Another Water Rite!!

Water Rites

The sun has gone down on the gardens at Spruce, but I can still hear the signature sound of summer in my yard: the swish and patter of the oscillating sprinkler giving an evening drink to the posies. In about 15 minutes or so, I'll ease out to the faucet in the dark and turn it off. That will signal the part of the evening when I run the bath water and start a load of wash. It's ritual; it's habit; the water rites are as much a part of summer as ripe tomatoes, gloriosa daisies, moss baskets and cucumbers. One doesn't exist without the other. Success in the garden is dependent on this water ballet.

We moved here after the parched summer of 2002. After we had endured the daily cycle of watering the mum, aster and hibiscus lines; driving the green pickup with the trailer and 1500 gallon water tank to the Co-op, driving home, starting one of the other tanks with a float, coming back to town, and then driving ever so slowly with the sloshing load of water behind.

Watering the gardens had to wait til late in the evening. Putting in a load of wash waited until everyone had bathed and had gone to bed. All the water using tasks were completed before 7 am when the cycle of watering the money making plants began again. It was tedious, frustrating, tiresome and just the latest dry year of the past twenty.

We moved to the farm after a dry year. Little did we know that the most precious asset that homestead possessed was a really good farm well. At the time, our only water usage was family sized: no livestock, no greenhouses, gardens just under construction. As time went on though, we gained 4H and FFA steers that needed their tank filled daily during the heat of the summer. We added greenhouse flowers and finally, several acres of outdoor growing area. Each of these enterprises taxed the well capacity and pumping ability. I don't know what year we first pumped the well dry. But that shock was a nasty one and one that would be repeated again and again no matter how many well drillers and diviners we had digging holes down the hill from our farm stead.

We got smart; we figured out how many hoses we could use at one time in the greenhouses and for how long. During a normal spring, three different people could water at one time without major loss in water pressure or pumping the well dry. If one more person watered in their transplants, all bets were off and someone would be taking a coffee break while the well recharged. During business hours, all household use took a sabbatical. A mere trickle came out of the faucet to rinse off the dinner dishes. Starting a load of laundry was out of the question! We had our priorities.

But during the drought years, during the late 80s, late 90s, early 2000s, all our "voluntary" rationing was insufficient. Some nights, the bath tub was filled with water the color of a beach. We brought drinking water from Millie's; we took laundry to town. The kids spent lots of quality time at the library while I did wash. We invested in not one, not two, but three 1500 gallon tanks. Butch Mather gave us a 1000 gallon tank. We bought the old Westboro Fire Dept. water truck. We filled up at Westboro/Tarkio Agri-Service. We bought a flatbed and starting hauling water from town.

It all took a long, long time. It all took alot of money as we drilled several wells and laid lots of pipe. And, as far as I can tell, the only really good well was the original well on the place.

We're in a wet cycle now. The year Gabe and Abbie were born, we were seriously short handed at the greenhouse. But not a day went by that the well went dry. I gave thanks several times a week while we were watering right, left and in the middle and the water flowed freely and that extra task was avoided. We've added the irrigation booms, which supply more pressure through their supplementary pumps and can be filled while no one else is watering. The weather pattern is on our side now, but it can and will certainly change and we'll struggle and ration and juggle again.

So....old habits die hard. Even though the water at Spruce street comes on and out as long as I pay the Tarkio Board of Public Works, I still get up and run the sprinkler first thing in the morning. I wait for Blake to shower before I water all the pots. I listen to the sprinkler after its dark. And the household appliances rumble and shudder and fill and rinse while we fall asleep.

Time to turn the sprinkler off. Time to fill the coffee pot. Time to watch the weather man. Time to take a bath. Good night.

in the eye of the beholder

Mama, put down that camera.

Back from the baseball game, where east met west as far as Cardinal fans are concerned and we polished off a splendid weekend with Laura and Mark, sweating it out near the Cardinal dugout. Now they are home on Pernod and we are watching the late version of Fox News Sunday on Spruce.

While here, we watching Aaron's ball game on Friday, ate burgers and ice cream in the summer dusk while the little kids filled the wading pool with sand and grass. We played a fairly competent and completely pleasant nine holes at the Tarkio Golf course and cooled off with late lunch at the Sanctuary and the Cards/Royals game. We relaxed and conversed for extended spells on the front porch; we strolled the garden; we spent Saturday evening at the Harms' enjoying a repast from the Range Cafe' cookbook. Mark hit the wiffleball to Gabe and Aaron; Laura caught lightening bugs for the kids to not hold.

I love the winter holidays; don't get me wrong. But summertime is less intense, less compressed, more flexible, more laissez faire. We can't all get together all the time, but, heh, summer is long and we'll all get together Sometime before school and harvest begins and the days shorten.

I went into the guest room to change the sheets for the next visitor and stopped at each picture on the wall. The guest room at our house is the wedding picture room; or the ancestor room, I guess. Here are the lovely 5x7 s of Lee and Annie in their wedding day smiles and finery and flowers. Here is the picture from Ben's wedding day of the two girls and their brother in his tux. There are snapshots blown up to 5x7 from summers past: Ann and her dad at the Nebraska Art museum, looking contemplative and composed in between basketball games. Ben in the village of Eureka Springs looking uncomfortable in the stage between little and big boy. Lee that same summer posing near an elegant Art Nouveau cutout. Matt, Ann, Lee, Ben in silly hats 4th of July 2000. Ben and little Alissa in a John Deere tractor.

Then there are older photos. My mother's portrait from her wedding day, a softly lit eggshell finished black and white in a white gilt frame. She looks young and lovely, gazing calmly somewhere away from the photographer. That was 55 years ago now, but she looked just that young to me well up to the time I got married. Millie and Charlie's wedding picture is up there. Millie looks more serious than I know she is; perhaps because she is perched on heels? Charlie is grinning....well, like the cat that swallowed a canary. I know that look: its the same smile Blake wore after our wedding day. Perhaps Charlie is pinching his new wife? That's what his son did during the wedding pictures. Our wedding picture is NOT displayed; we truly do look young and foolish in all our pictures. But that was the 70s: the hair, the tuxes, the shoes are reason enough to leave us in our photo album in the closet.

Back, back we go around the walls. Next to Millie and Charlie are my Granny and Grandpa. Is the picture taken in a studio? The backdrop looks like a church window, but it could easily be a theater backdrop. There's Grandpa, clear eyed and serious and sans the glasses I remember. Next to him, in a giant coincidence, is Ryan's grandpa! Both young men are thin and suited. I don't know who Ryan resembles in his family, but I think I see Grandpa Harms' nose in this generation. Ryan's grandpa was my grandpa's best man. Granny is wearing heels, I know, because she tops Grandpa's shoulder in her broad brimmed floppy filmy hat. She has a giant bouquet and a lovely tiered, ruffled skirt. She isn't smiling, either, but I think she looks romantic and even a little mysterious on purpose. I believe she would play this important role with a firm idea of how it should appear. One of her sisters is matron of honor and a host of nieces and nephews hold baskets in front. Granny is the youngest daughter and her sisters already have kids. The little girls have toothpick legs and short dresses, anklet socks and white shoes. Granny's sister is beautiful, but most astonishing to me is her spitting image resemblance to my aunt Anne.

If Anne looks like the Becks, I believe my grandpa dropped not far from his mother's tree. I have a tin type of Katarina as a young woman. I know little about her and have no photos of that great grandfather. She is in black and white, needless to say, but I picture her with the reddish blond hair her son also had as a young man. In one corner, by themselves, are Granny's parents on the occasion of an important wedding anniversary. My father's Grandpa Beck was a substantial citizen in Jefferson City and the room in the picture displays middle class status. Wide white baseboard and lace sheers, drapes with pom pom trim and a floor vase of carnations. Grandma Beck is stout, perched on her seat with a little half smile. The mate of that chair, or that very chair, sits next to the cedar chest in the guest room. The finish is no longer shiny but the scratchy indestructible chenille upholstery is intact. I remember several of these chairs in the basement family room at Granny and Grandpa's along with an over stuffed gray chenille sofa. I wonder if the others were dispersed among the family, or if, as I suspect, the turned legs and broad seat were finally unable to support various rowdy family members.

My Grandpa and Grandma Froerer are displayed in the corner beyond the window. They are young in these photos my mother has given me, far away in time from my memories. Grandpa wears a jaunty cap and owlish spectacles as he perches in gloves and a short coat on the railing of a gazebo somewhere. In my picture frame, Grandma smiles widely on the steps of a house somewhere in summertime. She wears a dainty flowered frock; her hair is dark and waved and she cradles a huge angel's trumpet plant on her lap. I think I see a salt and pepper set and a coffee pot in the window of what might be a screened porch? It is cold in the other picture but she looks just as happy in her cloche, stockings and short wrap coat. These pictures are precious to me; they are posed, but candid, and I can build a story around the surroundings. These photos are not recording a formal event for family history; they are capturing an instant of daily life.

My folks have photo albums galore dating from our childhood back through their years in Chicago. They have some of Granny and Grandpa's black and whites too, and I've seen the albums my Grandma kept of my mom and her brother. There is a photo of a series of Christmas trees, each year different from the year previous by the toy under the tree and the height of the child with the toy. I'd love to frame those pictures! Two studio shots of my mom as a young girl and her brother as a little boy used to hang over my grandparents' beds. Granny kept a whole collage of photos of her family in the hallway. Some were color; some not. Some were studio portraits; some Polaroids. I never tired of looking at these and would love to tell her I am trying to duplicate her family wall here at Spruce.

But a picture does not always tell a story. My laughing grandma was not always so happy. My solemn granny was nearly always smiling. And my ancestors are silent except for snippets and tales told at random times.

That's why I write. For the days in the future when some curious child opens a closet full of old albums and wants to know something about who, when, and why. Maybe that child's mommy, or grandma or grandpa will open another drawer and pull out of some papers and say....that was your great.......and this is what it was like then....

Old School

We had just turned onto the gravel road on the way to the farm when Aaron asked me, "Grandma, how did they get to school when you lived on the farm?" 'They', referring to his mommy and aunt Lee in those long ago days of yore when they were school age. "Oh," I said, "the bus came right by our house. They rode the bus to school at Westboro." I couldn't decide whether to laugh or cry at Aaron's next statement, "I didn't know if there were school buses back then."

Take that, Mommy. Or, worse yet, take that, Grandma. I assured him that there were not only school buses when his mom was a little girl, but that they had looked pretty much the same way back when I was a little girl too.

Aaron is thinking all the time. It turns out he had heard someone talk about the old school house there on 160th and thought perhaps his mommy and auntie had walked to school there. Its a logical assumption: one derelict schoolhouse in Westboro versus a torn down schoolhouse a mile and a half from home. I explained that the little single room school house dated farther back yet and told him I had a book at home with pictures of all the old school houses in Atchison county. Its time for his class to visit the North Polk City Park and have his grandma Millie come talk about her school days.

Aaron, I can't get back farther in time than a yellow or red brick one story schoolhouse that looks very much like the one you will be attending. Even though your aunt Laura started kindergarten in one of the old schoolhouses in our county and got to have fifth grade, I think, in another one room school house the district was still using alongside our growing elementary.

I didn't go to kindergarten because there wasn't one. Most kids stayed at home until they turned six and started school. My dad and mom had taught me to read and add and print, but I can clearly remember the cheap lined yellowed paper with the jumbo blue lines and dashed red line to guide us with our capital and small letters. We learned to read in small groups of five or six, taking our turn reading, yes indeed, Dick and Jane paperbacks to our classmates and teacher. I was a shy kid but the first time the word 'stop' came up in the books, I burst out of turn, 'I know that word!' The reading groups were quickly divided by progress, fast and slow, and before the year was out, the classrooms divided just like a cell and two classes of six year olds became three. We didn't have a separate music class at that time and art was included in the classroom too. My favorite activity was painting with watercolors, library, and swinging as high on the old time swings as I could. The playground was in a grove of oaks and one could reach the lowest branch with energetic pumping. You had to get out to the swings in a hurry at recess time to get your chance. We girls wore dresses back then and swinging was easier to manage than the monkey bars or jungle gym.

In music class, we learned all the patriotic songs: like little kids do, we called 'America', 'My Country Tis of Thee'. But I was a sucker for lovely phrases and favored America the Beautiful with its "purple mountains majesty" and "amber waves of grain." We learned 'This Land is Your Land', a song I never hear anymore and sang rounds like Frere' Jaques and 'Row, Row, Row your Boat.' In a nod to culture, I remember listening to LPs of Saint-Saens 'Carnival of the Animals', 'Peter and the Wolf', (narrated by Leonard Bernstein, I'm sure), Danse Macabre at Halloween, Night on Bald Mountain, Peer Gynt, and, of course, The Nutcracker Suite. Unlike the kids at Westboro, we never had recorders, something that would have driven my father out of the house. He pretty well told me to stop whistling in his hearing; I can only guess at his reaction to a recorder.

When we got older, we played alot of kickball at recess and during gym class. I don't know when gym class was transformed in to P.E., but it wasn't while I was in grade school. The best thing about kickball was running the bases. You could really get some ooomph behind that bouncy soft ball and it would travel quite a ways even with the long grass on the ball field. It was always stressful though, because the captains would choose teams and I dreaded the possibility I might be picked last. That ignominy was usually reserved for those who were really slow or pudgy; never imagine that kids don't get a hierarchy of what they consider talent arranged at a very young age. We also played a version of ball indoors on little scooters on casters on the gym floor. Then we played with the giant rubber ball and I don't know if anyone ever scored or if the scrum in the vicinity of the ball was exercise enough to calm our exuberance for the next hours of class.

I think I tried buying my lunch at school about twice. Fried chicken was the menu that really brought kids to the lunch line (can you believe we had fried chicken at school?) and I decided I would join my classmates. When it came time to turn my tray in, I managed to throw all my silverware in the giant trash can. I don't know anyone noticed but I was so mortified, I never bought a lunch again. Over the years, my chipped beef sandwich transformed into a summer sausage and swiss cheese sandwich, but each fall it was a ritual to purchase a new metal lunchbox to carry these delicacies in.

We had room mothers whose job it was to provide treats for Valentine's Day and accompany our class on field trips. I don't remember a single treat or party but I do remember making Valentine's boxes out of red construction paper and paper lace doilies. I did love paper doilies just like I loved making snowflakes for decorations in the wintertime. We didn't have the tradition of bringing cookies or cupcakes for birthdays back then; we would have eaten alot of cake with the large classes I was in!

Everyone rode the bus or walked. If you lived more than a mile away, you could ride the bus. Unlike the bus that used to pick up the kids for school at Westboro, our bus picked up six or eight kids at every stop and there were lots of them. I went to Orland Park for first, fifth and sixth grade and rode the bus; we lived a little closer to Orland Center and I walked there. Most families didn't have two cars, so moms didn't take their kids to school like they do now.

I'd say the biggest difference between going to school in the sixties and going to school now is all the extra activities kids do after school. We had Girl and Boy Scouts and church activities; some kids belonged to 4-H. But the only organized sport was summer baseball for the boys. No cheerleading camps, no dance, no third, fourth, fifth, sixth grade basketball, no football, no karate, no swim team....no nothing. We did have voluntary summer school classes in art and creative writing the year I was in fifth grade. We started playing band instruments that year as well and the band teacher had us practice a week or two during the summer....just to make sure we touched our horns, I'm sure!

When I was Aaron's age, school was loud, crowded, and bare bones by today's standards. Instead of personal attention, we made every effort to be as invisible to the teacher as we could be. I don't even know if we had any kind of teacher's conferences at all! Our grade cards were sent home with us once a quarter and had to be signed and returned. I can't say I loved school, but I know I loved parts of it. I learned to meet my folks' expectations without a fuss; that was more important than any compliment a teacher could pay. My parent's were my best teachers well up into college; now that's old school

summertime, summertime

We All Scream

Just back from my favorite local ice cream joint...Ray's Dairy Diner in Fairfax. On tonight's menu: a small Heath Bulldog, generously studded with chunks of Heath bar and gently flowing out of the spoon hole over the side of the Styrofoam cup. Ice cream for supper is a summer ritual with no one around to judge the shape of our food pyramid.

What do I love about ice cream? Well, obviously, I relish the stuff itself. There is nothing wrong with a dish of Breyer's before bedtime, or a sinfully rich scoop in a crystalline footed dish. But as much as I love the food quality of ice cream, I love the romantic notion of ice cream, the associations, the memories, the "remembrance of things past".

I grew up when chain restaurants were in their infancy. Our town sprouted a Dog 'n Suds across from the little gas station we patronized. You still see an occasional Dog 'n Suds building, usually in the guise of a used lot; they're hard to mistake with their distinctive v-shaped awnings. We didn't eat out much; to tell the truth, I don't know that we ever ate anywhere but our dining room in Orland Park. So I cannot speak with authority on the ice cream at a Dog 'n Suds.

That doesn't mean we didn't avail ourselves of root beer and root beer floats. Outside of Louisiana, Missouri we'd occasionally stop at the A&W Root Beer drive-in for a refreshing brew. This was a good thing in a myriad of ways. First of all, someone came up to your window and took your order. The root beers came in all sizes, from Papa Bear to cunning little mugs just for kids. The mugs had a perfect rime of foam on the rim and were thickly coated with frost in the constant summer humidity. I loved the way the trays hung on our car windows and the spongy rubber mat that cushioned the trip of the mugs to our door.

 

Jefferson City had its own marvelous ice cream emporium. I didn't eat much ice cream at Central Dairy until I was a teen. Then it was a tough decision whether to opt for a Jamoca Almond Fudge cone or a strawberry shake with chunks of fruit large enough to plug your straw. The counter stools were round, vinyl topped and swiveled. The flavors were crammed on two boards on the wall. The booths were simple bare boards and the flooring vintage linoleum in checkerboard red and white. The whole place gave me the impression of being part of the time warp that kept parts of Jeff City comfortably in the past. The overwhelming sensation of Central Dairy was that of chill. The ice cream was just warm enough to detect flavor and the ambient temperature of the fountain, maybe a degree or two higher. Stepping out into the street made was a physical shock and my glasses fog over.

For many years, my folks hosted a family get together at Redbarn given the handle of the "Pigout" around July 4th. Needless to say, pork in several manifestations provided the entree but dessert was invariably a birthday cake for Annie and homemade ice cream. This continued the tradition begun at Granny and Grandpa's 4th of July celebrations. The homemade ice cream was a joint collaboration between the men and women. My mother, or Granny, would mix up the magical ice cream concoction. The men's job was to chip the ice block in an old washtub and pack the ice and rock salt around the metal cylinder. Then it was time to churn, and jaw, and pour salt and pack more ice and tell more stories and crank....you get the picture. We kids would snitch ice chips or maybe even take turns with the ice pick. We'd hang around and offer to crank awhile. But even when we were old enough to be helpful, we were as invisible to the guys making the ice cream as we were to those same guys turning the pork steaks over the glowing coals on the sheet of tin. It was ritual. It was tradition. The ice cream came out cold and crystalline, either ur-vanilla or the essence of peach flash frozen right off the tree.

Its been awhile since I rode with Blake hauling grain to Atchison in the summertime. It wasn't a very pleasant way to spend an afternoon but it was a way to spend time together. The truck lacked air conditioning so we rode down with the motor roaring and the gears laboring up the hills into St. Joe. Conversation was impossible so I looked out the window at the sweltering fields. The atmosphere grew tense as we crossed the bridge into Atchison. Would we or would we not catch the green light on the other side. Would Blake have to labor mightily to bring the creaking load of grain to a screeching halt. Would the clutch hold when we did and had to start up again.

But there was compensation and a treat after we left at the elevator. On our way out of town, we could sneak the 10 wheeler into the parking lot at the DQ and get a giant iced tea and a shake or Blizzard. Somewhere in this time frame, Dairy Queen created the Cappuccino Heath Blizzard and it has remained my favorite ever since. The truck was lighter and quieter on the way home and the riders cooler thanks to DQ.

And what discussion of ice cream would be complete without mention of Ted Drewes'? Our summer trips to St. Louis have always been joyful events, whether we get to a Cards game, or the Garden, or golf, or eat on the Hill, or partake of Mark's culinary expertise. I rest my case on the myriad pleasures of summer in St. Louis and a visit to Pernod Gardens. Not the least of these is a pleasant evening stroll down the neighborhood streets to the bright lights and commotion of Ted Drewes' on Chippewa. There is constant traffic entering and leaving the parking lot and a long congenial line at the windows. Most people stand and eat their concretes or sundaes before driving off, but we are pedestrians and find a comfortable curb or window ledge to eat our treat. What do I eat at Ted Drewes? I haven't the faintest idea! It's all good, but its more than food...it's community, it's tradition, it's common ground.

 

Back to the Dairy Diner. Ice cream at the Dairy Diner is another lovely tasty proxy for summer. The building is square and old, but the picnic tables outside are a great place to watch what happens in rural Missouri in the summer. On the east side is a big pop machine. The fluorescent bug lights are yellow and flyspecked. I wonder while I wait for my Bulldog how long it has been since the individual light sockets drew moths to their tempting halos. The Dairy Diner is and is not a charming anachronism in a chain store world. We are regulars there and they apologize to Lee for making her previous Bulldog with vanilla ice cream. The sign is freshly painted for the season with Bulldog green. Its only June; we hope there are many more ice cream reminiscences in the summer ahead.

 

Posted with Blogsy

We All Scream

Just back from my favorite local ice cream joint...Ray's Dairy Diner in Fairfax. On tonight's menu: a small Heath Bulldog, generously studded with chunks of Heath bar and gently flowing out of the spoon hole over the side of the Styrofoam cup. Ice cream for supper is a summer ritual with no one around to be judgmental about the shape of our food pyramid.

What do I love about ice cream? Well, obviously, I relish the stuff itself. There is nothing wrong with a dish of Breyer's before bedtime, or a sinfully rich scoop in a crystalline footed dish. But as much as I love the food quality of ice cream, I love the romantic notion of ice cream, the associations, the memories, the "remembrance of things past".

I grew up just as chain restaurants were in their infancy. Our town sprouted a Dog 'n Suds across from the little gas station we patronized. You still see an occasional Dog 'n Suds building, usually in the guise of a used lot; they're hard to mistake with their distinctive v-shaped awnings. We didn't eat out much; to tell the truth, I don't know that we ever ate anywhere but our dining room in Orland Park. So I cannot speak with authority on the ice cream at a Dog 'n Suds.

That doesn't mean we didn't avail ourselves of root beer and root beer floats. Outside of Louisiana, Missouri we'd occasionally stop at the A&W Root Beer drive-in for a refreshing brew. This was a good thing in a myriad of ways. First of all, someone came up to your window and took your order. The root beers came in all sizes, from Papa Bear to cunning little mugs just for kids. The mugs had a perfect rime of foam on the time and were thickly coated with frost in the ever present summer himidity. I loved the way the trays hung on our car windows and the spongy rubber mat that cushioned the trip of the mugs to our door.

 

Jefferson City had its own marvelous ice cream emporium. I didn't eat much ice cream at Central Dairy until I was a teen. Then it was a tough decision whether to opt for a Jamoca Almond Fudge cone or a strawberry shake with chunks of fruit large enough to plug your straw. The counter stools were round, vinyl topped and swiveled. The flavors were crammed on two boards on the wall. The booths were simple bare boards and the flooring vintage linoleum in checkerboard red and white. The whole place gave me the impression of being part of the time warp that kept parts of Jeff City comfortably in the past. The overwhelming sensation of Central Dairy was that of chill. The ice cream was just warm enough to detect flavor and the ambient temperature of the fountain, maybe a degree or two higher. Stepping out into the street made was a physical shock and my glasses fog over.

For many years, my folks hosted a family get together at Redbarn given the handle of the "Pigout" around July 4th. Needless to say, pork in several manifestations provided the entree but dessert was invariably a birthday cake for Annie and homemade ice cream. This continued the tradition begun at Granny and Grandpa's 4th of July celebrations. The homemade ice cream was a joint collaboration between the men and women. My mother, or Granny, would mix up the magical ice cream concoction. The men's job was to chip the ice block in an old washtub and pack the ice and rock salt around the metal cylinder. Then it was time to churn, and jaw, and pour salt and pack more ice and tell more stories and crank....you get the picture. We kids would snitch ice chips or maybe even take turns with the ice pick. We'd hang around and offer to crank awhile. But even when we were old enough to be helpful, we were as invisible to the guys making the ice cream as we were to those same guys turning the pork steaks over the glowing coals on the sheet of tin. It was ritual. It was tradition. The ice cream came out cold and crystalline, either ur-vanilla or the essence of peach flash frozen right off the tree.

Its been awhile since I rode with Blake hauling grain to Atchison in the summertime. It wasn't a very pleasant way to spend an afternoon but it was a way to spend time together. The truck lacked air conditioning so we rode down with the motor roaring and the gears laboring up the hills into St. Joe. Conversation was impossible so I looked out the window at the sweltering fields. The atmosphere grew tense as we crossed the bridge into Atchison. Would we or would we not catch the green light on the other side. Would Blake have to labor mightily to bring the creaking load of grain to a screeching halt. Would the clutch hold when we did and had to start up again.

But there was compensation and a treat after we left at the elevator. On our way out of town, we could sneak the 10 wheeler into the parking lot at the DQ and get a giant iced tea and a shake or Blizzard. Somewhere in this time frame, Dairy Queen created the Cappuccino Heath Blizzard and it has remained my favorite ever since. The truck was lighter and quieter on the way home and the riders cooler thanks to DQ.

And what discussion of ice cream would be complete without mention of Ted Drewes'? Our summer trips to St. Louis have always been joyful events, whether we get to a Cards game, or the Garden, or golf, or eat on the Hill, or partake of Mark's culinary expertise. I rest my case on the myriad pleasures of summer in St. Louis and a visit to Pernod Gardens. Not the least of these is a pleasant evening stroll down the neighborhood streets to the bright lights and commotion of Ted Drewes' on Chippewa. There is constant traffic entering and leaving the parking lot and a long congenial line at the windows. Most people stand and eat their concretes or sundaes before driving off, but we are pedestrians and find a comfortable curb or window ledge to eat our treat. What do I eat at Ted Drewes? I haven't the faintest idea! It's all good, but its more than food...it's community, it's tradition, it's common ground.

 

Back to the Dairy Diner. Ice cream at the Dairy Diner is another lovely tasty proxy for summer. The building is square and old, but the picnic tables outside are a great place to watch what happens in rural Missouri in the summer. On the east side is a big pop machine. The fluorescent bug lights are yellow and flyspecked. I wonder while I wait for my Bulldog how long it has been since the individual light sockets drew moths to their tempting halos. The Dairy Diner is and is not a charming anachronism in a chain store world. We are regulars there and they apologize to Lee for making her previous Bulldog with vanilla ice cream. The sign is freshly painted for the season with Bulldog green. Its only June; we hope there are many more ice cream reminiscences in the summer ahead.

 

Posted with Blogsy

To the Pacific

Wagons, Ho-ohhhhh!

The storms of June following the constant rains of May have left our country roads in quite a state. You can mess up the alignment of your minivan dropping off the pavement to the erstwhile gravel road. Your four wheel drive independent suspension will loosen your false teeth on the washboards of the downhill slopes. Even the most seasoned skier would have a difficult time navigating the moguls at the top of the rises. A driver plays Russian roulette where the tubes have washed out and the road narrows to one car wide. On my way to work this morning, 160th, the gravel leading to the greenhouse, reminds me of nothing so much as the Oregon trail ruts carved deep into the limestone at Guernsey, Wyoming. And thinking of the Oregon trail.....

Like many of us, I've visited our nation's Capitol and viewed with reverence and respect the memorials and monuments to our nation's founding and history. Each and every time I mount the steps to the Lincoln Memorial, I get goosebumps reading the words of the Second Inaugural Address on the marble wall. However strenuous the gauntlet of security surrounding the Capitol, it is still the people's house. The walls, the intricately tiled floors, the murals, the well worn desks: despite the uniformed attendants and bustling, over busy factotums , the subtext of the surroundings is " you have every right to feel at home here." The streets fill every morning with the worker bees of the government, but the city belongs to the tourists. In Washington, D.C., our history is concentrated, piled up like a seven layer salad. And like that dish, mixing the ingredients may ruin the appearance, but improves the experience. That's how I feel eating lunch at the Old Ebbitts Grill: new seating in the enclosed atrium, old style wait staff, antique bar. Or visiting the American Art Museum/Portrait Gallery nee' Patent Building. Or perusing the book I have from the National Archives titled 'Washington old and new'.

But wait. Washington, D.C. is not the whole story. The story of America found on the Mall is the Readers Digest condensed version: it cannot do justice to the natural physical spaciousness and enormity of America and the way it formed the American character and experience. Instead of walking the National Mall of our east coast, one must hit the highways and follow those seekers on the Oregon Trail.

Maybe I put too much store in the pioneers. Perhaps this is a provincial prejudice of itself. After all, when you live just north of the home of the Pony Express, when you cross the proverbial Wide Missouri every little whip stitch, when Lewis and Clark's Indian tribes named your neighboring counties, when the flat sandy Platte empties nearby; how could you fail emphasize and honor the super highway of the last century?

Not just recognize, but also realize how many of the differences between the coasts in our present day derive from the differing perceptions of the scope and scale of our modern country. Those folks living at the end of the section roads in the Sand Hills are not newcomers; they have roots as deep as the grasses that hold the ancient dunes in place. You think Nebraska is long on I-80? The Oregon Trail covered even more miles on the wandering south side of the Platte; the Mormons kept themselves separate on the north side. I'm sure those 400 odd miles seemed long, but as the bountiful pasture and water of the east dwindled as the land rose and the humidity dropped, it could and did get worse. Think of those folks; never spent a season in a truly dry land. Never lived through searing winds of 40 mph day after day. Never saw the storms rise up from nothing over the horizon and drop hail the size of hen's eggs.

We've been to Ash Hollow and seen the broken land the dried and split wagons traversed. A sobering warm up for the slope of the Rockies. How bizarre did the monuments of Chimney Rock and Scotts Bluff appear? Or perhaps the travelers didn't mark this passage; unlike our windshield surveys on pavement, Chimney Rock and Scotts Bluff were landmarks for days on end.

Across the Platte in Wyoming, the rocks at Guernsey concentrate the impact of the wagon wheels. If you stand at the foot of the rocks, the ruts are four foot deep. The names of the travelers are carved in that same stone in block letters with dates attached. What a leap of faith or foolishness!!  Here in eastern Wyoming, the topography is moderate though the eastern forests and plentiful wood are but a distant memory.

The next stop for weary travelers would be Fort Laramie, a gathering place for military, Indians, and emigrants. Fort Laramie looks much as it did 150 years ago: tremendously exposed, big sky, big prairie near a modest copse of cottonwoods. There is little to protect or screen the wooden enclave: the landscape is reduced to its lowest terms; you are in the West.

Even more evocative of the stark and brutal journey is the landscape farther west in Wyoming. The current highway following the Trail can be lonely in the 21st century; no towns exist for miles, though in classic Wyoming fashion, the widest spot of the road gets large font on the state map. The terrain is broken, the names foreboding: Rattlesnake Hills, Devil's Gate. Independence Rock sits in the middle of this landscape, imposing and graffiti-ed. We arrived at Independence Rock one morning when the shadows were still long. The parking lot was empty and the air silent. Unlike a midwestern summer morning, there was no bird song and no dew, just the crunching of our footsteps on the path. For miles past Casper, we'd seen no sign of human habitation or occupation except the signs for the Pathfinder ranch. The Rattlesnake Hills were black and barren. The highway both directions was empty. It was not hard to imagine how endless the miles would seem when laboring through this desolation.

For the modern traveler, it is but a short drive on to the Devil's Gate, a gash in the rocks before the welcoming meadows and water of the Sweetwater River. But the wagons and teams would take an entire day to make the distance, a pace that became even more labored as the summer wore on, the days shortened and the mountains loomed.

I can hardly imagine what drove those people to travel such a distance. These were wanderers, drifters, dreamers and the children of such restless folk uprooted from their native soils. They took leaps of ignorance and faith and could never have known how ill prepared their best efforts were. Was Oregon or California really worth this sacrifice? Apparently so, because the prairies still bear markings from the impact of the exodus even today. Where are those doughty long suffering souls today? They are still in our bones and in our pretty well universal can-do approach to circumstances. Every time we pack up our families and belongings and take on a change of life and location, we pay homage to our forebears. We may not recognize ourselves in the marbled halls of our seat of government. But when we drive the thousand miles from the Missouri River to the Devil's Gate, we do. We are far removed in time from the emigrants of the Oregon Trail, but we admire their persistence, their spirit, and their hope for a better life for their loved ones.

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Guess Daydreaming is a Summer Game too