backed away and headed for the house.

In the meantime the geese (all seven of them) took to the air. Three of the more nimble of them circled high enough to clear the tree tops and fly over the neighbor’s property to the east. Making a huge circle, they flew over the neighbor’s property on the west of us, finally settling down once more almost at the exact starting point.

Those big birds flying are quite impressive. With a wing span of over six feet, the updraft, downdraft and wind currents created by these foul friends, make one feel quite inadequate and insignificant. The resulting dust storm with its settling process was to be avoided at all cost. I headed for the house. I did notice that the cats scurried, no ran, for cover, and I could see why.

The horse’s bucking, snorting, crow hopping antics coupled with the seven geese on high alert, squawking, honking and trumpeting both on the ground and now flying out and around the tree tops, was enough to intimidate even the most adventuresome farmer. I stood transfixed in awe at the energy displayed by these usually docile animals. The shear power displayed was awesome and even inspiring for one used to domesticity. It truly pleased me to witness such a display of activity. We often don’t get that much activity around here anymore and I was enjoying it immensely.

When all returned to whatever normal is, I ventured back to the barnyard to continue feeding the contingent of “farm yard kids”.

Of course the horses got fed first. They are the biggest and will often take over the process anyway. I always start on my left with the horse with the most authority, Sugar. I can count on her to be at her place for feeding. Showing her continued impatience was what I expected. There she stood pawing at the ground, making her “hole” a little deeper all the time. She gets fed in the old enamel four footed bath tub that sits behind the barn under cover. The other horses eat out in the open under the trees, unless it is raining very hard, currently slight chance of that here in dry central California.

Next in line to get fed is Sis. She is the picky one and will sniff at something offered, sweet or not, and turn her head away and let Sugar have it instead.

Then last on the pecking order is Arrabella. Poor, poor thing. She is a rescued horse and was brought here to help keep the grass down in the summer. Her feet are broken down and she has a huge brand on her left flank that denotes when she was born and where she stood in the pecking order at another horse facility.

Arrabella is not a pretty sight but she is willing to eat and eat she does. We have never been able to pet her, touch her or even catch her in her three years on the ranch, so manicuring has been very much lacking. The elite members of the barn yard society have their hooves done every other month.

One thing I have to admit, Arrabella is food savvy. She always has her nose to the ground for something to eat. While the other upper crust barn yard society is standing under the eves of the barn, Arrabella is out foraging on her own, not waiting for any hand out.
When I toss out bread slices the high brow other horses will always turn up their dainty noses at the basic grass/hay and make a bee-line for the scraps of bread that I bring along. While the “blue bloods” are looking for bread pieces Arrabella has now moved down the eating chain to where the first horse was. Since the stall is now vacant Arrabella has moved in and is eating with frantic haste while the other two are out looking for bread scraps that were intended for the geese anyway.

Not finding what they want the upper crust has moved back into the eating mode and have situated themselves at feeding stations much less desirable than what they had to start with, but are now eating comfortably in less than standard eating areas. “Pride goeth before a fall.”

Another thing that ceases to amaze me, is how well the animals all get along with each other.

The geese have quit trying to intimidate the horses with their hissing, head wagging and neck stretching. It just didn’t work. The geese now wanting to have some “slice” of what is going on, have to be aggressive and grab and run or the horses will be there.

I marvel also that the geese don’t get stepped on. Once in a while I see one of them hobbling and I surmise that they didn’t move quickly enough, but they seem to be resilient.

Of course the geese, all seven of them, each have their own personality and it shows up at unique times.

While feeding goes on, I often take smaller pieces of donated bread etc. to hold out for the geese. The horses have discovered that I favor the geese somewhat with pieces of something they really like. I surreptitiously hold a piece of bread through the gate. The first goose will have it in a flash. The second will have to be quick about it to get it before the horse sees it and moves in.

I am then to the point of throwing the bread over the shoulders of the horses to distract them. They can eat the larger pieces that give the geese more difficulty. If I can keep the horses busy with big pieces I can feed the geese smaller pieces that they can manage.

It is interesting to see the large pieces of bread making its way down the throat of the geese. Knots of outside feathers move along as the bread goes down. It isn’t long before the geese seek out the watering trough and they wander off to let things settle down a bit.

There is a facility here in town that gives bread to the homeless. They often have boxes of donated bread left over. Since they are only giving bread out one day a week, they often have left over bread for me to pick up to feed the farm animals. The homeless don’t like the hard bread or messed up cupcakes, left over donuts, pies with mold, cake that looks crumbly or bread that gets squashed. So I am the happy recipient of up to four large boxes of bread type food each week. No one here seems to care about a little mold and if it is broken that is OK also. It can even get dirty and they still will eat it.

The chicken’s digestive system doesn’t seem to be fazed at all by the mold growing on anything I toss them. They scratch right in with delight, pecking away at the proffered morsels. What a great being I am for providing such wonderful new menus for them. I often tell my wife that we have chickens so we can feel better about throwing out spoiled food items. Of course they return the favor, providing us with eggs. It is a give and give society.

If you get the idea that we live in a relatively idyllic setting, you are most likely correct. We have an easy cohabitation that a lot of people would find most entertaining if not down right funny at times. I am constantly amazed at the animals we keep here. I marvel at the intelligence often shown by these barn yard creatures, and it humbles me to be a small part of this mix with the greater part of the responsibility.

Mother's Kitchen Stove

It wasn’t always referred to as mother’s stove, but in reality it belonged to her. She was the one that picked it out after the former house burned down in 1942. She presided over the gray granite behemoth with all the authority needed in our black and white enamel painted country farm house kitchen. Everything is our kitchen was built by hand, in place, by my dad. It was serviceable and sturdy, designed by my mother to fit the needs of our family.

The fire-breathing cast iron cook stove stood in our narrow kitchen, at least narrow by today’s standards. It stood just opposite the sink with its pitcher pump, facing the east window. Mother tended the creature, sometimes with tender care and other times like a villain when things didn’t go just right. Both seemingly could be vengeful at times. Mother usually was usually the winner in these contests. She carried the whip and knew how to use it.

There were six lids on the top of the cast iron stove. This top was occasionally cleaned with some sort of wax or fat to make it look like brand new. Usually this was done when the stove was not hot. For some reason it seemed to last longer that way. I don’t rightly know what the lids over the oven were for, perhaps to clean the ashes that could drift over there from the firebox.

On one end of the stove was a rack, just a metal rod that attached to the end of the stove, from front to back. On this rack were hung wet dish towels, wash cloths or any other item that needed to dry. The other end had a water storage tank that had a common side to the firebox. This kept the water cistern hot for cooking or use in washing dishes etc. All the trim pieces were nickel coated to make them shine like silver. It truly was an impressive and intimidating piece of household necessity. It held court there in our farm kitchen for many years. Mother beamed and called it, “her pride and joy”.

Above the working surface of the stove, was the warming shelf or warming oven as they were often called. Some stoves had just a metal shelf about two feet above the flat heating service. Our closed metal storage units were used to keep food warm before meals. The heat rising from the cook top would warm the compartments and keep things warm until serving time. It was always a joy to check these warming ovens for some saved goodies or to seek the tools to care for the stove.

One long tool that hung from the back of the stove was a long heavy wire implement that had a flat metal blade a little bigger than a domino playing piece at the end. This was used to scrape out any extra ash that could not seem to fall into the ash drawer. There always seemed to be some that would fall around the edges and had to be scraped out separately. The emptying of the ash drawer was another of the jobs for us younger boys. If the ash drawer was really hot, mom or dad would take it out and empty it for us. The ashes were sometimes fun to play in if you were building roads for playing cars etc. Using a little water and a little dirt made terrifically sturdy roads.

Right in the middle of the stove, prominently positioned, was the oven. The dial on the front would always indicate the temperature inside. It was quite a feat for our mom to know which wood to use to get the right temperature and how to keep it there, when it came to baking, especially those wonderful angle–food cakes. I guess I never was privileged to see any of the disasters and I am sure there must have been many learning to use the equipment. I don’t know what she did with them. Maybe we ate them and didn’t know the difference.

One incident I remember about the stove was doing dishes with Louis, my next older brother. He preferred to dry and I always opted to wash. I don’t know how we arrived at that arrangement but it worked for us. One evening I had a large dishpan of hot soapy water full of supper dishes. I was working from the left side of the stove. This kept the water hot but not exactly over the fire box.

It never has been clear to me what happened next. Perhaps, like most boys we were horsing around, in any event the pan of hot soapy water full of supper dishes came off the top of the stove, crashing on the linoleum floor. Hot soapy dish water spread out over ninety nine percent of mom’s almost spotless linoleum kitchen floor and every dish in the pan, with the exception of one small plate, broke in more pieces than could ever be glued back together. Mom didn’t punish us much or often. Sometimes the silent attitude was the sure sign to be quiet and stay out of the way, which we certainly did that time.

As young boys, my brother and I were given the “job” of filling the wood box. Keeping it full was not only necessary but required in order to keep the household running smoothly. There was always that threat hanging over our heads that something dire would happen if it ever got to the point of “being empty”. The proverbial wood shed stood outside our back door and to the left. It was a cozy little building with an actual closing door. There were times the trip to the woodshed to get wood for the stove, seemed a very long way indeed. The snow in winter was the most difficult. It came close in comparison to the summer time when we really wanted to be outdoors and had to be inside taking care of the wood for the stove. The journey seemed to be endless when we were in a hurry. It all depended on how we felt at the moment.

Louis was always more anxious to keep the wood box full than I was. Perhaps because he was older or was it that he had had some experience with the “empty” box that I was yet to have. I never was able to figure that out but he seemed obsessed with his diligence of keeping the fuel ready for mother as she cooked or kept the kitchen warm on those cold days and nights.

In winter the last thing done before going to bed was to see that the wood box was full. Mom always made sure the fire in the stove was banked for the night, and the drafts closed just right to keep the fire alive while we all slept. When it came time to start the fire in the morning it was essential to have wood at the ready when mother agitated the ashes out of the firebox and encouraged the cooking fire for breakfast.

My dad and the hired man were the first ones up in the morning. There were chores to be done, milking and cleaning out the barn. When the weather was really cold, the cattle were fed and kept in the barn. That meant a lot of feeding and a lot of cleaning to keep things tidy in the barn. This work started early in the morning. Mom was up early too, making coffee for the men and seeing that the house got warmed for our arrival down stairs when she called us to come to breakfast.

There was a lot of eating on the farm. Seven full or partial meals were not unusual while everyone was hard at work, especially in the summer. It all started with coffee and perhaps a sandwich or roll as the men went out first thing in the morning. Mom was gifted at keeping up with the good food. After the men went out the door to the barn she began her duties in the kitchen getting breakfast ready. She knew they would be back in about an hour and a half, ready for the real deal.

By the time the men went to the barn the kitchen was fairly warm and the stove was in full form. The little lattice framework in the front of the fire box was dancing with light and heat. The lids were emitting a hot smell that comes when the firebox gets really hot. The lids didn’t exactly dance, but they seemed to be ready to do some sort of gyration to help with breakfast.

Mother usually had cooked cereal with homemade bread, toast, sweet rolls and once in a while there was some sort of pie. Somehow I never cared for the pie but the sweet rolls were always a favorite of mine. There was always plenty of real butter, jam or jelly to fill any extra cracks in the offered bread or perhaps the tummies of the hungry boys/men.

Canned fruit was brought up from the basement storage shelves. I hated going down there especially at night. If I had to go down at night I always backed up the stairs so I could see if anything was following me. I just knew that someone or something was going to get me if I just walked up in a normal fashion. If I was really brave I would run up the steps to the kitchen. This stairway did not have a railing, but was open in all respects. Even the underside of the stairs was open giving the feel of going up through open space.

There was a landing near the top of the stairs where the stairway made a right angle and went on up to the kitchen. This part of the stairs was closed in with walls and a short rail to use to pull ones self along if needed. This dark landing and the short five steps to the kitchen door were always the most difficult part of that dark and foreboding journey. I always managed this part of the experience with haste after making sure the kitchen door was left somewhat ajar for easy entrance.

We did have one light bulb in the full and open basement. I would hurry up and out, close the door, then reopen the door, reach out and flip off the one security light. It certainly wasn’t a journey made for fun but only out of absolute necessity.

It was a terrifying adventure for one so young, especially one teased so badly by an older brother. There was a constant fear something was out there going to get me in the night. I even slept with only my nose out of the blankets so nothing would see me and get me. My sleeping partner-brother, had honed his art of teasing and had become really good at it. My unfounded fear was very real to me at the time, and often the iron bed frame seemed to quake with my shaking as I tried to settle down for the night.

On those bitter cold winter nights, I would prefer to take the miserable walk to the freezing outhouse than use the facility in the basement. There was always the “thunder mug” for emergencies that was tucked under my parent’s bed downstairs. That is another adventure story for another time.

Sometimes pancakes were offered with sorghum, butter, jam, syrup and/or fruit sauce. These special breakfast were always served with coffee for the adults and milk for us boys. The big round oak table seemed to groan with the heavy food spread out before us. As I look back now, I often wondered why my dad and the hired man didn’t seem to gain weight. Now I know, they simply worked it off. Eating all the real butter and thick cream never seemed to affect the weight of the men but it was often the wives and moms that benefited the most from the great food. There was an unmentioned motto that a skinny cook could not be trusted. Mom would have fit right into the category of a great cook.

Winters seemed to allow the men folk on the home place to gain back some of the summer’s weight loss. This was a time for sitting around jobs like mending harnesses, repairing, sharpening and oiling tools and on occasion making wooden games for us kids (and adults too).

I always marveled at mother’s ability to whip up such good meals in such a seemingly short time. My young mind twirled around getting the wood box filled and not how the food got from the kitchen to the table. I do remember her using a type of wire whip to blend in the wheat flour into the boiling milk to make my favorite whole wheat cooked cereal. We never had store bought cereal. In fact I don’t remember ever hearing of any or of seeing any in Ramlow’s Grocery store in town. Everything we had we made ourselves and food was no exception.

Mom did buy flour, sugar, shorting (by the five gallon tin) and other staples. Spices were bought from a traveling salesman that came by a couple times a year. All those brightly colored tins & bottles with interesting sounding names and even more tantalizing aromas were always a huge source of interest to this young boy. Yes the Watkins Man was an important part of mother’s good cooking too.

The Watkins Man was easily spotted. The large sign in his back side window of his 1940 something Chevrolet told his trade and he was always welcomed. Usually mom had some delicacy for him to sample and he would make suggestions for some of his products. Tapioca for tapioca pudding, cinnamon for mom’s wonderful cinnamon rolls and for another of my favorites, bread pudding. The Watkins Man was well respected in our household.

Breakfast was not the only meal of the day. As I have said before, there were about seven meals and lunches during the day. They came in somewhat the following order:

1. Snack before going out to do the chores first thing in the morning.
2. Breakfast following feeding and cleanup in the barn, between six and seven.
3. Mid morning lunch about ten. (Often this was taken to the field or wherever the men were working. Other times they came to the house. Hot drink and sandwiches with some sweet included.)
4. Dinner at noon.
5. Lunch again about three with hot drink, sandwich and sweets of some sort, usually where the men were working; spring, summer and fall.
6. Supper about six with all the trimmings. entrée, salad, vegetables (either canned or fresh, depending on the time of the year) with hot drink or milk.
7. Snack offered about nine in the evening or just before bedtime.
8. A light lunch was always offered whenever anyone stopped by and for any reason.

Looking at all the food preparations for the day, it was always amazing how any visiting or shopping ever was done. I know it did exist because I was along when it happened. As I look back from my lofty age, it was incredible what mother got accomplished during the day.

The old gray granite Monarch performed its roll admirably, sometimes doing double duty as clothes warmer in winter along with frozen hands, toes, mittens and boots.

One day the old stove was hauled out to the grainery where it resided for many years, used for a sort of storage unit. One day it was sold to a neighbor who used it to burn trash. What a come down from the glory days presiding over our farm kitchen. The grand old cook stove was replaced with a cold, white enamel electric number that had dials that would turn on the heating elements to do the cooking, baking and warm the hands (a bit). No warmth on its side for dressing in the cold winter mornings.

The stove just sat there in its pristine white purity, waiting a hand to turn the dials. Its dark enamel oven inside looked foreboding and foreign. There was no warming shelf, no water storage and certainly no character. It never won my approval but we managed and I am sure that mom appreciated its convenience. Somehow it reminded me of the doctor’s office equipment with all its sterile atmosphere. This was the advance of technology? No more wood box to fill, no more jobs for us boys. No more character either. But we advance don’t we?

I still miss the smell of a wood fire, especially in the early morning, with the coffee, at the ready, sitting at the back of the stove, ready to be moved quickly to the hot spot for an inviting cup of coffee to any one that should chance by.

At times the aroma of mom’s extensive cooking still provides me a great deal of pleasure, set off by some delicate smell that by chance passes my nose. It provided truly great food for her family, neighbors in need, charity or for those fun times when visitors came in the evening. I will always miss the huge wood burning cook stove, but I guess what I really miss is mother’s wonderful, creative and necessary culinary expertise.

The Shoe in the Barn

In the deep recesses of the barn, the atmosphere changed with the seasons. The winter was always a favorite time of the year. Whenever you would chance to enter it always seemed to be a very friendly place. It somehow reminded me of Christ’s birth. The cows would be contentedly chewing their cud, the horses moving about in their oversized stalls or sleeping while standing. It always seemed so peaceful and cozy. It was the same congenial atmosphere that invited one to enter and enjoy just being there, listening and observing.

As a youngster growing up on a mid-western farm, it was my privilege, yes privilege, to be among those that sometimes struggled to keep the family fed, clothed besides keeping the buildings in good repair.

Mom made over worn out men’s suits into snow outfits for the bitterly cold winter months. She made hats, pants, jackets and even knitted mittens to go with the outfit. We never felt poor or neglected but loved and cared for.

Nothing was ever thrown away. Even strips of rags were saved and rolled into balls for a woven rag rug to be made by a neighbor that had a loom. It was always my job to shake the rugs during housecleaning days and I became quite familiar with the color and texture of those country carpets. Those rugs had an interminable life to them. They seemed to last forever. I cannot remember getting rid of any rugs because of wearing out, but just because we grew tired of them for whatever reason.

My dad often worked away from home. I am not sure why he would be so far that he couldn’t come home nights, but I am sure there were reasons. It wasn’t often he would be away for very long, just once in a while.

Taking my dad to the train was, for a young kid, a monumental experience. To see that huge engine hissing steam and blowing billows of smoke would be something to be remembered for life, and indeed it has. The huge driving wheels stood motionless while we loaded my dad onto that monster waiting to spring into action, carrying away its precious human cargo.

When the driver wheels began to spin and the whole train began to shake trying to get traction to start, my spine shook inside me with anticipation. I had never seen any machine like it and it was terrifying, mysterious, and enjoyable all rolled into one experience. I trembled with excitement; it was then that I noticed my pants were wet. Mom understood and nothing was ever mentioned about the incident, but oh the excitement of the experience!

My dad was a carpenter by trade, a builder, but mostly known for the extra fine finish work he did. I had never known him to ever leave a hammer mark. His hit was as meticulous as was his creative ability. I have to sometimes laugh when I think of my mother’s complaining that everyone else’s kitchens looked great but our own would often be lacking one thing or another. Her saying often was, “The cobbler’s kids went without shoes and the carpenter’s wife didn’t have a proper cupboard to put dishes in”.

Actually it really wasn’t that bad, but mother sometimes made the situation sound worse than it really was. When I stop to think about it, how would I know? I lived in a state of oblivion, only knowing that I was warm and where the cookies were.

Milking took place twice a day, early morning and evening. We did have extra help that lived with us. Caring for twenty cows was a huge job. When the cows were confined to the barn on those freezing cold mid-winter night and days, it was essential to not only feed them but clean up after them as well.

Hay was stored overhead in the hay mow. The sweet smelling hay was brought in during the summer. The hay had to be bone dry before it could be stored. Spontaneous combustion had claimed several barns around the area. It was always a disaster to witness such a conflagration. There was nothing anyone could do but be of what help one could be in getting things away from the building or getting animals out. It was a staggering task to rebuild and restock, especially in the winter. Usually the spontaneous combustion took place in the fall or late summer. If the hay was not absolutely dry, it could lay there and smolder unnoticed until it got hot enough to self ignite. It was something farmers were always cautioned about. Learn they did from other’s experiences. They needed to.

As a youngster I loved to play in the hay mow. My dad and the hired man took a decided dislike in my tromping through the dry hay. I didn’t understand that walking through the dry hay caused the little dry leaves of the alfalfa to come off leaving only sticks for the animals to eat. So rarely did I get the chance to actually play in the upper regions of the barn.

While putting up the hay through the huge upper barn door, we were allowed to “help”. I am sure that any assistance I could be was definitely not a plus. Even though the hay was dry there were a lot of interesting things that came into the barn with the hay, snakes being one of them. Most often the snakes that came in were dead and dried up or perhaps just the skin. Whatever it was I was sure to find it and investigate. The overall picture of “making hay” is a much bigger subject to be done justice in this short story.

There was a sort of inner wall that kept the hay from the outer wall of the barn. This inner wall was made up of boards nailed across the upright two by fours making a space for the barn to breathe.

It was while playing in the hay mow on one of those rare occasions that I lost a shoe. It came off and went down the wall between the hay and the outside wall. It was gone! Shoes were not plentiful and now I had only one. I am sure a stern remonstration was administered, I don’t remember. What I do remember was for the rest of that summer I was privileged to go bare foot. Most of the time summers were spent without shoes anyway. This was going to be no exception.

It wasn’t long before the shoe was forgotten.

The farm was sold a few years after that incident and we moved first to Texas and then on to California and back again to the Midwest to Nebraska. We sometimes paid visits to the upper mid-west to visit old friends and relatives. I began to think about that lost shoe. Would it be possible to find it and if I did what would it be like?

Once again we moved, this time to Oregon where my oldest brother had bought a medical practice. He thought it would be a great idea for the (remaining) family to move to Oregon and mother could help out in his office. The offer was too good to pass up. In 1955 we moved lock, stock and hammer head to Hermiston, Oregon.

I returned to finish my last year of high school to the school my sister and older brothers had attended. My sister now lived in the area and it was decided that I could also attend that particular school and live the year with my sister.

It proved to be a very interesting year in the cold Minnesota climate. I had become acclimated to much milder weather. The bitter winter cold seeped in everywhere I thought. I bundled up in just about everything available to be worn. My feet were never warm as were my fingers. However, I survived and even prospered.

Occasionally I thought of that lost shoe and would I ever be able to find it. It had become a common thought of how I would find it one day and have it fixed up and keep it. What for? I don’t know. It was just something that would niggle in the back of my mind seeking resolution.

My family came to reclaim me from the upper mid west and take me home once again to the warmer climes of the Oregon desert. The shoe was once more forgotten.

I married and move again to California. Except for some time spent in the Orient we have lived in one spot for almost thirty years.

The shoe?

Oh yes, the shoe.

On one of our trips back to the mid west, my family and I chanced to stop at the old farm place and yes the hay mow was now empty. With permission granted and with a caution to watch out for rotten floor boards, I ascended the ladder to the vacant deserted hay loft.

It was with utmost reverence I climbed the now rickety well worn old board ladder. The ladder had been at one time securely attached to the wall. Now the ascending device seemed a bit wobbly, but I continued with more caution than perhaps necessary.

Peering over the seasoned edge of the mow opening, sent tingles up my spine. Here I was back again – in my childhood. I could hear the echoes of children playing hide and seek in the hay, see them swinging from the hay carriage rope high overhead. The pulleys dangled from where they were last used. The small dirty windows covered by cobwebs so far above, let in adequate light to let me pick my way across the rotten-board mind field.

I cautiously maneuvered my way across the uneven floor, wondering what my father and grandfather would say about the state of things in the barn. It was quite evident the care of the building was not an important part of the current occupant’s plan. He had as much as told me that morning, they were waiting for the building to fall down so they could put up a modern sturdy metal building. What a loss!

My grandfather had built that barn with my dad’s help. Each board, nail and casing was meticulously hammered home. It was a piece of Johnson history. Something I would have given a hefty ransom for in my own neighborhood. The big hay door stood against the barn wall, holding on by one hinge. The weather vane was gone – the target practicing with the twenty two seemed like yesterday. To see that weather vane spin around when the rifle bullet found its mark was excitement almost divine.

The loft had almost been swept clean of any hay and it was easy to see which boards were not safe to walk on. Even though it had been over sixty years since I last saw the shoe, I knew where it was and without any difficulty was able to locate the place where it had fallen and laid for so many years.

Was it there?

Had I only dreamed I lost it?

What would I find?

There between the interior side of the barn and the outer siding lay the long sought after shoe. Yes, it was basically in one piece, actually two pieces, only front and back. The sole had long ago dissolved into a band of mold that disappeared when I picked up the shoe remnants.

I held the pieces and thought back over the last sixty odd years. The time line of life, its ins and outs, ups and downs all seemed to come into focus. It was time for the here and now, the moment at hand. Life has many interesting twists and turns and to me it was a time for reflection and memories. What were the old pieces of shoe worth? Nothing, but to me they were priceless. That moment could not have been more pregnant with emotions. It was a coming together of years of living all at one time, a historic capsule of life, compressed into moments. I held it all in my hand. What I did with it was up to me to decide. It was so reminiscent of how we handle life. We hold it, turn it, shape and mold it. What we do with it is up to us. Our destiny is very much what we chose it to be.

I took the shoe parts home to California and for some time kept them under glass for all to see. Many couldn’t understand why I kept that old shoe. What did I see in an old shoe anyway? It made no difference to me. I had put leather rejuvenator onto the leather and recently took it to the shoe shop. The shoe man has put it back together with a handmade sole and even put a new shoestring in it. It doesn’t look new but it certainly does improve its appearance.

My point to telling this odd story is this: We may never find out our appreciated value, lying where we are apt to fall over it and so obvious to us. It just may be hidden away someplace, perhaps for years, waiting for us to discover and appreciate it. Take heart, we are all appreciated and valued by a lot more friends and family than we realize. Look around and recognize for yourself the value others put on you. You might just be surprised.

Clair's Barn

We have had the privilege of living in the country and as such have a little more room to move around than do most people. Three and a half acres can be a lot when it comes to maintaining. It isn’t just keeping the weeds at bay but here, in irrigated central California, the problem is also keeping it green and growing.

My “barn” didn’t come with the property but was found about three miles away and moved here. Of course it wasn’t as big as it is now but just the same it did get moved here to serve the purpose of a barn to farm animals and other critters.

When the oldest horse died (at age 40), it was my decision that the place be rejuvenated into something more useful. Up to this time half of the barn was used to park one old car and the other half was put to use as the preverbal barn.

We had added a tack room on one side for my daughter’s horse stuff and I had a riding lawn-tractor garage on the opposite side.

My oldest son had taken classes on refurbishing housing and was a tremendous help in rewiring, insulation and putting on sheetrock. He is a whiz at anything he does and does quickly. In between classes and on weekends we worked with diligence to finish the project.

We did finish the project and it looked great – the only problem was it was too small for any use I had intended. It was decided to add on or double the size. I am not sure about the square footage but at times it still seems small, perhaps it is because we always think big and now we are somewhat squeezed but we do manage. I guess I just have too much stuff.

We had tried to use the “barn” for potlucks or small church gatherings or parties for friends etc. We were still stymied somewhat because there was no bathroom there and everyone needing a facility was forced to truck to the back door of the house to find a bathroom. We also needed some sort of place to set up food for parties – we needed a kitchen of sorts.

The bathroom was put into the back of the old garage. Creativity and thrift were essential and flooring was going to be of primary cost to me. A friend suggested that I use marble. What?! Marble!? Yes, marble could be had at a local granite and marble facility. In fact we could have it for hauling it off, little pieces that is, nothing bigger than the size of a sink opening. One thing that was in our favor was all the pieces were scrap and of the same larger piece.

I spent one day using a hammer to break all the pieces of marble into smaller pieces. Next the pieces were arranged and glued to the cement floor. None of the pieces are the same size or shape. Like the rest of the “barn” it has its own personality besides being very functional. The floor was grouted and washed producing a polished somewhat mosaic looking floor that is easy to care for besides adding uniqueness to the “barn” aura.

Our next problem was the kitchen. I could see this was going to be a bigger problem than was the bathroom. My goal was to not buy anything “new” for the kitchen. Every thing must come from the flea market, garage sales or other thrifty markets. Even the stainless steel double sink was found at the flea market.

When driving to work one day I found kitchen cabinets stacked along the road. The family had decided to remodel their kitchen and had all their chocolate brown kitchen cupboards set out beside the roadway with a for sale sign. For seventy five dollars I was able to buy all the hand constructed seventy-five year old cabinets I could put in. Fortunately they all fit where I wanted them. I was even able to replace a set of drawers with a working dishwasher salvaged from the main house. I did repair the dishwasher my self and wonder of wonders it still works.

The color was more than somewhat a problem. I needed almost white cabinets for such a long dark kitchen. A couple coats of paint did the trick and produced a kitchen with hand made cabinets that exuded an atmosphere of distinction.

I still needed some sort of counter top for the whole affair. Somehow the temporary plywood boards I was using just didn’t come up to my standard. A visiting friend happened to mention there was some extra granite at the place where he worked. I could most likely get the scraps for free if I would ask. With a little trimming and polishing he thought it might work out nicely for what I needed.

For forty five dollars, for his labor, he produced granite counter tops for the length I needed. I even got a matching back splash with the deal. He produced a very professional looking job for my “barn” kitchen.

I was in business for those anticipated parties. Indeed we have used that “barn” for more potlucks, birthday parties, anniversaries, receptions and even a six night play production.

Perhaps by now you have gotten the vision that this “barn” is not what you would call a typical barn. With insulation, finished walls, many skylights, carpeting, and one massive chandelier the place is likely to influence people to think this place is certainly a wondrous building, and it is. I have even had young people ask, “Who lives here?” and when I explain that no one lives there they are truly puzzled. It has become just a building we use for entertainment. Strange – but true.

Christmas transforms the old building into a wonderland of delight. Each and every year the theme is different. When the great square table is extended and set, it rivals the most elaborate table settings for miles around if not the whole valley.

The table setting is never the same. Each year the decorations are planned well in advance, obtaining pieces for the center spread. Some themes are a little easier to plan while others require a whole year’s planning. But each is unique, fun and highly entertaining to do as well.

Some of the center piece themes have been: snowmen, fish & birds, animals, Christmas trees, Santa Claus, houses and boxes just to name a few over the past years. The center piece usually is about thirteen feet long and about two feet wide. If you ponder that for awhile you will quickly realize it takes a lot of “stuff” to fill in that amount of space and with a theme.

All this accumulated stuff has to be stored somewhere and now the attic is full to running over. My wife says to get rid of some of the stuff. I hate to get rid of it because I might need it or at least part of it anyway, for another year. I have tried to pare down a bit but as my son says, I still need to downsize. I think he is afraid he might have to deal with the stuff if something should happen to me. And he is right to think so, but I keep saying this is the kid’s inheritance and why should I worry about that.

The “barn” is still stuffed with things of interest. I see people enter the building with much anticipation and they are not disappointed. Yes, I am working on the accumulation. For almost eight years I have attempted to downsize and as yet have not noticed any change, just a shifting of merchandise. Perhaps it is because I keep coming home with more things to replace the things I have removed or sold. It is an ongoing dilemma for me. Am I contented and happy? Yes, indeed. Are things going to change in the “barn”? I don’t know – I am still happy so why change that. After all it is my “barn” and I should be able to do what I want out there wouldn’t you say?

Ermintrude Foggweather

Our address has not changed for almost thirty years. When I stop to think about it, it is really rather amazing we should have lived so long in one spot. We have though and have made a great deal of life-long friends in the process. The friends are as different in temperament, life style, daily organization, work and life’s general outlook as one could expect in a life time.

Many friends have made inroads in our daily lives that truly have enriched our very existence. Others hang on the fringes and add color, flamboyance, texture and above all a greater variety and interest to our daily lives. Each we handle differently. There are a few in our lives that need special nurturing, gentle care and always a softly spoken word of encouragement, always being mindful not to bruise the very tender growth and easily dented spirit. Those are the ones that you enjoy but shy away from when it comes to involving time spent with alone. One rather tends to keep them at a little distance rather than bringing them closer to the core of a friendship.

The ones we enjoy the most are those that will roll with the punches, taking what comes along with a truly great attitude and understanding spirit. These are the ones that consistently and willingly add volumes to our daily survival without asking for anything in return. We happily associate and interact with them without a second thought. Simply put, we enjoy their company. We both sing from the same page, so to speak. You know who they are and how enriched your life has become on account of their being there.

Such is our friend Ermintrude. She has such a stuffy sounding name, but is a wonderfully gifted being that truly has enriched our lives more than we ever expected.
Ermintrude came into our lives about fifteen years ago. She wasn’t much to look at then, rather dumpy and run down at the corners. Her health conditions hadn’t been given adequate attention and it showed in what she was able to do physically. Her movements were somewhat slow and a tad bit sluggish, not “firing on all cylinders” we thought.

We brought her home; well we actually were able to put her into the care of a specialist, who would tend many of her particular needs. She proved to be a bit more finicky than we anticipated, but we were by then, committed to the “project”.

Our specialist outlined a plan of action and made a list of things that needed immediate attention and careful care. She had been neglected for so many years that it was a little difficult knowing where to start in the process. Obviously the immediate health issues were critical. These were charted and we launched out with confidence. Our health care provider assured us we were on the right track and that with time (and expense) she would be almost good as new.

She often visited the clinic for “tune ups” advice and fine tuning, adjusting administered remedies here and there. Each one seemed to bring back some of the past glory and once again the lost luster of youth began to bloom again. Even with her age she had class and an inner beauty that everyone seemed to enjoy.

It wasn’t long until friends were asking us to bring her along to weddings, special parties and in general anywhere that her style and class would add a dimension of elegance and grace. We continued to be pleased with her every improvement and we marveled at her appearance’s improved looks.

She easily outshined us when we made an appearance with her. It was like we were an added lesser mark of distinction. Not that we minded, because we were delighted with her total improvement and comely graceful appearance.

To some functions my wife, Beverly would come in a separate car so she could leave when she wanted without any fanfare. She was always happy to attend with us but somehow didn’t want to intrude in our grand entrance. It became like a Hollywood production when we were asked to attend a wedding or special party. We were even given a special parking space with markers to indicate just where we were to park. Considering all, Ermintrude is old enough to be my mother if one counted years correctly, but she was fun and always the center of attention.

The flashbulbs would pop and everyone asked for pictures to be taken with her. Since I was always there to give consent we got along quite well. I usually stayed in the background and let her have center stage. She had become the star and I was just there to see that everything went OK. Actually I became quite good at staying in the background and don’t mind the attention lavished on Ermintrude. She deserves it all. When I think of where she was when I first was introduced to her and the heights to which she has risen, I am really quite pleased.

She doesn’t like rain and snow is not an option here in Central California. Sunshine and warm weather don’t seem to faze her. She always looks cool and collected even when I know she is a little warm under the collar.

Many have asked about her care and where have I taken her in the past. Who is her health provider? It is not a closely guarded secret.

Oh, have I forgotten to let you know that Ermintrude Foggweather is my old car that I occasionally drive for weddings? I am truly sorry for overlooking that small piece of information.

Ermintrude came into my life without my wife’s approval. In fact there could have been serious consequences of having another female in the family, but she has been won over by the enrichment the car has brought to our family. She (Ermintrude) now has her own building (garage) where she resides in comfort almost dust free and dry. Spiders are about the only thing we have not eliminated from the area but we are working on that too.

Another thing I may have not mentioned was that Ermintrude is a true English lady. She is a 1962 Rolls Royce with a right hand steering wheel. When I first got her, it has been a real hoot to drive up next to someone and be side by side talking to them at a stop light. With all the hand signs now being used while driving, the only ones I get are very positive motions, thumbs up.

Ermintrude is not perfect but she is fun and if you don’t look closely you won’t see her imperfections.

My youngest son first saw her sitting in a dirt lot with a for sale sign in the window. He came home and told me about the car and where it was. I immediately drove with him to have a look for myself. My dream has always been to have a RR of that vintage and perhaps this was the opportunity.

The car had been traded for a debt owed a company and now the company was trying to recoup its expenses. The car was in storage in Arizona and a truck had to be sent there to bring it to our area. It had been for sale for almost six months with no one interested in taking on the expense or effort to restore the classic auto.

We negotiated a fair price and drove the car away after being given a few “right hand” instructions. The first thing was to put gas (petrol) in the vehicle, but where did we put it in. When we found the place how did we get the trap door open? A black button on the dash proved to be the key to replenishing fuel. When pushed the gas cover would pop open with an audible pop. It snaps shut with the same popping sound. After fifteen years I am still learning new things about the car

Ermintrude Foggweather (note the double g in Foggweather) has become part of our family. Occasionally now she still comes out of retirement to grace someone’s wedding or just for fun spin around the country. She is requested for quiet dinners out or sometimes just to sit quietly at a car show for others to gawk at and admire.

I am always careful to never leave her alone when out in public. Parking is prearranged and either I stand close by or sometimes I hire someone to stand guard for me. Either way she is under someone’s surveillance.

My youngest son said that since he found her, she should be his someday; after all he is the only other person, other than the mechanic, to ever drive her. If he can fly multi-million dollar jets why not able to drive a lowly car with safety.

Trials of Flying

Each one of us is touched by the progress of humanity. In some small way each of us contribute to this progress and each one of us is the recipient of this progress. Some progress is small and others are great and we like to think that the small part we play in the scheme of things is most likely bigger than perhaps what truly is.

My youngest son, Ryan, is a pilot with a local company that manages the care, maintenance and scheduling the renting of about ten planes from our city airport. The company caters to those that are well able to afford the five hundred to fifteen hundred dollars an hour fee. Some of the planes are rented for pleasure and others are rented for business commuting. Some are owned by private individuals and others are the property of businesses that least them out when they are not using them. It really is convenient and a much better write off to have the planes in the air as much as possible.

Some planes are two motor prop-jets that can carry up to ten people and others are smaller versions of the same thing. Some are what they call personal jets that are owned just for the use of the owners. Some are new and some are older but all are kept is tip-top shape stored in huge hangers.

The company Ryan works for is called Sky Trek and flies mostly on the west coast. However, one of the owner’s personal planes does fly overseas. The owner is a personal friend of President Bush and his father and often is gone flying them here and there. The president’s mother was here not long ago.

We got a call from my son one evening asking if we would like to see the President’s mom. Of course we were curious and set about to be where we would be able to at least see her. The jet she would be flying in was Sky Trek’s biggest personal jet that had its own stewardess on board.

Just the two of us happened to be waiting in the lobby when the President’s mother came to get on her plane.

The first to arrive was the advance man that saw to it that everything was in order. He asked about where the pilot’s office was and I was thrilled to be able to show him were it was.

My son cautioned us to be very discrete, which we were. We were just two people waiting in the small lobby for our plane.

We were disappointed when the black suburban with dark windows drove onto the tarmac and Mrs. Bush got out and entered the plane without ever coming through the lobby. We did get a good view of her through the plane windows as she got settled and ready for the jet to leave. It was exciting nevertheless.

The pilot positions on those flights are tightly held by Sky Trek owners and two other pilots. There is rarely an opening to get on that team; however my son is next in line when there is an opening.

Over the years Ryan has flown many rich and famous people, a lot of them he didn’t care for but many of them he declares are truly great people with a good code of conduct.

One such group he flew was the singing group called Chicago. (I think that is correct since I don’t know them either.) He flew the group to Los Angles where they were met with a large black limousine. They gave him a good size tip for a great trip and out the door they went, leaving him to fly home by himself wondering just who they really were. He found out later. He has since then flown them several times. He says they are regular guys each with their own personality.

I have gotten to meet some of the clients my son has flown and have even flown with them for the fun of it.

One day Ryan called me on the cell phone to ask where I was. I was with his wife just about to go into Costco. He asked if I would like to fly with him to LA. There is never any question that I would like to fly with him it is only a matter of how fast I need to get ready.

He said that he had just returned from a flight and was asked to fly an emergency flight for the company’s owner. It was a holiday and the maintenance people were gone and the nose wheel of his plane was flat. There was no one to fix it and could my son bring another nose wheel/tire to him. It is about an hour and a half flight from here to LA and it would be a free flight since there was no one scheduled to transport. The pilots may use their discretion as to taking people with them.

I said I could be there in fifteen minutes. He cautioned me to not take longer as he really needed to get “on the road” so to speak. We talked further and it was decided that the four of us could just as easily go along.

I called my wife and gave her warning to get ready we would pick her up in about seven minutes and we would all fly to LA and back again. We breezed home and she was waiting.

From the time I got the call until the time we arrived at the airport was seventeen minutes. It was a record to get ready and leave for LA without any warning for the three of us.

We delivered the nose wheel. Ryan arranged to take us all out for dinner at the Cheesecake Factory. It was a fabulous time.

We left the Southern California area after dusk. The lights had come on and everything looked so peaceful. It was nice to be able to move about the plane, looking our different windows to see the unusual sights. There were even drinks and snacks for us. The planes are always stocked with these goodies no matter who flies. There is a special crew just to see that these things are provided for the passengers.

All up the Central Valley we could pick out the different cities and see the cars moving along the roads. Even though we were flying at thirty thousand feet we could still make out the comings and goings of a lot of those on the ground. It was a great serendipity for all of us and for me especially. My son is a great pilot appreciated by his boss and those he flies.

One of Ryan’s clients is a real estate man that has truly taken my son on as a son of his own. There isn’t anything he wouldn’t do for him. They have become good friends. John Russell has just purchased a sparkling new jet just off the production line. He has given instructions to Sky Trek that no other person is to fly him in his own jet other then Ryan. As the story came to me it was the wife that put the final foot down on the issue. The plane may be lease out to Sky Trek but when they fly John Russell it will be my son that will do the flying.

They were planning a two week trip to Alaska and of course my son would be flying them. When they go on such trips my son usually stays in the same accommodations that his “boss” does. They often take him with them to dinner or even on side trips with them. They treat him like family and not the usual employer employee relationship.

Unfortunately that trip has been canceled because of health issues of the planes owners. He has had a knee replacement and an infection has set in. I guess the replacement was taken out so that the knee could heal. When it was put back in it again became infected and was once more removed. He is in a great deal of discomfort but keeps on doing what he enjoys doing.

Once when Ryan was contracted to fly the same fellow to Mexico for a dove hunting expedition, an argument ensued over who was going to pay for my son to go with them on the safari. The two head men decided to split the twenty-five hundred dollar cost and take my son with them.

The following year that the group of seven again went to Mexico, Mr. Russell said at the beginning that there would be no argument, he was paying for my son to go on the safari, which he did. When they returned I asked Ryan what kind of a tip he got for taking such good care of the fellows on the trip. His reply was a cautious smile when he said they had paid the twenty-five hundred dollars for him to go on the safari also.

This last week my son called to ask if I would like to go for a trip in the new jet. I suppose you could by now guess my response. We were to fly to Northern California and pick up John Russell at his ranch. I had been invited to join them and see the ranch and explore its territory. I have painted a couple pictures that Ryan has given them of their ranch. Their appreciation of those pictures is quite evident. The pictures hang in their home in Concord, CA, where they say they enjoy looking at them and can feel an attachment to the ranch.

We left here about two thirty in the afternoon. The new jet was not as spacious as some of the others I had been in but it was brand new and even had that new smell of leather and carpet.

The plane can seat six people but only had five seats in it. The beige/white leather interior squeaked of expensive appointments. Details of burled walnut trim, makes one feel like an executive. The cream-colored leather seats had a slightly darker mid section spoke of good taste and value.

The plane is flown with a joy stick about eight inches long and quite similar to those I have seen on video games. There was one on each side of the cockpit for either pilot. The display panel was one vast computer screen that displayed everything necessary for the planes flying ability. Actually there were three of them that took up the whole dashboard of the plane. There was one main screen with two side screens exactly the same, one for each pilot. It even showed were the fuel source was and how much it was using. The fuel consumption was about five hundred dollars an hour and we spent about three and a half hours in the air total.

We arrived at the remote airport without incident. It was nestled among the mountains. In order go loose altitude fast enough to approach the airport, we had to do some fancy zigzags to get down. It was an exciting adventure in itself just getting zigzags done. I thought to my self if anyone was observing us they would be wondering what we were doing.

It was a clear day and all along the way we observed the smoke hanging over the whole area. In places we could see where there were forest fires still burning. Not as many a month ago but still some that were putting up enough smoke to show us they were there.

We buzzed the ranch and flew on to the airport where there was someone waiting to take us the half hour drive to the ranch. The drive was a pleasant one and I enjoyed the big pine trees. Somehow the red dirt and green trees seemed to go together.

We arrived to the joyous welcome of four exuberant dogs. John set us up to use the ATVs to go exploring the ranch and come back when we wanted. There apparently was no hurry in getting back on any schedule so we were given the time to enjoy the sights and activities of the area.

About five thirty the “company” began to stir around indicating that the time had come to get ready to leave. Actually we didn’t leave for another hour. It took two vehicles to get us all to the airport. Since John has to maneuver himself with the knee brace etc. His wheel chair, walker and canes all have to fit into the plane along with whatever else they are taking along with them.

They live at the ranch part time and live in the city part time. Flying between the two is just part of their life‘s process.

Getting into the plane is an exercise in agility and planning. Each and every thing is put into its own place. The plane is a wonderful piece of equipment, small and agile with lots of power for its small size.

John’s wife, Barbara, was the first in taking one of the two dogs with her. I got into the second pilot’s seat with the joy stick to my right. Next came John, struggling into the middle seat moving himself along using arms to pull himself along and getting settled with the adult beagle beside him. The dogs were both great travelers, obviously having done this many times before.

Ryan was the last in, after checking the entire check list and doing a walk around visual check. I am always impressed with his detailed and precise checking. There is no chance to check things once you are airborne.

We took off, laboring down the runway and off the ground. The plane did well. I was a bit worried that perhaps we were a bit over loaded. I shouldn’t have worried. Ryan showed me how the onboard computer calculates distance, weight, altitude, air pressure and temperature all on the screen in front of me. I cannot help but be amazed.

Our flight was just at sunset. Ryan set the plane down with precision I am sure his clients have come to expect. A perfect landing, I would say but then I am a bit biased, don’t you know.

The car was waiting and we transferred everything from the plane into the vehicle. We said our good byes and they left. We also left, down the runway up into the evening sky, by now quite dark.

The flight was a wonderful experience.

The day following the flight I began to notice red welts under my arms and on the inside thighs of my legs. I scratched and stewed, finally realizing what I had were flea bites. I had become quite friendly with one of the resident indoor dogs and had become infected with fleas. I am now doctoring a multitude very itchy flea bites that almost a week later are still inflamed and very itchy.

Beverly used to always say, if there was a flea anywhere around they would find her. Well, they found me instead this time. I have been inducted into the royal realms of those”flea bitten” sufferers, that itch and scratch without relief. Yes, I would be willing to forgo the pleasure of that honored selection.

I think next time I will stay away form family pets and limit my contact with those of the two legged variety, thank you very much!

John and Jeraldine

Well, I guess that it was to be expected sooner or later. We have young new neighbors that are moving in next door. I guess if we really didn’t want them so near we could have been more a lot more vocal about it. They aren’t really so bad I guess, but the neighborhood seems to really have gotten a lot messier since they came. Goodness only knows that we truly put out an effort to keep up appearances. We try to keep our lawns manicured, flowers planted, even our cars washed. In general we are trying to make a good impression on those that pass by. We even have help with the house cleaning. Now we have this! And before you know it there will be little ones to contend with also.

It all started with the noise. Not really loud but constant turmoil, flitting here and there, bringing in what I would call just plain less then second hand building material. I don’t know where they get it but it looks a lot like something one would find at the junk yard. With the recent rains, their building materials have taken on a sodden appearance. I could have told them it would need to dry before they could build with it, but no one asked my advice, nor did I offer to tell them how to do it either. I guess they will figure it out for themselves. Who am I to muscle in where I am not asked or apparently not wanted?

They had tried to build here once before, but I guess we were, for some unknown reason, successful in discouraging the proposed project. After all, they didn’t really consult us on whether or not they could build such a structure. I am not sure they even got a permit to build. I wonder if the inspectors have lost their perspective. I know they really gave me the business when I tried to improve the property with my barn. I had all kinds of permits and challenges. I just cannot figure out how these two are able to build what they are building without some sort of printed plan to go by. I don’t see them ever consulting any kind of paper work or plans. It just seems like a rather spontaneous construction if you ask me, and rather haphazard at that.

It is just the constant jabber all day long between the two builders. But they seem to be making progress non-the-less, beats me how the two of them are able to construct anything that can be useful to anyone. The lady of the house appears to have the deciding veto power as to what goes into the house building process. If she decides she doesn’t like just how he puts it up she will tare it down and rebuild it herself. Amazing! It would be much more entertaining if I could get the courage to just speak to them. Currently now we have so many in our area that don’t speak our language, that I just shake my head and go on. I would think everyone living in America would learn the language but not these two.

I have been watching them through the window by the front door. My wife and I have tried to spy on them without them knowing what we are doing. Actually we have a great view of the building project from beside the front door with its sidelight of a frosted window with clear designs. If we look carefully we are able see through the clear part of the decorated window without showing ourselves and causing any disturbance or eliciting suspicion. The front door is almost off limits because it really sets them off. John and Jeraldine seem to really be into this building thing. It is amazing how well they do at construction with the mundane inferior building materials they have managed to obtain. The homes in our area are quite nice and some are worth in the million. One house, not more than a quarter of a mile away, has over 10,000 square feet in it and sets in the middle of seventeen acres enclosed with a stone and wrought iron fence. Now we have these two building something of “mud” in our midst with no regard to even minimum standards of the local residents.

The other night I looked out the side door window by the front door to see the couple camping out in their unfinished project. Really now, camping out – here- so close to our very superior housing. I flashed the outside lights to see if it really was true and it was. There they were big as life clinging to the structure they had already put together, actually perched under the eves of the house right next to our front door.

Oh, I guess that I failed to say John and Jeraldine are two very attractive Barn Swallows in the process of setting up housekeeping very near our front door. It has been such a thrill to observe them swooping, diving, complaining, encouraging one another as they gather mud spit to make the mortar to hold the construction to the house wall.

They are a little messy but that will clean up. They will make up the difference by eating a lot of unsavory insects that seem to be ever present in the neighborhood also. It is quite interesting that we have been able to watch them so closely since they are building so near the window. I haven’t figured out yet if they can actually see us or not. Maybe they will just get used to us being around.

The birds started to build last year but for some unknown reason didn’t quite get the hang of it (no pun intended) and left without completing the project. But they are back again with a determined stick-to-it to make a go of it this time.

We seem to have gone to the birds with quite a few we call our own. There is Sebastian, the German Roller canary, Spike the old cockatiel, which hates crows but doesn’t mind the other wild birds that happen to visit the yard within his view. The magpies that joyously visit the feeding station close to the back window along with the jays and mocking birds add so much color and variety to our surroundings, are very much appreciated by the duo that actually live in the house.

We have been privileged to live in the “fruited plains” of America and find we have been blessed beyond what we ever imagined. More stories may be forthcoming as inspiration and ambition ebb and flow around this writer. Thanks for reading this. Your comments about this story and suggestions for further stories would be appreciated.

Farm Rreporter

Gus and Hilary have to be about eleven years old at least. I am not sure how that equates in goose life for longevity, but it has been a grand and extremely interesting few years.

Gus was given to me by a friend that was afraid the coyotes would get him as they had gotten other farm animals they had kept. It seems the other geese on their place had wound up as foul luncheon for the four legged country hobos. Gus needed protection and a good home. We had both.

Gus has always been very affectionate, needing attention and liking to be picked up and fussed over. His shrill honking close to the ear could be hard on delicate hearing receptor's and his enthusiasm and excitement over seeing me or any other people-person, is expressed with the same, almost insane, high pitched honking. He is easily excited.

Recently, one foggy day, Gus didn't truly recognize me. His strident voice made it quite evident that I was a foreigner in his territory. His tone was shrill, piercing and quite demanding. Coming together a little more, he recognized who I was. His tone changed immediately. His chortling and croons were evidence that he saw someone special to him. His love and devotion is quite touching and very evident. If allowed, he will pull at my shoes and pant legs, trying to get truly close. If allowed, he will walk over your shoes, between your legs and pull at your shoe tops or shoe string, if you have any. At times the extra attention can be a bit intimidating. He is a big bird with a six foot wing span. Those wings are powerful and can at times be used in his defense if need be.

When others are about he is not as relaxed, but on guard, cautious, anxious and inquisitive. He has an instant like or dislike for people also. My number one son happens to be one of his dislikes. The feeling appears to be mutual and though the years there have been many "disagreements" between the two of them. They have finally come to an agreement to disagree, but to leave each other alone.

Within the last year we have new neighbors to the West of us. The three acres they have are ideal for having some horses and other stock if wanted. The new neighbors take pride in having special horses, which they baby by keeping them on a rigid schedule of feeding and seemingly constant grooming. This is unlike our horses that have to eat pasture grass during the summer months and only get special attention during the winter when they have to be fed twice daily. The winter feeding schedule is good for the horses but murder on work schedules. The only grooming they get is a good roll in the dirt, mud or rubs on the trees, fence posts or occasionally by a visitor. I consider our horses more as "Pasture Art."

Gus lets us know when feeding time is in progress at the neighbors. Actually he let us know anytime anything moves about in his field of hearing or sight. He is quite a watch goose and is truly frustrated he cannot be nearer the house. He would come flying to the back door every time he saw us if he could. There have been times he has been left out of the pasture to wonder the full acrage. It is quite disconcerting to look up and see this goose head looking in the patio window pleading for someone to please come out and play. Better yet is the look of, "Can I come in" look. That look can tear at your heart strings if you let it. The mess on the sidewalk and lawns is reason enough to make sure the geese stay where they belong, behind the pasture fence with the horses. Both the geese keep a sharp eye for anyone that comes near the house and truly notify everyone that will listen; someone is out and about the place. They used to even let us know when the mail man drove up with the mail.

Both Beverly, my wife, and I listen for the geese throughout the night, knowing we will keep in touch with what is going on by the sounds of the geese. Mostly it is the constant talking or communicating in goose language to each other that we hear. Often Beverly will say. "The geese were making an awful lot of noise while you were gone. Maybe you should check and see what is going on out there in the barn yard." Often I only need to listen to see what is going on. If I can hear them gabbling I know things are going OK. There are other times I do investigate. Once in a while they will sleep. When they are quiet there is cause for concern. Usually I find them by the horse trailer with their heads tucked under their wings sound asleep. They can wake instantly and greet me wildly with honking, taking flight to hurry to where I am. What a fan club!

Hilary isn't as congenial as Gus. No, they are totally opposite in disposition.

We play a little goose game along the fence. She will attack me if there is a fence between us. What pleases her most is to find the toe of my shoe close to the bottom of the fence. She delights in getting hold of that choice piece and twisting it with gusto, if she could. For this reason I always keep uncovered toes out of harms way. This of course gives me an excellent opportunity to reach over the fence and grab her by that long velvet neck and disable her. She is then ripe for picking up. Her weight sometimes taxes my muscle reserve. Actually I have to be quick because her wings become a formidable force with which to deal. Once I have her in my arms she becomes quite docile and somewhat compliant. She has never once offered any type of resistance or attempt to bite or harm me in any way. I would never be able to do that if anyone else was about. She will whip out a nasty bite at any one that would chance to come close but not me. Both of the geese become edgy when strangers are about and will shy away from coming close.

there have been times when I have picked her up when someone has come up to me. She will immediately snake out her head and try to connect with that individual. It could be horses too that occasionally get the vengeance of Hilary when I am holding her. The horses seem to be quite inquisitive, but recently have learned to stay clear of the geese especially when I am holding one of them. I have never quite figured out what their thinking is other than protection of the one that is holding them.

It wasn't long ago Hilary and I had quite a go around. Her bill got quite bloody from her biting into the wire cross piece of the fence. She just kept on attacking the shoe/fence and I kept letting her. I did feel quite badly to see her somewhat injured but she did recover quite nicely. The last time I picked her up I noticed she had healed quite nicely.

It is amazing to me she has kept up the ritual for so many years. Gus, on the other hand, tries to discourage her by reaching over and take out a hunk of neck feathers. This doesn't seem to faze her because she keeps doing it again and again. Perhaps she is a slow learner. The place gets to looking like some kind of feathered war has gone on. The occasional breeze will carry away any dropped feathers and we are again back to just green pasture grass.

Gus' favorite ploy to keep Hilary in line, is to place himself between Hilary and myself. He will walk back and forth trying to keep Hilary from the fence and eventually at me or the offered shoe. It is interesting also to note she will never try to attack me when I am out in the pasture with her. She will snake her head and hiss vehemently, but never try to attack me. She usually remains quite aloof and somewhat disinterested in me.

We were playing our little game the other day. I had been out in the pasture/orchard checking the trees and seeing to the general welfare of the barnyard. As I came back through the long pasture gate, I was standing just behind the fence with my hand still on the gate not yet closed. Hilary came with a vengeance at me knowing I was behind the fence. She could see the fence between us. I was curious to see what would happen so I stepped through the slightly open gate, exposing myself to the full force of Hilary's attack. She was only ten feet ways, coming fast, wings spread. I was to witness first hand the great intelligence those birds have and be able to assess her reaction time.

The game suddenly changed in that split second of time. She valiantly tried to change her course. Her great orange webbed feet spread out in front of her, heels digging into the soft barnyard dirt, sending debris flying. In her haste to try to check her full fledged charge, she toppled forward. Saving face is also in her game. With all the dignity she could muster she gave me one more meaningful hiss and folding her wings she waddled off to join Gus at the watering hole.

Her constant efforts to appear mean and haughty have always been lost on me. I found a convenient tree to lean on and held my sides, laughing until I cried. Of course this all was played out around the sixteen legs that are always close by for any handout available.

How interesting it is to realize what entertainment the Lord has given to us if only we would take the time to notice. The birds, chickens, cats, horses and of course the geese give me no end of pleasure. Of course this observation comes from a farmer boy named "Little Leon", yours truly.

Singing Hens

For the last twenty five years we have lived in the country where we have been able to raise a lot of our own useful products, eggs, fruit, and if we wanted, vegetables at times.

I, for one, have always had a bent for ecological balance. Chickens have truly helped bring about that balance. They bring into this mix of farm characters, a lot of personality. Yes, I do mean personality, for every living creature has its own character or personality. I find them as varied as I do the friends that inhabit our life or a regular basis.

The current pack of hard scrabble cluckers is unique. This group sings to me or to anyone around. They talk, gabble, mumble, squawk and cluck drawing out each sound with unmistakable punctuations. To me it sounds very much like they are singing, each on their own octave in a resessitive opera of their own choice. You can hear them as you approach the fenced in area and the music gets louder the nearer you get to the enclosure.

Over the years we have had a huge variety of two legged feather brained, clucking characters. They reside in an unused fiberglass greenhouse mostly hidden behind a creatively tall wooden fence. They really don’t cause any trouble and are always happy to see anyone that might come around to visit. Visiting children are fascinated by these feathered creatures and take all invitations to pay the chicken pen a visit.

One of the best aspects of having chickens is they are great ecological enthusiasts. It is always a wonder that they find so much energy to use for scratching about and looking for whatever it is they find to peck at. We have found them to be extremely good to recycle food scraps into other useful items, eggs and fertilizer being two of them.

It is amazing how fast a pile of kitchen scraps can be turned into basic dirt. We don’t often use our garbage disposal, if at all, but rather carry all the left over food stuffs and things that have gone bad in the refrigerator, out to the chicken pen for a chicken feeding frenzy. My wife worries that they will get sick on the spoiled and sometimes rotten things that go to the “garbage”. I tell her that chickens have a different digestive system then we do and they certainly do enjoy the meals we give them.

Their table scrap dinners are supplemented by good vegetable dinning of professional lay pellets provided by the feed store. From these they get all the vitamins and other essentials needed for good health. Since our chickens never get processed meat or other objectionable byproducts, our eggs are always welcome by those of friends and relatives that would like them. Personally, I don’t like eggs and never eat them unless well disguised in some creative way.

Of course to keep happy hens you must have a resident rooster. The rooster protects and watches over his flock. Roosters sometimes have an attitude problem and can come on quite strongly if they feel their territory is being impinged upon. We have had several varieties that just seemed to be more aggressive than necessary and in the end had to be removed from the premises. Now before you jump to any conclusions, these roosters found other homes where they could “strut their stuff.” Not only do I not like eggs but rooster meat is not anywhere found in my diet plan.

The last rooster was truly a beauty of the foul. His brightly colored feathers glistened in the sunlight. His striping and coloration set him apart from the other feathered creatures that have had an experience on the farm.

Not long ago I went to the chicken pen to deliver some scraps and check on the water supply, only to find silence to greet me. It was a very eerie feeling. Usually the chickens come running and are very interesting in their varied approach. My apprehension grew as I stood looking at the silent pen wondering where all my friends were. Nothing stirred. The area was vacant of life.

I looked about and found one dead chicken laying behind a small bush in the hen yard. As I searched the area I began to see signs of struggles. Feathers were scattered here and there with some whole hens lying about in lifeless heaps. We have seen weasels before in the area but have never experienced any such difficulties as a result. Coyotes have gotten geese, ducks and rabbits, but they haven’t been around for several years. The coyotes have been trapped and relocated. Coyotes cause extensive damage to plastic sprinkler systems in orchards using such irrigation systems above ground. The coyotes chew on the plastic parts, often causing mini gushers when the system is activated during night hours. One rancher said that the coyotes play in the sprinklers and enjoy biting the spray when it comes on.

Our chickens die of natural causes. I never kill a chicken; they all die of natural causes when they pass away. Old age I guess you might say. Several chickens had died over the last several weeks and I just thought it odd that these particular one would die. I was not left to figure out who or what the culprit was. Was it a coyote, fox, or local dog? An animal on the hunt will kill and eat. A dog will just kill for fun and leave the victim where it died. I was witnessing the latter variety.

I gathered up the hens I could find around the three and a half acres, and buried them. The rooster was the most difficult to see lying so still. He had proved such a companion and really a compassionate solace for the hen house. He was always clucking to the hens when he found some bit of food or tasty morsel. The hens flocked to him when he called. He had grown into his arena and filled it quite well. Now I would have to look for another leader as well as another flock of chickens. It will be a challenge to find another qualified leader to direct the activities of the hen house.

While grieving the loss of the flock of chickens, I came across one traumatized hen cowering under some construction material to the side of the hen house. Evidently she had escaped the rampage and was now bewildered as to what had happened and where she was to go from here.

I took time to repair the fence where I thought entry might have been accessed. I tightened the chicken wire and replanted posts to make the fence its full six feet height. Nothing like closing the barn door after the horse is gone.

The one chicken left has always had a tail that leans to the right. She now is easy to spot among all the rest of the chickens. She always looks as though a wind is blowing on her. She has survived and is finally doing quite well. She has taken over the ordering of the hen house and clucks to the other chickens much like a mother hen would do. She also will not hesitate pecking another hen if she feels they are in her way or eating something she particularly wants.

The hen house is now populated with six new hens that are starting to lay eggs. They have yet to learn where to put the eggs but they are laying. Sometimes I find eggs in the corner, beside the feed barrel or more often than not now, in the nesting boxes where they should be. I guess it is a matter of time before they all figure out the process. It will take time because there is no leader hen to direct traffic to the nesting boxes. The leader hen is only interested in directing the eating order. As of now I have to hunt for the eggs that need to be brought in.

One of the aspects of the current group of feathered frustration is their constant talking or, as I call it, singing. I have never heard such singing before. I have not had such a friendly flock before either. When I enter the “club house” I have to scoot my feet along to keep from stepping on fragile chicken toes. They see me coming and run to greet me. I picked up a hen to show a visitor and it sang the whole time I held her. She chirped, chortled and murmured, much to the delight of the onlooker.

The chicken yard is now never quite. No matter when I visit, there is always someone talking or just singing, in fact just about all of them will be singing at any one time, with the exception of when they are eating. They follow me around like puppies and are very eager to receive whatever I might throw out to them, be it corn or just scraps. I do imagine that this is an indication of a happy chicken. “A Singing Chicken Is a Happy Chicken” don’t you suppose?

Not only are the chickens happy but they provide us with eggs enough to give away besides those my wife uses in food preparation. We do benefit each other in several ways.

The hens have taught me a great lesson, that is: in whatever situation you find yourself sing and be happy, deliver the goods and don’t worry about tomorrow, it will take care of itself.