Wednesday, May 6, 2026

H. G. Hodge Birthday Bash, 1999

    The birthday celebration and roast for H. Grady Hodge as plotted by wife, Gail, and fellow conspirators went much as planned.  Relatives, former co-workers, coon hunter pals and numerous offspring enjoyed loud music and mystery meat barbecue.  Games were played and a display of family photos from the years past was examined by many.

    A number of those present took part in the roasting of the honored guest.  They all seemed to arrive at a consensus:  he was one mean little boy critter who has not much improved with the passage of time.

    As his eldest sister, I have perhaps earlier memories of him than his other siblings, but I have to admit not remembering ever hearing words like "sweet", "angelic" and "adorable" bandied about as happened several years later when another brother arrived to join the ranks.  (Take a bow, Larry!) However, I do not think H.G. was any worse than are most little brothers.

    I remember him as the little boy who became my charge when I was nine years old.  I was the one who rocked him to sleep for his daily nap.  After lunch he and I would head for the rocking chair in the long, cool hallway, and I would sing him to sleep.  He would start yawning as soon as I began his favorite, the old ballad of "the ship that never returned".

    I remember him looking through my freshman year's college annual with increasing bewilderment because he couldn't locate his sister's picture in the campus beauties section.  Bless his sincere little heart.

    Until I went away to school, we two had regular wrestling matches, often at Mother's instigation and always with her approval.  She liked how well-behaved he would be for a week or so after having his face rubbed in the dirt.

    On my first return visit, he challenged me to a tussle, and that time he rubbed my nose in the sand.  It was our last match.

    Probably all of us share one of the most poignant memories, known as the Great Dewberry Disaster.  Each spring we looked forward to the first crop of ripe berries.  We spotted the best picking spots by noting where the most white blossoms were blooming along roadways, fields and pastures.  We watched the little hard berries form and slowly turn from green to to red and finally to a lucious black ripeness.  We picked enough of them to make a big cobbler and carried them home to our mother, an inspired cook of berry cobbler fame.

    We waited with mouths watering for suppertime to come.  H.G. was the first to finish supper, and reached for the big cobbler dish.  Somehow in his eagerness, he managed to dump the entire pie in his lap, on the floor and all down the kitchen wall.  We were too shocked and disappointed to even cry.  Not only was the pie lost to us, but we had to clean up the mess it made as well.

    Happy birthday, little brother, and many more to come!  We promise not to do this to you again.  This year.

Dated August 23rd, 1999



H G Hodge Jr, aka "Son", "Unky", and "Grady"

Tuesday, May 5, 2026

Following is a term paper that Mother wrote in, I believe, her freshman year at Mary Hardin-Baylor (1948-49).  From our current 2026 perspective, it is somewhat impossible to believe some of the early technological challenges and proposed solutions....but it is a glimpse at how far technology has come in approximately 78 years.  Reading through this study, I found myself thinking that nobody in 1949 would have predicted that we would be watching television on our phones in 2026.

In addition to being somewhat impressed that a 17 year old student would be addressing the birth and rise of television, this paper was typewritten.  I know a certain typewriter played an important role in Mother's story "My Fiend Lucife" in later years (story available in this blog).  I could not help but wonder to whom the typewriter belonged (Mother did not have the funds for one) and if this was the same typewriter she used as the inspiration for that story.

MARVEL OF THE TWENTIETH CENTURY

Term Theme, English 131, Nettie Hodge

    It is being hailed as a twentieth century miracle, and only about one in ten Americans have seen it.  It was born in 1873, and has a future as bright as man's imagination can conceive.  For, although the age of miracles is supposedly past, "...suddenly, in 1948, out of years of talk and promise, the television industry has at last emerged to join the automobile, the airplane, and the radio as the twentieth century's fourth major contribution to communication and transportation".

    But television has almost become a menace in spite of its wonderful potentialities.  For, although it is high priced, over half of all sales are made to people who cannot reasonably afford it.  More sets are sold to people in the lower middle or poor income brackets than are sold to families in the higher income class, who can afford it.  The buying group seems exceedingly anxious to possess television sets.  They trade refrigerators, cars, and washing machines for the box with the magic screen.  Often, in the cities near video transmitters, lowly shacks are seen sporting shiny television antennae.  In spite of the new type of inflation it has brought on, however, television is still hailed as the outstanding scientific achievement of the century.

    Credit for the discovery of television must be given to a young Irish telegrapher.  It happened in 1873, soon after the laying of Cyrus Field's transatlantic cable.  The setting was a telegraph office in Valencia, Ireland, the terminus of the cable.  One morning Joseph May, the young Irish operator, noticed a queer hum coming from his code receiver.  Upon investigation he learned the cause.  A stray beam of sunlight was streaming through the open window at his back, and playing on the electrical register, causing the code receiver to jam.  Puzzled, May passed his hand between the register and the sunshine. The hum stopped.  Why?  After experimenting with the fateful ray of light, May came to the conclusion that either the register or the selenium coating it must have what we now call photoelectric qualities.  This meant that it could change light values into electric values.

    May immediately made known his experience, and hundred of scientists began work on his tentative answer to the mystery.  Down through the years, the endeavors of those scientists and of others, together with the works of many inventors, have improved television to such an extent that in 1948 it was ready to emerge and be hailed as an important aid to entertainment and communication.

    The first real contribution to the progress of television came in 1844, when Paul Nipkow, the German scientist, invented a rapidly whirling disc which picked up vague picture outlines.  Italy made a very valuable contribution when her son, Marconi, brought forth his wireless, and gave sound to television.  Then America's Thomas A Edison invented the motion picture and added movement.

    Not until 1906 did the next milestone for television, as well as for radio, appear.  At that time Lee de Forest invented the vacuum tube.  And in 1923, Dr Vladimir K Zworykin, a Russian immigrant who is now an engineer for the Radio Corporation of America, patented a tube that converted television from a mechanical science to an electronic one.  This important new device was called the iconoscope.

    In 1928, John Logic Baird succeeded in telecasting a woman's face from London to the S.S. Berengaria, which was a thousand miles at sea.  During the same year, in America, men were able to televise shaky likenesses of Felix the Cat.

    Three years later, in 1931, Dr Allen B DuMont, after long hours of work in the basement of his Mont Clair, New Jersey house, brought to light a workable television receiver.  And by 1939, electronic television was considered so greatly improved that it was introduced to the public at the New York World Fair.  In 1947, there were already 9 broadcasting stations and about 17,000 receiving sets.

    One of the greatest improvements in television was made only recently.  Cameras were made that are a hundred times as sensitive to light as were the cameras of a few years ago.  The old cameras required a dazzling glare of light, and naturally the heat was intense.  Wax candles and jello immediately melted, and television diners were blistered by hot silverware.  Now, however, clear pictures can be gotten by candlelight.  The television set is comfortably cool, and lights do not glare down into the actors' eyes.

    Video undoubtedly has promise.  Jack R Poppele, president of T-V Broadcasters' Association, says, "Television's future is as expansive as the human mind can comprehend.  Television holds the key to enlightenment which may unlock the door to world understanding". But at present, it is beset by innumerable difficulties.  The question is--will the industry be able to overcome the obstacles confronting it, and carry out the things expected of it?

    Perhaps the worst drawbacks are the problems of a technical nature, although in time it may be possible to greatly reduce or eliminate them entirely.

    One difficulty is that of relaying the high frequency signal.  Unlike radio waves, which follow the curve of the earth, the television beam is limited to the horizon, because when it reaches that point, it travels on out into space.  This means that a station can only broadcast to receivers within a range of 50-60 miles.  There are several possible solutions for this problem.  It might be solved by using wires resembling those carrying telephone messages to carry the television signal.  Or it might be piped along wires enclosed in gas-filled tubes called coaxial cables.  Still another possible solution is to have a fleet of planes circle constantly at 25,000 feet over points 400 miles apart.  These planes could pick up signals from the ground stations, and re-broadcast to an area 525 miles in diameter.

    Another difficulty concerning the transmitting of the signal is the fact that the straight flying beam is either warped or completely blocked by objects between the transmitter and the receiver.  Poor pictures or no pictures at all are caused when the signal hits a tall building or a mountain, and bounces.  "Many owners have found that their sets cannot pick up all, or even most of the stations in their area.  Airplanes overhead cause the pictures to squirm, fade, or whirl."

    Many home owners, whose houses are wired for DC current, have been exasperated to learn that their new sets will not operate at all, since all sets are made to operate on AC only.  Some of them have tried using power converters to operate the sets in spite of this fact, but poor pictures are obtained.  Perhaps sets will soon be made to operate on DC as well as AC current.

    An even more serious handicap is the shortage of trained repairmen and equipment.  A repairman must be carefully and expertly trained, if he is to do a good job of servicing faulty sets.  As yet, not enough men have been trained to meet the demand.

    Lack of equipment is scute also.  To televise a single football game requires a special air-conditioned, soundproof location truck, with one-half ton of equipment and fifteen specialists.  Since cameras and other equipment is so expensive, it is easy to see why most stations telecast only four hours daily.

    But the greatest problem of all is a skimpy budget.  The cost of producing a television broadcast is necessarily great.  The Philco Corporation spends $10,000 each week in producing its "Philco Television Playhouse", and to this expense is added $2,400 for time charges on the seven NBC stations carrying this broadcast.  Other smaller shows cost between $6,000 and $7,000 weekly.  The Standard Oil Company of New Jersey gave up sponsorship of the NBC television newsreel because, although it was only a ten minute program, it cost $2,400 each week, exclusive of station time charges.  Perhaps when circulation is greater, the broadcasts will produce dividends outweighing the expenses, but at present the telecasting stations are still operating in the red.

    Other difficulties encountered are of a relatively minor nature, and tend to give program directors a headache.  They have found that radio actors have very poor memories and do not learn parts quickly.  Since scripts cannot be used on television shows, this proves to be quite a problem.  Each program  requires ten days of rehearsal, dress rehearsal, construction of sentry and collecting of props for a single performance.

    It has also been found that in spite of all precautions, the heads of bald program participants reflect odd lights.  Actresses are astonished when told they must discard all but the simplest of jewelry, such as watches, before they go on the television stage.  Bracelets, necklaces, sparkling pins and earrings distract too much attention from the actual performances.

    Television cameras also have an exasperating way of penetrating the skin of a male actor's face, and making him appear bearded, no matter how recent his shave.  The only solution yet found for this is to have the men wear heavy coats of pancake makeup.

    There are other problems however, that are more serious.  One is the fact that Hollywood has definitely given television a cold shoulder.  The reason is perfectly obvious.  If people have screen entertainment available in their own home, they will not attend movies.  Although television broadcasts often consist of movie films, they are mostly ancient comedies and badly outdated westerns, because Hollywood refuses to release good films to television.  They are afraid that video will completely kill their theater market.  However, "Most telecasters believe that eventually Hollywood will be forced to spend at least fifty percent of time and effort on making films that television can afford."

    In spite of all the trouble and worry, the industry has a cheerful outlook.  They are certain that television's potentialities greatly outnumber the obstacles standing in its way.  In fact, they say the possible uses of video are practically countless.  Every day a new value comes to light.

    Perhaps the most important recent use of television is the teaching of medical students.  By televising an operation, many students are enabled to get a clear, uncrowded view at every step taken.  In order to televise the surgery, a camera is suspended over the patient on the operating table.  The image it obtains is sent to a control desk, and piped on by coaxial cable to the receiver located in a lecture hall.  The picture is also being microwaved to medical convention halls at the same time.  There it appears on life-sized screens.  Home receivers cannot detect this microwave relay, because the signal is carried over a special high frequency channel assigned by the Federal Communications Commission.  Taking advantage of this valuable means of instruction, the John Hopkins Hospital in Baltimore is designing special operating rooms so that all surgery may be televised.

    There are various opportunities for home instruction also.  Brides find televised cooking lessons invaluable.  The star instruction in this field is Mrs Dione Lucas, manager of the Cordon Bleu Restaurant and cooking school in Manhattan.  In order that her pupils may see how the finished dishes would look, she cooks a sample of everything beforehand so that it will not be necessary to wait for them to cook or jell. CBS places only two restrictions on her program.  She must never put emphasis on brandy or rum, and she must kill lobsters and other live food before the program opens.  Mrs Lucas does all the marketing, planning, cooking, teaching and telecasting herself.

    Eventually, telecasters say, housewives will no longer trudge up and down through grocery stores on shopping trips, but will see on their television screen the foods they want, and order all their groceries by telephone.  Members of the family may, without stirring from the living room couch, receive instructions in tennis, bowling, billiards, airplane flying, sculpturing, posture, dress, makeup, etc. by television.

    Advertising has an entire new field in video.  "Television," said Kenneth W Hinks, "provides advertising with a new tool."  Sight has proved many times more convincing than mere talk.  If potential customers actually see the article being advertised, and see it demonstrated on the screen, they buy it much quicker, and with more faith in its ability than if they had merely heard it praised on the radio.

    Politics also will be greatly affected by video.  Political campaigns will be conducted by television, and presidential candidates will win their elections from the telecasting studio.  RCA chairman, David Sarnoff, says, "Political candidates may have to adopt new techniques...Their dress, their smiles and gestures...may determine to an appreciable extent, their popularity".

    The present cost of television sets is high, and though at the end of 1948, there was no drop in sight, by the latter part of 1949, there is a chance that prices will not be so high.  The charge for installing a set now is approximately $100.00, but the new owner is given a year of free repair service.

    The most popular receiving sets on the market today are Philco's seven-inch-tube model at $199.50 and RCA's ten-inch-tube model for $375.00.  Other sets range widely in price.  The cheapest set on sale now is Pilot Radio's Candid T-V model at $99.50.  It has a 2x3 inch screen and weighs only 15 pounds.  Motorola's seven-inch-tube model (26 sq. in. screen) costs $179.95, and about the most expensive set is DuMont's $2,495.00 console combinations, with a twenty inch tube.

    Television's future is being foretold in glowing terms, and the best part is that it's probably all true.  In 1948, Tele-Tech, a trade publication, predicted that January, 1949, would find "65 stations in 42 cities in 28 states, feeding video to 910,000 sets and a potential audience of 66,868,200."

    In reply to the eager questions of those wondering when television will go coast to coast, Sidney Strotz, NBC vice-president in charge of television, predicted in June or 1948 that there would be no two-way coast to coast video until January, 1953.  At present, the networks are centered on the east and west costs and the Chicago region.

    Time Magazine says, "If the trend holds, television will have 16,000,000 receivers and an audience of 65,000,000 in 1954", and Joseph B Elliott, vice-president in charge of RCA-Victor home instrument department, predicts that the television industry will produce 1,500,000 sets in 1949.

    There is one other prediction for which most people do not understand the reason.  It is well known that the industry has produced a method of telecasting performances in full color.  Yet the telecasters say there will be no color video for at least five or six years.  The public cannot understand this.

    Color television was first demonstrated in 1940, by Dr Peter Goldmark, CBS scientist.  In 1948, CBS applied for a color-television broadcasting license, but was denied by the Federal Communications Commission.  Pressed for an explanation, the FCC made known their motive for banning color broadcasts.  They calculated that the use of color video would further boost the cost of television, and that the black-and-white sets now in use would not pick up color broadcasts, nor could they be converted.  This would cause all television sets now owned to be hopelessly outdated.  For these reasons, the FCC has forbidden color video until the present cost of television declines.

    In future years, television will probably become as common as the radio.  It will also become highly improved. Video scientists are by no means satisfied with the present state of affairs.  They are constantly working at improvements, and in time they will probably solve all the irritating problems now confronting them.  By 1960, television will no longer be regarded as a miracle, but will be taken as much for granted as the radio and the telephone are now.


This was our television set in the early 1950s.


    

    


Sunday, September 8, 2019

Thirty Cents

    Tony sat on the rickety tenement house steps, gnawing at an apple filched from McGinty's market, and watched the old woman across the street sweeping off the narrow porch.  She stopped painfully to pick at a piece of caked mud.  Tony twisted his back against the wall, trying to reach the itchy spot between his shoulders.  He yawned.
    The old lady turned to go inside the building, and Tony snapped the apple core at her, expertly, so that it struck her in the small of the back.  Before it had reached its mark Tony's skinny little legs were carrying him up the rickety stairs, but he ran squarely into a pair of strong legs headed in the opposite direction.
    "Hey, kid, where y' headed?  Devil after ye?"
    "Lemme go, Al, lemme go!"
    His big brother ignored the urgency in his voice and swung the light frame to his shoulders.  the old lady from across the street stomped angrily through the door and stared up at them, her feeble voice shrilling.
    "No-good little pup!"  She shook a bony finger at the laughing Al.  "That's three times this week that devilish young'un's hit me.  Git outta th' way.  I'll see his Ma!"
    Al grinned.  "Ma ain't home, Miz Murry.  Y' say Tony here hit yuh?"  He shook the boy perched on his shoulder.  "What about that, kid?"
    Tony clung tighter.
    "Aw, I guess he didn't mean it, m'am.  Tell the lady y're sorry, kid."
    Tony mumbled something, and squirmed down.  The old lady glared at him and hobbled back across the narrow street.  The two brothers stood there on the wobbly steps, the tall one grinning down at the seven year old beside him.
    "I guess the old battle-axe is right, kid.  Y'are a devilish young'un."  He yanked at a small, freckled, and very dirty ear.  "But I kinda like yuh anyhow.  S'long kid.  Tell Ma I may not be in fer supper t'night."
    "C'n I go with yuh, Al?  Huh?"
    "Naw, stay here and keep y'r nose clean.  Y'r too little to tag around with th' gang."
    Tony sprawled on the steps, gazing wistfully after Al hurrying off towards Hutchins Street.  Gee!  Al was the finest feller in the whole world.  Even the old man didn't kick him around like he did the other kids.  And Al brought him the only real good candy he ever got.  He reckoned Al was the only good feller in the world.  And Al was the leader of the Black Cap gang too.  That proved he was a real swell guy, and tough.
    Tony never missed a chance to tell all the kids that Al was his brother.  And whenever Al got cut or bruised up in a fight with one of the other gangs, Tony always got to put iodine on Al's face, and then he'd feel like he was a real somebody too.  Al had even told him where the Black Caps met, and nobody but the gang knew that.  Tony reckoned that made him a member, even if he wasn't big enough to fight with them.
    He sat there a long time, cutting on the steps with an old pocketknife he'd found in the dump, and spitting through his teeth like Al did.  He didn't even notice the three boys coming up the street until they were almost in front of him.  When he did see them, he made a quick move for the door, but the biggest one grabbed him by the seat of his pants and dragged him back.  Tony clawed and bit, but the big fellow held him up with his feet dangling, and laughed at him until he gave up and quit squirming.
    "What's a matter, kid?  We ain't gonna hurt nobody.  Whatcha skeered fer?"
    Tony stared up at the pale yellow eyes, and tried to keep his knees steady.
    "You git on away fr'm here, Red Nickols.  I know you and your dirty old gang!"
    The three boys stood there laughing at the defiant youngster, none of them out of their teens, but old with the hardness of the slums.  Profanity trickled lazily from the red-head's sneering mouth.
    "Yeah, kid, y'better know me.  Ever'body knows Red Nickols and the Red Devils.  Ain't this w'ere Al Simon lives?"
    Tony straightened.  "Yeah.  An' you better not let him catch you here, Red Nickols.  Al hates your guts!  Th' Black Caps are gonna get you and yer bunch o' sissies one o' these days!"
    "Aw, kid, you got us all wrong.  We ain't lookin' fer no trouble.  C'mon an' tell us w'ere Al is."  The big boy winked over Tony's head at his companions, and reached in his pocket.
    "I wouldn't tell you nothin' 'bout Al.  Lemme go!"
    The red-head pulled out a nickel and stood flipping it up and catching it, watching Tony's eyes follow it.  "Bet yuh don't know w'ere he hangs out.  Yuh couldn't tell if y' wanted to!"
    "Could so!  Al tells me ever'thing 'bout his gang.  I'm a member!"  He spat defiantly, but his eyes still followed the coin spinning in the air.
    "How much fer tellin' us where he is?  We just wants to talk to 'im real friendly like.  Nickel?"
    "No!"  Tony pulled to get away, but the big hand on his arm tightened cruelly.
    "Aw c'mon, kid.  We ain't lookin' fer no fight.  How 'bout a dime?  Okay?"
    "No, I ain't takin' none a your filthy money!  Lemme go!"
    "Chock'lit soda sure tastes good day like this here.  Just cost 15 cents, kid.  Like 'em?"
    Tony wavered.  If they really just wanted to talk friendly like, couldn't be any harm in that.  But Al had said not ever to tell anybody where the Black Caps had their meetings.  Not ever.
    "Quarter, kid?"
    Tony swallowed.  He could buy a soda and have some left for chewing gum and licorice.  Al said "not ever".  But they said they wasn't looking' for trouble.
    The red-head handed some change to one of his followers.  "Go in that t'baccer shop over there an' git pennies fer that.  It'll look like more."
    "Look, kid, thirty cents.  'Nough fer a soda, an' candy an' a funny book too.  Shore, yer nuts if y'don't take it.  Just tell us w'ere Al is so's we can talk to 'im a minute."
    The boy came back with a handful of bright copper pennies, and passed them to the red-head.
    "Look here, kid.  Thirty new pennies.  All yours."
    Tony blinked.  He never had that much money all at once.  "Okay."  He grabbed at the pennies.  "They're over at Lowes on Hutchins Street, down'n the basement."  He clutched the money and ran up the stairs, wishing already he hadn't done it.  what if Al got mad at him, and didn't ever tell him anything else?  But they said they wasn't wanting to fight.
    He went into the kitchen and got a drink of water.  Ma'd be there 'fore long.  He pulled a Bull Durham sack out of the trash can under the stove, stuffed the pennies in it. and dropped the sack in the pocket of his ragged pants.  Maybe he'd wait 'til tomorrow to spend it.  He ran out of the kitchen and back down the stairs.  The three young toughs were almost out of sight.  For a moment Tony almost wished he hadn't listened to them.  A chocolate soda didn't sound so good after all.  But worry finds small place in a seven year old mind, and the sack of pennies lay deliciously heavy in his pocket.
    Supper was over, and Tony was sprawled on the kitchen floor watching his Ma stacking dishes in the battered old cupboard when the police car drew up in front of the tenement house.  It wasn't an unusual occurrence in that neighborhood, especially with old Miz Murry across the street always calling and reporting disturbances.  He'd already forgotten it when the knock sounded on the outer door, and his Ma left the kitchen, wiping soap suds off her arms as she went.  Probably Miz Murry coming over to pester.
    But it was a man's voice he heard, and Tony got up from the floor to investigate.  He stepped through the door, and caught the last of what the policeman was saying.  It was the first time he had heard the voice of the law speak so quietly.
    ".....We're holding most of the bunch for questioning, but it seems pretty clear what happened without it.  Another kid gang war.  Big red-headed fellow and a dozen others jumped the gang your kid hung out with in a basement.  Looks like they had a special grudge against your boy, ma'm.  He's in St. Patrick's on First Street.  Doctor said he's got a  chance."  And he turned to go, shutting the door softly behind him.
    Tony's fingers loosened on the comic book, and his throat felt scratchy.  He tried to ask his Ma what the cop was talking about, but he knew.  Ma was crying and trying to get her coat on, and then she was gone, leaving the door standing open and a cool wind crawling over Tony's feet, rustling the leaves of the comic book on the floor.
    Tony heard the screak of bed springs and his sister calling him from the next room asking where did Ma go? He didn't answer.  He reached in his pocket and drew out the sack of coins, thirty bright new pennies.  He poured them out of the tobacco sack and looked at them again, hating the feel and sight of them.
    For a long time he stood there shivering and biting his lip to keep from crying.  His hands were so cold he couldn't keep them still.  The coins rattled against each other.  He ran to the open window, drew back his cupped hands, and threw the pennies far out into the dark street.

Written for Advanced Composition class, Mary Hardin-Baylor

Thursday, January 10, 2013

Bird Tales


This little essay mentions the mockingbird that my grandmother kept as a pet for awhile.

Sometimes I wonder if punishment awaits me for feeling more sympathy and concern for animals than for the hapless victims of world wide tragedies that parade across the TV screen until the blood and gore lose their power to shock and dismay.  Surely this is wrong of me, but I cannot feel a suitable guilt.  So be it.

For two days I have been observing a drama, a struggle for survival in my own back yard and it seems a little Bosnian conflict of closer concern.  A pair of blue jays continue to fight valiantly to save their baby from hunger and stalking cats.  He is fully feathered but not quite able to fly.  Velveeta, the next door manx and Pawla, Cindy’s six-toed tabby, were waiting their chance to snatch him when I first realized the problem.  The two parents scolded and dive-bombed and routed both cats.  Crippled as I am by semi-successful knee surgery, I still felt impelled to help if I could.  Crippled as the baby jay was by his inabilities, he could still just keep out of my reach until Nipper perceived the situation, dashed in and held him down with his muzzle until I could pick him up, feeling my own head being under fluttering attack by the parent birds.

A few years ago I would probably have caged and fed the little critter for a few days until he was better able to manage on his own.  Now, mindful of my own shortcomings and the admonitions of wild lifers to let nature take its course, I placed the nestling in the crotch of the elm tree and hoped he’d have sense enough to stay there.  He did for a while, but later I heard him sounding off in the clump of monkey grass beneath my bathroom window.  Both parents were perched in the fence nearby.  Also keeping a concerned eye on the situation was good neighbor cardinal, who reminded me of the way my mother used to wring her hands and worry about the neighbor’s small children playing in the street.  It was so plain that the cardinal was as concerned about that baby jay as if it had been one of her own.

I have noticed before now the curious relationship between different species of birds that frequent the yard.  The mockers seem to consider themselves a bit above all the others.  Blue jays and cardinals consider themselves equals and co-exist in friendly fashion, sharing bushes and bird bath without antagonism.  Doves and woodpeckers pass through peacefully enough, stopping only briefly.  They all agree on hating the black birds and putting them off the property with dispatch.  This is no doubt due to their nest-raiding, baby eating habits.  Nobody likes a kidnapper.

Never considering myself to be a card carrying bird lover, I have nevertheless had some interesting experiences with them over the years.  I remember coming home from a ramble in the woods feeling saddened by finding a nest of little bleached skeletons and wondering what had happened to the mother.  Later on I smuggled home a meadowlark with a broken wing found lying on the school ground.  I hid him in a shoebox inside my desk and took him home that afternoon, splinted and bandaged the wing, and placed him in a cage with food and water.  When the wing was healed and usable again, I set the bird free, and felt a tug when he kept returning to me, unwilling to leave.

A few years later, I picked up a tiny mocker that was almost drowned in a cow track filled with water from an overnight shower.  My mother wrapped his bedraggled little body in a piece of old cloth and laid him on the open oven door to dry out.  We all considered him a lost cause, but we fed him every hour, minded the cats outdoors, and talked to him until he took heart and decided to live.  Knowing it was not legal to keep a mocker in captivity, we fully intended to set him free as soon as he was old enough to go, but we reckoned without him.  He refused to go.  Placed on the front walk, he huddled down and hid his head under his wing, terrified to move.  It was keep him or let him be eaten by the cats.  He lived in his big cage on the front porch for two years, singing so loudly on moonlight nights that someone would have to drape a shirt around his cage so that those in the house could sleep.  He never knew the joys of tree-top tumbling song on full-moon nights.

I’m glad to have 30 eye-witnesses to attest one of my bird tales.  This happened during my school teaching days in Smiley.  Sparrows built nests in the drains along the roof of the two-story high auditorium wing of the high school building just across the school yard from my class room.  One morning we became aware that one of the baby birds had tumbled from a nest and the parents had him located on the ground below.  There was absolutely no way that we could help rescue him.  Thirty pairs of eyes watched during lessons, some trusting their teacher to do some miracle and save that baby bird.  After a miserable, suspenseful hour, we saw something we had trouble believing.  The parents managed somehow to maneuver their baby onto the back of one of them and flew him back up to their lofty nest.  We may not have gotten all our lessons done that day, but thirty kids and 1 teacher went home with a deep feeling of satisfaction.  We had seen our miracle.

Now I’m hoping for another one.  Somehow I hope that baby jay manages to beat the odds and survive the dozen cats and thousands of fire ants that could do him in.  He’s made it for two days.  All is quiet in the yard this morning, except for bird song.  Rejoicing or requiem?  I cannot tell.

Wednesday, January 9, 2013

Wish It Was Still Around

This little essay comes from a small pile of notebook pages that I just unearthed while shifting things around for the great remodel of 2012-2013.  I think it was intended to be included in one of the annual family newsletters, but it may have been something that she wrote with the intention of sending it to Reminisce Magazine.

Last night I tossed a package of popcorn into the microwave and as I stood there waiting for the last few kernels to explode, my mind recalled the process of performing this same task in those long past childhood days of fifty years ago.

We grew our own popcorn patch then, a few acres near the fields of regular corn.  At harvest time we stored the small ears in one corner of the corn crib.  About once a week the five kids in the family would race to the barn and bring a bucket full of shucked ears to the house.  Then followed the task of removing the small, tightly packed kernels from the cobs.  The older kids showed the younger ones how to rub the cob of the first ear and twist it just so in order to shell the rest.

Mother would have a hot fire built in the black kitchen stove by the time we were finished with the shelling.  The cobs were always added to the fire.

When the big dish pan was mounded with hot popcorn, drizzled with a little melted country butter and lightly sprinkled with salt, the feast began.  The whole family gathered around one pan, chattering, laughing, sharing school experiences, plans for the future, disappointments, and recent triumphs.  We shared more than popcorn and fed more than we knew.  It was a feast of family togetherness.

Sunday, September 18, 2011

What's Cooking?

Just ran across a list of menu ideas that Mother put together at some point. I remember that she got tired of cooking the same old thing over and over and decided that a nice list would give her options to switch things up. So, if you are looking for menu ideas, here you go:

1. Butterbeans, spinach, cornbread
2. Pinto beans, rice, macaroni & tomatoes
3. Pork chops baked with veggies
4. Fried chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy
5. Chicken fried steak, fries, gravy
6. Baked chicken and rice
7. Broiled steak, baked potatoes, salad
8. Roast beef with veggies
9. Meat pie, salad
10. Enchiladas, green salad
11. Tacos or chalupas
12. Hamburgers and fries
13. Smothered hamburger patties, rice with gravy
14. Pepper steak oriental with rice
15. Hoppin' John
16. Spaghetti, garlic bread/toast, salad
17. Chili mac (variation topped with shredded cheddar)
18. Hotdogs, chips
19. Stew, buttered cornbread
20. Chili topped with fritos and grated cheese
21. Tuna salad, chips
22. Sausage steamed with sauerkraut
23. Barbecued wieners
24. Ham with rice or gravy
25. Stuffed peppers
26. Mexican casserole, salad
27. Fish, English peas, buttered potatoes or macaroni and cheese
28. Baked turkey, dressing
29. Pancakes with sausage or bacon
30. Belgian waffles
31. Fresh cabbage with steamed sausage links
32. Tater-tot casserole
33. Omelet with biscuits and jelly, bacon
34. 15-bean soup with hot or garlic sausage coins
35. Chicken posole soup
36. Smothered steak
37. Crockpot Ragout
38. Beef Stroganoff with sour cream
39. Egg/sausage & potato burritos
40. Beef and bean burritos
41. Fajitas with guacamole and tortilla chips
42. Meatloaf, veggies, mashed potatoes
43. Lasagna, salad, garlic bread/toast
44. Creamed beef over noodles
45. Shrimp and/or fish fillets, potatoes
46. Bean pot soup (Thelma's recipe from file - nowhere to be found)
47. Barbecued ribs or brisket (see recipe from file - have no idea unless it refers
to a seasoning rub she was particularly fond of)
48. Beef stir fry
49. Chicken stir fry
50. Roasted chicken
51. Frittata
52. Fried spaghetti (I don't recommend it)
53. Big baked potato with all the fixin's
54. Potato soup
55. Baked Ham, sweet potatoes
56. Beef tips over rice or noodles
57. Ravioli, french bread, salad
58. Chicken & dumplings

LSW

Wednesday, October 20, 2010

Rusty

When I found the following short story in some old records, I initially thought it was true. But then I realized it was one of Mother's works of fiction, with elements of reality. There indeed was a parade of odd pets through her childhood and there were four children in the family at the time the story was written, probably about 1949. But, to the best of my knowledge, the family never lived in a two-story house and they never suffered a fire. From the looks of the paper, this story was turned in as a class assignment, possibly during Mother's Freshman year in college.

My childhood was generously populated with pets ranging from flying squirrels to mice and even a meadowlark, who, after carrying a broken wing in an improvised sling for two weeks, refused to leave. There was an unbelievably awkward rooster who came racing to me when I whistled. There was a cat--tawny, mysterious Tiger--whom I will never forget.

But the pet that will always hold first place in my memory is a dog. Rusty wasn't just a plain dog. To us children, he was the most beautiful animal in the world. We showered affection upon him, and often denied our childish longing for the last piece of pie so that we could give it to Rusty, and watch his big, dark eyes shine as he ate. We shared our candy with him, and spent hours brushing his rust colored coat until it glinted gold as he ran in the sun.

We loved the big shepherd with all our hearts, and he returned our affection impartially, although it sometimes seemed that my baby brother held the biggest place in his heart. Rusty guarded the year-old toddler with anxious care. It was his favorite trick, and one that made our neighbors marvel, to lift the child by his shirt, and carry him, kicking and laughing, to my mother.

There came a day when we were grateful for Rusty's intelligence and faithfulness.

It was only a few days after Christmas of 1942 when disaster struck us. I woke at 2:30 in the morning, and sat up in bed, staring sleepily at the dim outlines of the window. The house was still and quiet. But outside Rusty was barking and howling insanely. I jumped from the bed and ran to the window to investigate. The floor was queerly hot beneath my bare feet. Outside Rusty yelped as if in agony. Sick with dread, I threw up the window. By leaning far out, I could see the bottom floor of the house. The windows framed and held the orange glow of fire. Flames crawled sickeningly swift up the vine on the kitchen wall.

Screaming hoarsely, I ran down the hall toward my parents' bedroom. As I reached the door, they met me, and Dad swung me up in his arms as he shouted to wake the three younger children. Smoke, thick and choking, welled up the stairway. Outside neighbors gathered and shouted frantic instructions. Fire crackled and roared as portions of the floor began to melt away near us. Huddled together, coughing from the smoke and heat, we made our way down the stairs. The west and north walls of the living room were sheets of flame as we ran through into the cold wind outside.

Neighbors sobbed with relief as we stumbled into view. Rusty whined anxiously and pressed against me as I stood shivering and crying. The house was almost completely devoured.

"Where's little Bobby?" a woman suddenly cried. She had failed to see my father carrying my brother to safety. "Bobby's still in there!" she screamed, and Rusty pressed closer to me. Spying him, she dragged at his collar. I fought at her hands, trying to tell her over the roar of the flames that he was safe.

"Go get Bobby, Rusty," she shrieked, "get little Bobby!"

Rusty bristled and howled wildly as he broke away from my restraining grasp.

"Come back, Rusty!" I sobbed, but he was gone. Back into that raging inferno he plunged, driven by love for his little companion.

I ran closer to the house, and heard Rusty scream in agony. There was a glimpse of the faithful dog near the door, his coat in flames, just before a section of the ceiling fell and trapped him inside. This seemed a signal, for almost immediately, the entire second floor crashed through and I turned away, crying bitterly.

We finally forgave the poor neighbor who was responsible for Rusty's death, and even accepted the puppy she gave us to replace him. We didn't tell her it couldn't be done. Rusty has been gone for seven years, but his memory will always live in the hearts of the children he loved.