I Got Those Low Down, Mopping Water, Monday Morning Wash Machine Blues
_________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Almost a year ago my washing machine started to lose its bearings. I first noticed the noise. My nearly new washing machine began to rumble-grumble like an antique steam tractor. The agitator sounded agitated. The spin cycle cycled like a dervish. Once it got up to speed the quivering machine tried to buck out of its stall in the laundry room. I did my due diligence, made phone calls, talked with washer repairmen who told me the bearings were going kaput.
“But it’s only six years old,” I protested.
“Oh, well, yeah, plastic bearings. You know. Plastic.”
So I asked the repairman, “How do I know when it’s totally broken down?”
“Water all over the floor.”
“Oh,”
I shopped. Checked top load versus front load. Modern versus conventional. Big bucks versus wash tub and scrub board. I had nearly settled my mind on an old-fashioned wringer washer. I calmed down and decided to keep the one I had until the bugger died. I’d think about it tomorrow.
I eeked out another year of service from my gasping machine. At times, while it racketed around the room, I considered going to the Laundromat for peace and quiet.
One day last week, when I went to my downstairs bathroom to shower, I stepped into a puddle of water in the middle of the rug. Coincidentally, the upstairs bathroom where I tub bathe is above the downstairs bathroom. I mopped up the water and propped the rug to dry. I figured maybe the drain in the horse trough I plumbed in for a tub upstairs was leaking. So I decided to refrain from tub baths until the drain was fixed, maybe by a real plumber. I further figured the water must have found its way through the hole covered by the light fixture and onto the rug. These were not real thoughts but more like fleeting impressions. Strangely, I didn’t bother to look up—up at the ceiling.
A couple days later I noticed that the light fixture in the bathroom downstairs had a strange look, like it might be full of bugs or something. David and Vidya had arrived for the Seed Show so I asked David if he would take down the fixture so I could clean out the bugs. “It’s full of water,” he said as he climbed down balancing the globe like a fish bowl. And it was, full to the top with rusty, scummy, mineral-rich several-day-old water.
Still not putting two and two in a row (math was never my strength), I then asked him to re-caulk the tub drain, which he did in generous gobs. Leak now, you sucker. He also re-attached the downstairs light fixture once it had dried.
Fast forward: my company left, I put a load of sheets in the washer. Once the racket stopped, I walked into the laundry room to shift sheets from washer to dryer. In my sock feet I splashed through a small lake. Two and two suddenly equaled four. I raced downstairs to a sure-enough waterfall cascading from the light fixture.
I called a friend whose wife generously allows him to help women in distress. He came over, put a bucket beneath flood phase two, this time the rinse cycle deluge, and removed the globe and fixture. He handed me the two light bulbs. You know that tinny part on the small end of the bulb, the part that screws into the contraption to accept the electricity, that part was eaten through with corrosion.
An epiphany moment! A horrifying moment! A light-bulb moment! All those days from when the globe first filled with water until now, every single one of those days, my guests and I had used the downstairs bathroom, with the lights on, of course. At any one moment the house could have caught fire and burned down around our ears. (Do wet wires burn? Would the water have dowsed the fire? Spare me the physics.)
I drove down to Charlie’s Lumberyard and bought a new light fixture. Then I made a phone call to order another machine. Reluctantly I discarded my notion to buy a wringer washer and bought another conventional top loader.
“It’s criminal that my washer lasted only seven years,” I told the owner of the store.
“Some last five. Some will go for twenty. Plastic bearings.” He shrugged.
I stuffed my new washer full of towels, the towels that I had used to sop up the water from my failed machine, and pushed go. I’ll find someone to install my new light fixture downstairs. Meanwhile I’ll shower in the dark, glad to still have a house to shower in, glad to have a water-tight washing machine, at least for a few years.
Sondra Ashton
HDN: Looking out my back door
March 21, 2013
___________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Monday, March 25, 2013
We Drove A Thousand Miles to the Seed Show
We Drove A Thousand Miles to the Seed Show
_________________________________________________________________________________________________________
My friends, David and Vidya from Port Townsend, Washington drove to Harlem to stay the week with me and attend the Seed Show. We covered every event. Every breakfast, lunch and dinner.
“Sondra told us so much about the Seed Show. We just had to come see it.”
Our first event Thursday was the wool judging. Vidya knits, so she was particularly interested. “I was surprised to see so many varieties of wool on display, to get to talk to the judge about the wool. I was amazed at the different breeds of sheep. The judge was so knowledgeable, so thorough and conscientious as she handled the fleeces. And it was a special treat to see the young girl who won the Youth Division. She was so delighted with her ribbon.”
Thursday evening we sampled Death by Chocolate. David said, “That event was well named. It was very hard to place my vote. I had to sample some a second or third time to make sure I had made the right choice.”
After fasting the requisite twelve hours, we returned to the High School to have our blood drawn at the Health Fair, an annual event arranged by Fran Hodgson, Blaine County Health Nurse in conjunction with Western Health Screening of Billings. Vidya said, “I’ve never been any place where the health department makes something like this available. Look how it draws the people. The Seed Show is the perfect place to do it. We are happy to be able to take advantage. I’ve put it off, having my blood tested, for years because it is so expensive.”
After having our blood” vampired” out into tubes, we devoured a delicious breakfast served by the Harlem Civic Association. Then my friends and I helped Kris Shaw hang her own art along with a display for Art Duff, an artist from Chinook who died in November and for whom this year’s Show was dedicated. There is nothing like volunteering to make a stranger feel like “part of”. By the time we’d finished, my Washington friends knew Kris, her husband David and many of the “neighbor” artists.
David commented, “I couldn’t believe how many artists were here given how lightly the area is populated. Art seems to be an important part of the Show, on equal standing with other endeavors. The gallery was always packed. The number of people who attended and bid at the Friday night auction is further evidence of the importance of art in this area.”
Vidya added, “I loved the quality of the children’s art—that had to be due to the encouragement of their teachers. What a gift that the kids can display their work where the whole community gets to see it.”
“One thing that disappointed us, we expected to see more ag exhibits, more agricultural influence,” said David.
“We wish we could have seen all the exhibits judged like we saw the wool judged,” added Vidya. “We learned so much listening to the judge’s feedback. I wanted to see everything in depth, to hear all the details. We are impressed by the number of loaves of bread, the pies, cupcakes. We would have liked to hear all the judges’ comments.”
“Pie should be the state food of Montana,” added David. “A real staple of the diet, based on what we see wherever we go, like at What the Hay and the Seed Show. The money the pies brought at auction! That really demonstrates support. People come prepared to buy. They know they will spend a hundred dollars—some high price—for a pie. They are donating for their community. Amazing.”
After the pancake supper Friday night, served by the FFA, my friends told me, “We get a real sense of community here. Look at how hard everyone works to make the Seed Show happen. Everyone, the kids and the adults, together. The pancake supper is great, the whole community, all ages, all the diversity, whole families gathered. Every time we come to Harlem some community thing is going on and we get to go. Like the benefits for the Volunteer Firemen or the Ambulance Crew. There is always something going on that says ‘community’.”
After the banquet Saturday night, weary and sated as we were, I asked “So, is there anything you’d like to add, final impressions?”
“It’s kind of what we expected. Kind of not what we expected. All the stuff that goes on in this area, this empty land, here in Harlem, the county, the region. Basically it’s all home grown. The car show in Turner. The Blaine County Fair in Chinook. The Fall Festival in Havre. Everybody participates, whole families. Where we live, there are cities nearby. So kids, and adults too, go to the city to do city things. Here it’s a long way to the city. It’s all home grown.”
“Yet the pace is leisurely. It’s relaxed but things get done. I know there is stress. Of course, you have stress. But it’s not the same kind of stress. People don’t rush. People take time out to talk to you. They don’t act impatient, brush you off. People like to talk. It’s not such a stratified society like most places. There are so few people, everybody’s job is important to everybody else. Everybody counts. It’s good.”
Sondra Ashton
HDN: Looking out my back door
March 14, 2013
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
_________________________________________________________________________________________________________
My friends, David and Vidya from Port Townsend, Washington drove to Harlem to stay the week with me and attend the Seed Show. We covered every event. Every breakfast, lunch and dinner.
“Sondra told us so much about the Seed Show. We just had to come see it.”
Our first event Thursday was the wool judging. Vidya knits, so she was particularly interested. “I was surprised to see so many varieties of wool on display, to get to talk to the judge about the wool. I was amazed at the different breeds of sheep. The judge was so knowledgeable, so thorough and conscientious as she handled the fleeces. And it was a special treat to see the young girl who won the Youth Division. She was so delighted with her ribbon.”
Thursday evening we sampled Death by Chocolate. David said, “That event was well named. It was very hard to place my vote. I had to sample some a second or third time to make sure I had made the right choice.”
After fasting the requisite twelve hours, we returned to the High School to have our blood drawn at the Health Fair, an annual event arranged by Fran Hodgson, Blaine County Health Nurse in conjunction with Western Health Screening of Billings. Vidya said, “I’ve never been any place where the health department makes something like this available. Look how it draws the people. The Seed Show is the perfect place to do it. We are happy to be able to take advantage. I’ve put it off, having my blood tested, for years because it is so expensive.”
After having our blood” vampired” out into tubes, we devoured a delicious breakfast served by the Harlem Civic Association. Then my friends and I helped Kris Shaw hang her own art along with a display for Art Duff, an artist from Chinook who died in November and for whom this year’s Show was dedicated. There is nothing like volunteering to make a stranger feel like “part of”. By the time we’d finished, my Washington friends knew Kris, her husband David and many of the “neighbor” artists.
David commented, “I couldn’t believe how many artists were here given how lightly the area is populated. Art seems to be an important part of the Show, on equal standing with other endeavors. The gallery was always packed. The number of people who attended and bid at the Friday night auction is further evidence of the importance of art in this area.”
Vidya added, “I loved the quality of the children’s art—that had to be due to the encouragement of their teachers. What a gift that the kids can display their work where the whole community gets to see it.”
“One thing that disappointed us, we expected to see more ag exhibits, more agricultural influence,” said David.
“We wish we could have seen all the exhibits judged like we saw the wool judged,” added Vidya. “We learned so much listening to the judge’s feedback. I wanted to see everything in depth, to hear all the details. We are impressed by the number of loaves of bread, the pies, cupcakes. We would have liked to hear all the judges’ comments.”
“Pie should be the state food of Montana,” added David. “A real staple of the diet, based on what we see wherever we go, like at What the Hay and the Seed Show. The money the pies brought at auction! That really demonstrates support. People come prepared to buy. They know they will spend a hundred dollars—some high price—for a pie. They are donating for their community. Amazing.”
After the pancake supper Friday night, served by the FFA, my friends told me, “We get a real sense of community here. Look at how hard everyone works to make the Seed Show happen. Everyone, the kids and the adults, together. The pancake supper is great, the whole community, all ages, all the diversity, whole families gathered. Every time we come to Harlem some community thing is going on and we get to go. Like the benefits for the Volunteer Firemen or the Ambulance Crew. There is always something going on that says ‘community’.”
After the banquet Saturday night, weary and sated as we were, I asked “So, is there anything you’d like to add, final impressions?”
“It’s kind of what we expected. Kind of not what we expected. All the stuff that goes on in this area, this empty land, here in Harlem, the county, the region. Basically it’s all home grown. The car show in Turner. The Blaine County Fair in Chinook. The Fall Festival in Havre. Everybody participates, whole families. Where we live, there are cities nearby. So kids, and adults too, go to the city to do city things. Here it’s a long way to the city. It’s all home grown.”
“Yet the pace is leisurely. It’s relaxed but things get done. I know there is stress. Of course, you have stress. But it’s not the same kind of stress. People don’t rush. People take time out to talk to you. They don’t act impatient, brush you off. People like to talk. It’s not such a stratified society like most places. There are so few people, everybody’s job is important to everybody else. Everybody counts. It’s good.”
Sondra Ashton
HDN: Looking out my back door
March 14, 2013
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
A Horse Is a Horse, Of Course, Of Course
A Horse Is a Horse, Of Course, Of Course
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
My daughter Dee Dee sent me pictures of my granddaughter Toni , now seven years old, with her new horse, Jill. Toni’s grandfather thinks Jill is still his horse. From the evidence of the photograph, a girl and her horse, cheek to cheek, eyes closed in blissful rapture, this horse belongs to Toni, no question.
Back in October my daughter and her family moved “home” to Montana. Dee Dee had lived in Washington several years. Toni was born in Japan and the family ended up back in Washington, stationed for discharge. For my son-in-law Christopher, home had been Florida and aboard Navy ships, so Montana is a fresh new experience for him.
The family now lives near Glendive, on Grandpa’s ranch, in an old farmhouse across the way. Toni slams out the back door, races over to Grandpa’s house, pulls him out to the corral to saddle up Jill and go riding, a lead rope between them. The picture I like best shows Jill and Toni, nose to nose, gazing with complete adoration into one another’s eyes. Both creatures smile.
Grandpa figures he should buy Toni a pony. Dee Dee laughs. Six hours distance away, I laugh too. At seven, Toni is already too tall for a Shetland. Dee Dee and I both know that Grandpa is remembering Pony, a retired circus horse we bought when Dee Dee was two years old. Pony was one belligerent, ornery cuss of a Shetland. Before he’d let Dee Dee ride, Dad would climb on the saddled pony, his feet dragging on the ground, to “buck him out”. This became ritual for a while, especially in early spring, when after an idle winter, Pony had plenty of pent up snort and energy. Every time Dad straddled the saddle, Pony bucked his unwanted rider onto the hard rocky ground.
Then two-year old Dee Dee, little girl that she was, would walk up to Pony, pick up the dangling reins, hand-over-hand herself up into the saddle and ride all around the barn yard. Dee Dee lived and breathed horse. She crawled over, under, around and between Pony’s legs, braided ribbons into his tail, fed him watermelon and bubblegum. We adults could not get close enough to throw a loop on that stunted black and white devil-horse.
When we needed to bring Pony in from the pasture, it turned into a most pitiful sight. We’d drive out into the field and stop at a distance. We could see Pony, already aware of us, squaring off, spraddled legs ready to spring away. We’d give Dee Dee, now about four, a bucket of oats and a halter and set her off to catch her horse while we hid out, crouched behind the pickup. Pretty soon, here she’d come, little boots crunching through the short grass, Pony following on the lead.
I’m delighted Toni gets to ride. I’m extra delighted Toni has her own horse. At seven, all I wanted was a horse. All I got was want.
I didn’t get to ride until I was married. Even then I never had a horse of my own. I learned to ride on my husband’s rope horse. I could not have had a better teacher. Sputnik was soft-mouthed and gaited, traits I was too ignorant to appreciate until much later. Sputnik was smarter than I by a long shot. He loved to work cattle. All I had to do was hang on, hold a loose rein, pay attention and follow his movements with my legs. Even if we’d been working horseback all day, often in the evenings, my husband and I would saddle up again. We’d head out along Deer Creek, ride through the coulees and across the pastures. I loved every minute.
The thing I miss most about ranch life is having a horse. Sure, I suppose I could figure out a way to ride now and then. But it would not be riding with a purpose, working cattle. Not to mention, it’s been how many years since I was horseback and I’m stove up to boot. I’d need a stepladder to mount. These years later, while maybe an old plug would be the smart thing for me, it would not do. Sputnik spoiled me.
I love to picture Toni racing Jill across the open fields. She’ll smell the mingled sage brush and sweat of her horse, feel the warmth of bunched muscles beneath her seat. She already has the heart for the life. She and Jill share a bond, a trust that cannot be taught. In Grandpa, she has a trainer who will teach her most of what she needs to be a good rider. Jill will teach Toni the rest.
Sondra Ashton
HDN: Looking out my back door
February 28, 2013
____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
My daughter Dee Dee sent me pictures of my granddaughter Toni , now seven years old, with her new horse, Jill. Toni’s grandfather thinks Jill is still his horse. From the evidence of the photograph, a girl and her horse, cheek to cheek, eyes closed in blissful rapture, this horse belongs to Toni, no question.
Back in October my daughter and her family moved “home” to Montana. Dee Dee had lived in Washington several years. Toni was born in Japan and the family ended up back in Washington, stationed for discharge. For my son-in-law Christopher, home had been Florida and aboard Navy ships, so Montana is a fresh new experience for him.
The family now lives near Glendive, on Grandpa’s ranch, in an old farmhouse across the way. Toni slams out the back door, races over to Grandpa’s house, pulls him out to the corral to saddle up Jill and go riding, a lead rope between them. The picture I like best shows Jill and Toni, nose to nose, gazing with complete adoration into one another’s eyes. Both creatures smile.
Grandpa figures he should buy Toni a pony. Dee Dee laughs. Six hours distance away, I laugh too. At seven, Toni is already too tall for a Shetland. Dee Dee and I both know that Grandpa is remembering Pony, a retired circus horse we bought when Dee Dee was two years old. Pony was one belligerent, ornery cuss of a Shetland. Before he’d let Dee Dee ride, Dad would climb on the saddled pony, his feet dragging on the ground, to “buck him out”. This became ritual for a while, especially in early spring, when after an idle winter, Pony had plenty of pent up snort and energy. Every time Dad straddled the saddle, Pony bucked his unwanted rider onto the hard rocky ground.
Then two-year old Dee Dee, little girl that she was, would walk up to Pony, pick up the dangling reins, hand-over-hand herself up into the saddle and ride all around the barn yard. Dee Dee lived and breathed horse. She crawled over, under, around and between Pony’s legs, braided ribbons into his tail, fed him watermelon and bubblegum. We adults could not get close enough to throw a loop on that stunted black and white devil-horse.
When we needed to bring Pony in from the pasture, it turned into a most pitiful sight. We’d drive out into the field and stop at a distance. We could see Pony, already aware of us, squaring off, spraddled legs ready to spring away. We’d give Dee Dee, now about four, a bucket of oats and a halter and set her off to catch her horse while we hid out, crouched behind the pickup. Pretty soon, here she’d come, little boots crunching through the short grass, Pony following on the lead.
I’m delighted Toni gets to ride. I’m extra delighted Toni has her own horse. At seven, all I wanted was a horse. All I got was want.
I didn’t get to ride until I was married. Even then I never had a horse of my own. I learned to ride on my husband’s rope horse. I could not have had a better teacher. Sputnik was soft-mouthed and gaited, traits I was too ignorant to appreciate until much later. Sputnik was smarter than I by a long shot. He loved to work cattle. All I had to do was hang on, hold a loose rein, pay attention and follow his movements with my legs. Even if we’d been working horseback all day, often in the evenings, my husband and I would saddle up again. We’d head out along Deer Creek, ride through the coulees and across the pastures. I loved every minute.
The thing I miss most about ranch life is having a horse. Sure, I suppose I could figure out a way to ride now and then. But it would not be riding with a purpose, working cattle. Not to mention, it’s been how many years since I was horseback and I’m stove up to boot. I’d need a stepladder to mount. These years later, while maybe an old plug would be the smart thing for me, it would not do. Sputnik spoiled me.
I love to picture Toni racing Jill across the open fields. She’ll smell the mingled sage brush and sweat of her horse, feel the warmth of bunched muscles beneath her seat. She already has the heart for the life. She and Jill share a bond, a trust that cannot be taught. In Grandpa, she has a trainer who will teach her most of what she needs to be a good rider. Jill will teach Toni the rest.
Sondra Ashton
HDN: Looking out my back door
February 28, 2013
____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Pye, Pye, Miss American Pye
Pye, Pye, Miss American Pye
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________
“Our church has lost so many of our bakers this year that we may have to forgo serving pies at the Seed Show luncheon,” Bev told me recently. “We might have to substitute cheesecake or something.”
“No! No! You can’t give up pies.” I lined up my arguments. “It wouldn’t be the same. Pie at the Montana Seed Show is a tradition. Pie is expected. Pie is an institution. Besides, what about Arnold? He hangs out at the Seed Show just for pie. That’s what I’ve heard. Sometimes he has six pieces a day. That’s what I’ve heard.” I went into a state of minor panic. I really didn’t care about Arnold. I cared about me!
The Lutheran Ladies have served homemade pie at the Seed Show forever. Whatever else they serve is incidental; people show up for the pie. Why else would hundreds of people stand in a line which winds twice around the hall and through the cafeteria, if not for homemade pie. Once the Civic Association finishes serving breakfast, the Lutheran Ladies set out mid-morning pie and coffee. And they serve mid-afternoon pie and coffee until the pie is gone.
As you stand in the lunch line, listen to the conversations around you. The merits of pies are debated, discussed, decided, studied and re-decided. “I want blackberry this time.” “Not me. My favorite is chocolate meringue. I hope they’re not out.” “Mmmm. I like apple.” Finally the line moves forward into the serving area and there you are, standing in front of at least fifty delectable slices of pie. The choice is overwhelming. Just as you decide on peach, the man in front of you snatches up the last slice of peach pie. “Dang napple-snapples.” Now what. Oooh, the coconut cream looks rich and, well, creamy. You point, “That one.”
I can’t imagine being at the Seed Show without a slice of pie. In my consideration, cheesecake is not a viable alternative. Now I make a mean homemade cheesecake, fresh and high and light and rich. It is expensive to make, takes forever and dirties every dish in the cupboard. And I’ve had cheesecake at a few doings, fundraisers for one event and another. What Bev was talking about as an alternative to homemade pie was the insipid cheesecake made from the easy-squeezy store-bought mix. I won’t say they are inedible but they don’t make me want to go back for more, especially when they are topped with plops of glommy pie filling straight from the can.
Pie is considered as American as the Fourth of July. But, actually pie is universal. Historical evidence points to numerous versions of “pye”, mostly filled with meat, as in four and twenty blackbirds. But during the early lean and hungry years in the colonies our pioneer mothers turned to baking pyes with the simple foods at hand. They lopped the tops off pumpkins, scooped out the seeds and stringy stuff, filled the pumpkin bowls with milk and set them on the open hearth to bake. In later years they added spices and put them in a grain-based “coffin”. The first pye pans these pioneer women devised were round “to cut corners”. Flour was expensive and less flour was needed to make a round crust. These pans were flat and shallow so the “pyes would go a long way”.
“There’s got to be a solution,” I told Bev. “I’ll become a volunteer Lutheran for a day and help bake pies. I bet you can find several others in the community willing to pitch in and help you through this desperate situation. How many pies do you want me to make, two or twenty?”
Yesterday I donned my Lutheran apron, the one I wear when I roll out lefse, and made two apple pies. I like a fat, fruity pie with a thin flaky crust, even though they always bubble over in the oven. After I baked the pies and let them cool, I wrapped them tightly so they wouldn’t lose moisture and popped them into the freezer where they will be safe until the Seed Show. Then I had to clean the oven.
Later this week I’ll bake a couple rhubarb pies and next week I’ll make Juneberry. As a lapsed Catholic helping out the Lutherans, does this doubly fulfill my obligation for Lent? After all, I’m baking them, not eating them. At least, I’ll abstain from pie until the Seed Show when I plan to stand in the slow-moving line along with everyone else, thinking about which pie most makes my mouth water. I sure hope somebody bakes peach.
Easy as pie. Crisis averted. Well, yes, but I will have to clean the oven again.
Sondra Ashton
HDN: Looking at my back door
February 21, 2013
______________________________________________________________________________________________________
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________
“Our church has lost so many of our bakers this year that we may have to forgo serving pies at the Seed Show luncheon,” Bev told me recently. “We might have to substitute cheesecake or something.”
“No! No! You can’t give up pies.” I lined up my arguments. “It wouldn’t be the same. Pie at the Montana Seed Show is a tradition. Pie is expected. Pie is an institution. Besides, what about Arnold? He hangs out at the Seed Show just for pie. That’s what I’ve heard. Sometimes he has six pieces a day. That’s what I’ve heard.” I went into a state of minor panic. I really didn’t care about Arnold. I cared about me!
The Lutheran Ladies have served homemade pie at the Seed Show forever. Whatever else they serve is incidental; people show up for the pie. Why else would hundreds of people stand in a line which winds twice around the hall and through the cafeteria, if not for homemade pie. Once the Civic Association finishes serving breakfast, the Lutheran Ladies set out mid-morning pie and coffee. And they serve mid-afternoon pie and coffee until the pie is gone.
As you stand in the lunch line, listen to the conversations around you. The merits of pies are debated, discussed, decided, studied and re-decided. “I want blackberry this time.” “Not me. My favorite is chocolate meringue. I hope they’re not out.” “Mmmm. I like apple.” Finally the line moves forward into the serving area and there you are, standing in front of at least fifty delectable slices of pie. The choice is overwhelming. Just as you decide on peach, the man in front of you snatches up the last slice of peach pie. “Dang napple-snapples.” Now what. Oooh, the coconut cream looks rich and, well, creamy. You point, “That one.”
I can’t imagine being at the Seed Show without a slice of pie. In my consideration, cheesecake is not a viable alternative. Now I make a mean homemade cheesecake, fresh and high and light and rich. It is expensive to make, takes forever and dirties every dish in the cupboard. And I’ve had cheesecake at a few doings, fundraisers for one event and another. What Bev was talking about as an alternative to homemade pie was the insipid cheesecake made from the easy-squeezy store-bought mix. I won’t say they are inedible but they don’t make me want to go back for more, especially when they are topped with plops of glommy pie filling straight from the can.
Pie is considered as American as the Fourth of July. But, actually pie is universal. Historical evidence points to numerous versions of “pye”, mostly filled with meat, as in four and twenty blackbirds. But during the early lean and hungry years in the colonies our pioneer mothers turned to baking pyes with the simple foods at hand. They lopped the tops off pumpkins, scooped out the seeds and stringy stuff, filled the pumpkin bowls with milk and set them on the open hearth to bake. In later years they added spices and put them in a grain-based “coffin”. The first pye pans these pioneer women devised were round “to cut corners”. Flour was expensive and less flour was needed to make a round crust. These pans were flat and shallow so the “pyes would go a long way”.
“There’s got to be a solution,” I told Bev. “I’ll become a volunteer Lutheran for a day and help bake pies. I bet you can find several others in the community willing to pitch in and help you through this desperate situation. How many pies do you want me to make, two or twenty?”
Yesterday I donned my Lutheran apron, the one I wear when I roll out lefse, and made two apple pies. I like a fat, fruity pie with a thin flaky crust, even though they always bubble over in the oven. After I baked the pies and let them cool, I wrapped them tightly so they wouldn’t lose moisture and popped them into the freezer where they will be safe until the Seed Show. Then I had to clean the oven.
Later this week I’ll bake a couple rhubarb pies and next week I’ll make Juneberry. As a lapsed Catholic helping out the Lutherans, does this doubly fulfill my obligation for Lent? After all, I’m baking them, not eating them. At least, I’ll abstain from pie until the Seed Show when I plan to stand in the slow-moving line along with everyone else, thinking about which pie most makes my mouth water. I sure hope somebody bakes peach.
Easy as pie. Crisis averted. Well, yes, but I will have to clean the oven again.
Sondra Ashton
HDN: Looking at my back door
February 21, 2013
______________________________________________________________________________________________________
She Flew the Coop—In Search of My Imperfect Chicken
She Flew the Coop—In Search of My Imperfect Chicken
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Today I lost a chicken. I mean I misplaced a chicken. I don’t mean a live chicken. I misplaced an ugly, misshapen, ceramic chicken. This unfortunate bird is no poultry beauty. No self-respecting ceramic rooster would give her a peck.
She came into my life, my odd little chicken, from a display at one of the stops along the What the Hay route between Lewistown and Hilger a couple years ago. Her oddity is what drew me to her. She is so droopy of aspect, so overfed, so worthless looking that whoever made her didn’t bother to sign a name. Perhaps this hen had been cranked out on an assembly line in China, one in a long line of ugly chickens. I can’t imagine why anyone on a good day would buy her.
But I was full of chokecherry pie and good will and could not leave her abandoned on the midden heap. The vendor snatched the money out of my hand before I had the wisdom to reconsider. Once I got her home I wondered, why, in all the world of wonderful stuff, why this little beast. But, she made me smile.
If my chicken were real, she would be a setting hen. Too small to fry, beyond the age of a decent layer, too tough to bake. A bird useless except to tuck eggs beneath her feathers and wait for the hatch. I went down to the basement, found a basket, lined it with a linen napkin and snugged my little bird into her nest. My setting hen.
I get nostalgic for chickens. I think how nice it would be to have a dozen hens in my back yard laying fresh eggs with rich yellow yolks. Then I remember. Growing up, one of my responsibilities was the care and feeding of five-hundred layers. Of all the farm animals, I hated chickens, the nasty, dirty creatures. They are sloppy eaters with no manners. Chickens will stomp down the length of the feed trough, scratching feed onto the floor and like as not, drop squirts of manure in the middle of dinner. With seemingly no provocation, chickens are prone to peck one another naked unto death. The flock habitually squawks about in panic, scattering feathers, certain the sky is falling. Every week I had to scrape the chicken house clean, shovel droppings out the door, lime the floor and nests, and spread every surface thickly with new straw. Tomorrow that which I had cleaned yesterday would smell like an ammonia pit. Egg gathering was a pecking, scratching fight. Roosters, territorial tyrants, I don’t even want to talk about.
But that is moot. I have one chicken. This chicken is ceramic. I dust her once a week and ignore her. Now she’s missing. I had wanted her basket for a prop in a painting. When I removed her from the basket, my mind was on the painting, on making a pleasing arrangement. The napkin from the basket lies on the kitchen counter. The chicken is nowhere in sight.
There are only so many places I could have set my chicken. In my soul I am a minimalist. I dislike clutter. I abhor collections. What I have is arrangements. I have vignettes, specifically and artistically arranged. I looked around. Where could I have mindlessly put her in that moment of inattention.
I had set up my easel in the dining room to use the angled winter light against my large cream-painted table. The chicken is not on the table. She isn’t on the shelf of teapots. She is not on the kitchen counter, not camouflaged on the buffet. She’s not on top of the fridge. She’s not in the kitchen sink.
I tried to back-track my steps to when I emptied the basket. I might have been doing two things at once and inadvertently set her down when I opened a drawer or reached for a sweater. I expanded my search. I looked through the bedrooms, no chicken. She is not in the bathroom. Not in the library (although that might be the easiest place to lose her). Not in the living room. I took a gander through the shop. Back to the kitchen. Not in the cabinets. I opened the refrigerator and checked the shelves. And she’s not in the oven.
I give up. This is ridiculous. I’ve spent more time looking for this piece of misbegotten pottery than on my painting. I know she’ll show up once I quit looking. I’m a logical person. She must be in plain sight. She should be within arm’s reach of the table. She has to be near. Oh, bother, I’ll just search one more time.
Sondra Ashton
HDN: Looking out my back door
February 14, 2013
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Today I lost a chicken. I mean I misplaced a chicken. I don’t mean a live chicken. I misplaced an ugly, misshapen, ceramic chicken. This unfortunate bird is no poultry beauty. No self-respecting ceramic rooster would give her a peck.
She came into my life, my odd little chicken, from a display at one of the stops along the What the Hay route between Lewistown and Hilger a couple years ago. Her oddity is what drew me to her. She is so droopy of aspect, so overfed, so worthless looking that whoever made her didn’t bother to sign a name. Perhaps this hen had been cranked out on an assembly line in China, one in a long line of ugly chickens. I can’t imagine why anyone on a good day would buy her.
But I was full of chokecherry pie and good will and could not leave her abandoned on the midden heap. The vendor snatched the money out of my hand before I had the wisdom to reconsider. Once I got her home I wondered, why, in all the world of wonderful stuff, why this little beast. But, she made me smile.
If my chicken were real, she would be a setting hen. Too small to fry, beyond the age of a decent layer, too tough to bake. A bird useless except to tuck eggs beneath her feathers and wait for the hatch. I went down to the basement, found a basket, lined it with a linen napkin and snugged my little bird into her nest. My setting hen.
I get nostalgic for chickens. I think how nice it would be to have a dozen hens in my back yard laying fresh eggs with rich yellow yolks. Then I remember. Growing up, one of my responsibilities was the care and feeding of five-hundred layers. Of all the farm animals, I hated chickens, the nasty, dirty creatures. They are sloppy eaters with no manners. Chickens will stomp down the length of the feed trough, scratching feed onto the floor and like as not, drop squirts of manure in the middle of dinner. With seemingly no provocation, chickens are prone to peck one another naked unto death. The flock habitually squawks about in panic, scattering feathers, certain the sky is falling. Every week I had to scrape the chicken house clean, shovel droppings out the door, lime the floor and nests, and spread every surface thickly with new straw. Tomorrow that which I had cleaned yesterday would smell like an ammonia pit. Egg gathering was a pecking, scratching fight. Roosters, territorial tyrants, I don’t even want to talk about.
But that is moot. I have one chicken. This chicken is ceramic. I dust her once a week and ignore her. Now she’s missing. I had wanted her basket for a prop in a painting. When I removed her from the basket, my mind was on the painting, on making a pleasing arrangement. The napkin from the basket lies on the kitchen counter. The chicken is nowhere in sight.
There are only so many places I could have set my chicken. In my soul I am a minimalist. I dislike clutter. I abhor collections. What I have is arrangements. I have vignettes, specifically and artistically arranged. I looked around. Where could I have mindlessly put her in that moment of inattention.
I had set up my easel in the dining room to use the angled winter light against my large cream-painted table. The chicken is not on the table. She isn’t on the shelf of teapots. She is not on the kitchen counter, not camouflaged on the buffet. She’s not on top of the fridge. She’s not in the kitchen sink.
I tried to back-track my steps to when I emptied the basket. I might have been doing two things at once and inadvertently set her down when I opened a drawer or reached for a sweater. I expanded my search. I looked through the bedrooms, no chicken. She is not in the bathroom. Not in the library (although that might be the easiest place to lose her). Not in the living room. I took a gander through the shop. Back to the kitchen. Not in the cabinets. I opened the refrigerator and checked the shelves. And she’s not in the oven.
I give up. This is ridiculous. I’ve spent more time looking for this piece of misbegotten pottery than on my painting. I know she’ll show up once I quit looking. I’m a logical person. She must be in plain sight. She should be within arm’s reach of the table. She has to be near. Oh, bother, I’ll just search one more time.
Sondra Ashton
HDN: Looking out my back door
February 14, 2013
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Life Lessons at the Point of a Paint Brush—A Little Dab Will Do You
Life Lessons at the Point of a Paint Brush—A Little Dab Will Do You
_________________________________________________________________________________________________________
About a month ago, after a hiatus of several years, I began painting. I hadn’t meant to give it up for so long. I missed the feel of the wooden brush between my fingers. I love to grab globs of oil paint and smear the paint onto stretched canvas. I like the sound the brush makes, the soft sweep. I like the smell of turpentine. It is thrilling to watch the first lines form into recognizable shapes and objects.
When I am painting, something magical happens. The process takes me over and will not let me go. The clock quits ticking. I forget to comb my hair. I miss meetings. I forget to eat. With three brushes in my hand, I scratch my nose and give a whole new meaning to face painting. I reach out with my finger to smooth a line. Absently, I wipe my finger on my shirt. Later I see that I have ruined my second best shirt.
Are you any good, a friend asked. It doesn’t matter. It’s not important whether I’m good or not. I paint because it’s fun. Every canvas is my teacher and that’s a bonus.
Let me explain. Sometime in the last century I realized I had missed a lot in life. For years, I was hesitant to join in any activity unless I knew I would excel or at least do a tolerably good job. I sat on the sidelines and made excuses. I’m busy. I don’t enjoy that kind of thing. I don’t have time. I’ve got too much on my plate. Maybe later, I’d mumble. I thought that to try and not do well revealed some sort of character flaw. I would find myself almost paralyzed thinking about the risk. It was excruciating. So I didn’t try.
I suffered from a twisted flaw in my thinking. I felt no competitive need to be the best. But I was afraid to fail. I admired others for getting out there and doing, regardless. Until one day I had a light bulb moment. Someone’s first. Someone’s second. Someone’s last. It is a mathematical certainty.
That simple understanding freed me. Now I could try new things. I gathered my courage, said to myself, remember, somebody has to be last. I’m willing to be last in this new thing.
And that enabled me to paint. I don’t have to be invested in the outcome. I took a few lessons several years ago. But life kept interfering. You know how that is. I painted maybe a dozen pictures over four or five years. Some were hopeless and landed in the landfill. But when I finished one that showed promise, I framed it.
So last week I took two paintings for framing to the High Plains Gallery and Frame Shop. One is an arrangement of jelly jars and the other an interior scene with a balcony overlooking the sea. I had another painting, a still life I wanted critiqued. I had gone as far as I could go with it. I liked the individual parts, but as a whole, the painting didn’t work. I needed help. I took a deep breath and showed it. Do you know how hard that was? This was my creation, my baby. And I was asking that my work be judged. I was willing to risk the possibility that an expert would say it’s no good, that she would trash it, and by extension, trash me. But I remembered, it is okay to finish the race dead last. Even when I lose, I win.
I could tell Kellie was hesitant. “You can tell me if I should just throw it away,” I told her. “Be honest. I can take it.”
She pulled out an easel and set my canvas on it. “I like this and this and this,” she said.
“Me too. So, tell me why the whole thing doesn’t work.”
“Well, the wall in the background needs to have a corner about here. And you might want to make the walls darker, so the foreground pieces aren’t lost. You need to bring the light around from the other side. And make the shadows deeper.” She said some other stuff too, but that was all I could retain. As I left the shop Kellie called out, “Keep painting.”
So I took my baby back home and repainted the background. I brought the light around from the opposite side and added a corner. Which meant I had to repaint the figures in the foreground; in other words, I changed everything. Kellie was right. Now it works.
As soon at the paint dries, I’ll take it in to be framed. Next I’d like to do a winter landscape of my cabin in the snow-filled yard. I’ll keep painting. This is fun.
Sondra Ashton
HDN: Looking out my back door
February 7, 2013
____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
_________________________________________________________________________________________________________
About a month ago, after a hiatus of several years, I began painting. I hadn’t meant to give it up for so long. I missed the feel of the wooden brush between my fingers. I love to grab globs of oil paint and smear the paint onto stretched canvas. I like the sound the brush makes, the soft sweep. I like the smell of turpentine. It is thrilling to watch the first lines form into recognizable shapes and objects.
When I am painting, something magical happens. The process takes me over and will not let me go. The clock quits ticking. I forget to comb my hair. I miss meetings. I forget to eat. With three brushes in my hand, I scratch my nose and give a whole new meaning to face painting. I reach out with my finger to smooth a line. Absently, I wipe my finger on my shirt. Later I see that I have ruined my second best shirt.
Are you any good, a friend asked. It doesn’t matter. It’s not important whether I’m good or not. I paint because it’s fun. Every canvas is my teacher and that’s a bonus.
Let me explain. Sometime in the last century I realized I had missed a lot in life. For years, I was hesitant to join in any activity unless I knew I would excel or at least do a tolerably good job. I sat on the sidelines and made excuses. I’m busy. I don’t enjoy that kind of thing. I don’t have time. I’ve got too much on my plate. Maybe later, I’d mumble. I thought that to try and not do well revealed some sort of character flaw. I would find myself almost paralyzed thinking about the risk. It was excruciating. So I didn’t try.
I suffered from a twisted flaw in my thinking. I felt no competitive need to be the best. But I was afraid to fail. I admired others for getting out there and doing, regardless. Until one day I had a light bulb moment. Someone’s first. Someone’s second. Someone’s last. It is a mathematical certainty.
That simple understanding freed me. Now I could try new things. I gathered my courage, said to myself, remember, somebody has to be last. I’m willing to be last in this new thing.
And that enabled me to paint. I don’t have to be invested in the outcome. I took a few lessons several years ago. But life kept interfering. You know how that is. I painted maybe a dozen pictures over four or five years. Some were hopeless and landed in the landfill. But when I finished one that showed promise, I framed it.
So last week I took two paintings for framing to the High Plains Gallery and Frame Shop. One is an arrangement of jelly jars and the other an interior scene with a balcony overlooking the sea. I had another painting, a still life I wanted critiqued. I had gone as far as I could go with it. I liked the individual parts, but as a whole, the painting didn’t work. I needed help. I took a deep breath and showed it. Do you know how hard that was? This was my creation, my baby. And I was asking that my work be judged. I was willing to risk the possibility that an expert would say it’s no good, that she would trash it, and by extension, trash me. But I remembered, it is okay to finish the race dead last. Even when I lose, I win.
I could tell Kellie was hesitant. “You can tell me if I should just throw it away,” I told her. “Be honest. I can take it.”
She pulled out an easel and set my canvas on it. “I like this and this and this,” she said.
“Me too. So, tell me why the whole thing doesn’t work.”
“Well, the wall in the background needs to have a corner about here. And you might want to make the walls darker, so the foreground pieces aren’t lost. You need to bring the light around from the other side. And make the shadows deeper.” She said some other stuff too, but that was all I could retain. As I left the shop Kellie called out, “Keep painting.”
So I took my baby back home and repainted the background. I brought the light around from the opposite side and added a corner. Which meant I had to repaint the figures in the foreground; in other words, I changed everything. Kellie was right. Now it works.
As soon at the paint dries, I’ll take it in to be framed. Next I’d like to do a winter landscape of my cabin in the snow-filled yard. I’ll keep painting. This is fun.
Sondra Ashton
HDN: Looking out my back door
February 7, 2013
____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Tuesday, February 5, 2013
The Day the Vacuum Cleaner Made the Phone Ring
The Day the Vacuum Cleaner Made the Phone Ring
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Every two or three days I make a list of chores and things to do. My list keep me focused, nags at me. My list includes jobs which, if I didn’t stick on it, might fall out of sight. These are suggestions, not orders. I pride myself on my flexibility, one of my better qualities. Nothing is cast in concrete. My inner compass points me to go with the flow, as we used to say.
On a diamonds-in-the-sky Monday morning I checked my list. I decided to vacuum, then run the mop along the main pathways. I would have oodles of time to edit an article and throw paint on a new canvas and still go to the County Planning Board meeting. Vacuum, mop, write, paint, meeting. Right.
I set up the vacuum and turned it on. I thought I heard the phone ring. I hit the off switch. Yes, it was ringing. I flung myself across the room and grabbed the phone just before it flipped over to voice mail. Telemarketer. Rats-a-roni. Back to the vacuum. Hit the on switch. Phone rang. Again I threw my body at the phone in time to catch the last ring. This time it was my friends Dick and Jane. They planned to drop by in the afternoon. Perfect. I would have plenty of time to finish my list before they arrived.
Back on with the vacuum. I had started around the living room when I heard someone yell, “Sondra, are you home?” I turned off the vacuum. It was Richard at the door with news. He told me Kim, head of the garbage ordinance committee of which I am a member, was in the hospital with a broken leg. Kim wanted us to meet and make decisions concerning the upcoming garbage contract. So I called City Hall to ask our clerk, Rebecca, to set up a meeting.
Back to the vacuum. This time I swished through the library and actually made it down the hall. The phone rang. It was Laurie calling from the Blaine County Court House to let me know the County Planning Board meeting had been cancelled. So down to my shop to change my message board.
Again I started the vacuum. The phone rang. This time it was Kellie to talk about a fund-raiser for the swimming pool. For two years I was on the swimming pool committee. Last year I begged to be let off. Adamantly, in public and in private, I declared, “I’m no longer on that committee.” No matter. Everybody just smiled and nodded. “Uh huh, sure.” I’ve been told the only way off a committee is to die.
Kellie and I talked for an hour. Back to the vacuum. I finished one bedroom. The phone rang. It was Rebecca to tell me the time and place for the garbage committee meeting. Down to the shop again to write it on my board.
I raced the vacuum through the other bedroom, dining room and kitchen and stowed the bugger in the closet. By this time I hated its guts. Crossed “vacuum” off my list. I got the mop from my utility room and began swabbing. Again, I heard the door open, “Anybody home?”
This time it was Nick. I hadn’t seen Nick since we were classmates at Northern in the late 60’s. When my broken arm was first in a brace, I had written in my column that I needed a man to change some light bulbs. Nick had read it. Periodically he drives through Harlem with his job. He detoured to my house to fix my lights. What a surprise. I showed the Good Samaritan the ladder. Nick quickly installed the new bulbs in both fixtures, said, “Keep in touch,” and headed out the door.
As I waved good-by, the phone rang . It was Kellie to let me know she’d set up a time to talk about swimming pool finances. Back to the shop to note it on the board.
A key piece of my personal rules for better living is that I refuse to enslave myself to technology. I say the telephone is a mere tool. I will not let it rule my life. That is why I like voice mail. (If I’m visiting with you in person and my phone rings, voice mail will pick up a message and keep it safe until I can return the call.) I don’t have to leap to the phone. So why did I keep answering it?
The phone rang. The phone rang six more times. I ignored it. Patted myself on the back. Sic semper tyrannis.
Sondra Ashton
HDN: Looking out my back door
January 31, 2013
___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Every two or three days I make a list of chores and things to do. My list keep me focused, nags at me. My list includes jobs which, if I didn’t stick on it, might fall out of sight. These are suggestions, not orders. I pride myself on my flexibility, one of my better qualities. Nothing is cast in concrete. My inner compass points me to go with the flow, as we used to say.
On a diamonds-in-the-sky Monday morning I checked my list. I decided to vacuum, then run the mop along the main pathways. I would have oodles of time to edit an article and throw paint on a new canvas and still go to the County Planning Board meeting. Vacuum, mop, write, paint, meeting. Right.
I set up the vacuum and turned it on. I thought I heard the phone ring. I hit the off switch. Yes, it was ringing. I flung myself across the room and grabbed the phone just before it flipped over to voice mail. Telemarketer. Rats-a-roni. Back to the vacuum. Hit the on switch. Phone rang. Again I threw my body at the phone in time to catch the last ring. This time it was my friends Dick and Jane. They planned to drop by in the afternoon. Perfect. I would have plenty of time to finish my list before they arrived.
Back on with the vacuum. I had started around the living room when I heard someone yell, “Sondra, are you home?” I turned off the vacuum. It was Richard at the door with news. He told me Kim, head of the garbage ordinance committee of which I am a member, was in the hospital with a broken leg. Kim wanted us to meet and make decisions concerning the upcoming garbage contract. So I called City Hall to ask our clerk, Rebecca, to set up a meeting.
Back to the vacuum. This time I swished through the library and actually made it down the hall. The phone rang. It was Laurie calling from the Blaine County Court House to let me know the County Planning Board meeting had been cancelled. So down to my shop to change my message board.
Again I started the vacuum. The phone rang. This time it was Kellie to talk about a fund-raiser for the swimming pool. For two years I was on the swimming pool committee. Last year I begged to be let off. Adamantly, in public and in private, I declared, “I’m no longer on that committee.” No matter. Everybody just smiled and nodded. “Uh huh, sure.” I’ve been told the only way off a committee is to die.
Kellie and I talked for an hour. Back to the vacuum. I finished one bedroom. The phone rang. It was Rebecca to tell me the time and place for the garbage committee meeting. Down to the shop again to write it on my board.
I raced the vacuum through the other bedroom, dining room and kitchen and stowed the bugger in the closet. By this time I hated its guts. Crossed “vacuum” off my list. I got the mop from my utility room and began swabbing. Again, I heard the door open, “Anybody home?”
This time it was Nick. I hadn’t seen Nick since we were classmates at Northern in the late 60’s. When my broken arm was first in a brace, I had written in my column that I needed a man to change some light bulbs. Nick had read it. Periodically he drives through Harlem with his job. He detoured to my house to fix my lights. What a surprise. I showed the Good Samaritan the ladder. Nick quickly installed the new bulbs in both fixtures, said, “Keep in touch,” and headed out the door.
As I waved good-by, the phone rang . It was Kellie to let me know she’d set up a time to talk about swimming pool finances. Back to the shop to note it on the board.
A key piece of my personal rules for better living is that I refuse to enslave myself to technology. I say the telephone is a mere tool. I will not let it rule my life. That is why I like voice mail. (If I’m visiting with you in person and my phone rings, voice mail will pick up a message and keep it safe until I can return the call.) I don’t have to leap to the phone. So why did I keep answering it?
The phone rang. The phone rang six more times. I ignored it. Patted myself on the back. Sic semper tyrannis.
Sondra Ashton
HDN: Looking out my back door
January 31, 2013
___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)