Thursday, August 05, 2010
A Family Reunion
08/05/2010
Our home will be filled with family this weekend. Some arrived last night, with others due in tonight and tomorrow. We may have as many as nineteen if everyone makes it, plus two dogs and a cat.
This house is made for company. It is made to have kids running through it and around it. There is a pond on The Farm the kids and Grandpa can fish in. There are trails in the fields for walking, and a Jeep Wrangler with the top down and the doors removed for cruising. And, there is a porch filled with rocking chairs for relaxing and meditating. Oh, and there is a fridge stocked with adult beverages for further mellowing, if the ambiance of the place doesn’t quite do it naturally? Life is good here, it is The Best Day Ever.
This will be the third year for our little reunion here on The Farm near Beautiful Downtown Berkeley Springs, West Virginia, population 711. It is a joy for Nancy and I to host this event; we love it when the house is full and wish the family could stay longer to enjoy this place with us.
You are invited to visit, too. Come see us?
And that is all I have to say about that…
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
Home Brewing...
07/27/2010
I have heard horror stories about people brewing their own beer at home. Apparently it is not uncommon to have “mishaps,” “miscues” and even some small explosions (mostly after bottling). Inasmuch as my experience as a “brewer” is limited to none at all, and recognizing I am more the “brewee,” testing the various offerings of others is my level of expertise. The mechanical side of the art is to be learned via the School of Hard Knocks.
Cooking is a hobby of mine, an avocation: I enjoy every aspect of being in the kitchen. Following a recipe is relatively easy if you can read, and I can read a little, so I thought what the hell, I’ll make some beer. I bought a kit with a recipe that calls for the final product to be about five gallons, or, in terms of those of us who really enjoy it, fifty-three 12-ounce bottles, give or take three-tenths of a bottle.
I steeped the grains and made the wort. I added the malt and started the boil. I added the bittering hops for fifty-five minutes, and then the flavoring hops for five more. I shocked the wort mixture to 70 degrees, and pitched the yeast. I checked the O.G (1.050) – what ever the hell that is? The mixture is now in my carboy fermenting away (I hope). In 4 to 6 days I have to move the mixture to a secondary carboy, hopefully leaving behind any residue of grain and hop parts in the bottom of the fermentation bucket. Ten days in that doohickey and then it’s time to bottle, and that I am told when the fireworks can begin.
If all goes well, in two weeks or so I will get to enjoy some of this initial offering of the Berkeley Springs Brew Works. I will keep you posted.
And that is all I have to say about that…
Friday, July 23, 2010
Viet Nam Vets...
07/23/2010
I have spent the past two nights in Louisville, KY attending an educators’ conference. As you probably could guess without my acknowledging it, both nights found my rear parts firmly planted on a bar stool. The Galt House has a huge bar over the street on the bridge that connects its two buildings.
My first night as I slowly sipped at my beer I noticed a small group of guys and their wives sitting the other end of the bar. The guys’ clothing was nothing special but is was adorned with all things military, as was the very military looking caps they had on. As they laughed and talked it was pretty easy to gather this was a Viet Nam vet’s reunion going on.
My first impression of this group was not wholesome; I thought of them as a bunch of blue-collar types who just couldn’t get beyond the past. I couldn’t understand how a group of guys dwelled on what was and not what is or could be? Truth is now very clear to me. Much like the recent revelations of Shirley Sherrod (the NAACP speaker) and her transformation from racist to humanist, my epiphany regarding these guys was realized rather quickly last night when I engaged them at the bar.
I, too, was in the military during the Viet Nam (1963-67). Though I didn’t make it to Viet Nam, many of the guys I served with did, and some did not make it home. These guys made it home, but as I listened to their stories I found many of them left a lot of themselves there. I was on the verge of tears as one guy’s wife described how he was when he returned home. Her husband wouldn’t discuss the war with her. Often he got home from work and immediately began to drink, at times consuming an entire case of beer – 24 of them, until he passed out. He had nightmares and night sweats. He began to confront this when he hooked up with the buddies who had formed a group they called the “F Troop.”
He didn’t tell me the entire story, but one part involved him as a “minesweeper” walking out in front of a convoy detecting mines buried by the Viet Cong. One day he missed one and a jeep following him hit it and was blown to pieces killing the three GI’s in it – his buddies, all guys he knew. That is a hell of a lot of pain for a twenty-year old to bear, and a lot of guilt to hold on to for all those years.
My mother used to preach to me “Judge not, lest you be judged.” My cynicism got the best of me, but just for a little while until some guy from upstate Wisconsin handed me my comeuppance.
And that is all I have to say about that…
Thursday, July 15, 2010
Thoughts of My Mother...
07/15/2010
My daughter sent this to me this morning. I think she gets this is how I live my life, and sent this as a reminder for her and to me confirming she will do the same.
Living in the Present
One day at a time,
This is enough.
Do not look back and grieve over the past.
For it is gone. . .
And do not be troubled about the future.
For it has not yet come.
Live in the present, and make it so beautiful.
That it will be worth remembering.
Not long after reading this I saw a commercial on TV showing a lady walking a path in slacks. I have no idea what the commercial was for or about, but my brain almost instantly flashed a picture of my mother into my consciousness. It was triggered by the slacks. My mother never wore them that I remember, and I was fifty-three when she passed away in 1997. In fact, I do not have any memory of her at all other than in a dress. She called them “house dresses.”
My mother was a proud person, very proud. She took great pride in my dad and in their near 68-year marriage. She took great pride in her more than average children, elevating us to a level reserved for the spectacular. She took pride in her Christianity and in her lengthy Christian roots. She took pride in her own mother and father and her two brothers and three sisters.
I know she had pride in who she was and what she was about, though one would not guess it from her appearance. She rarely wore makeup other than some very lightly applied lipstick. Fashion was totally unimportant to her, but I thought she always looked nice and never unkempt or messy.
I believe she had great pride in her station in life; quite happy with what God had provided for her and her family. She never had a job outside of the home, but did a whale of one raising five kids and keeping a happy home for my dad when he got home from work.
She wasn’t the greatest cook in the world, not even close. She loved plain, country cooking. She threw a slab of fatty meat in just about everything she did cook, and most of the time cooked vegetables beyond recognition and meat to the leather stage. She referred to spaghetti and as nice side dish, and her idea of a truly great meal was a Filet of Fish Sandwich, an order of fries and a cup of coffee at McDonald’s. I clearly remember her watching soap operas at noontime, and sitting on the sofa in our living room eating a slice of bread folded over a chunk of sharp cheddar along with some leftover morning coffee.
Those are fond memories of the lady who wrote beautiful poetry and short stories that I passed off as my own for school assignments. The lady who dragged me to church every Sunday, but always had paper and crayons in her purse to keep my little brother and me occupied – meaning quiet – during the service. She was amazing.
The last years of her life were a living hell, a test of her resolve, I suppose. Thinking that softens the blow for me. Perhaps this was her path to Heaven? I do not know, but I know she is in a better place now. And I know I miss those dresses.
And that is all I have to say about that…