Walleye Wagon

I had the opportunity to drive to my hometown this past weekend for my niece’s baby shower. It’s about a two hour drive through small rural towns and lots of wide open spaces. I was alone so my mind had plenty of time and space to wander about. There are a few landmarks that often remind me of the year we moved from our little town to our current home in the city. That year the economy had taken a nosedive in our rural state and many of us were forced to look for new opportunities. My husband and I were down to one working vehicle and very little money. I needed to go to the city to find a place for us to live, but I had no vehicle to get there.

A friend of ours had an old metallic umber colored station wagon he used to go fishing with his buddies. The vehicle was dubbed the Walleye Wagon for obvious reasons. When I asked him if I could borrow it for a day, he paused and said, “Sure, but God be with you.” Then he proceeded to tell me that it would probably need water and a lot of TLC to take a trip over ten miles. I was young, foolish and desperate so I told him I would risk it and hope for the best.

A few days later my preschool daughter and I took off for the big city. All went well on the way up and we were able to locate an apartment for our imminent move. The trip back home was a different story. Thirty miles into our journey I saw the heat gauge creep up to the red zone and it wasn’t long before I knew I would have to stop for water. This was the pre-cellphone era so one had to use one’s wits and resourcefulness to solve problems. I made it to a little station in a small town and the gentleman who ran the place was very accommodating. He put on a new fan belt, added some water and it looked like we would be good to go.

About twenty minutes later, I once again noticed the temperature needle crawling upwards and knew I would need the goodness of another stranger. We were not nearing any towns so I looked for a farm home that might provide some assistance. I noticed flowers planted in front of one particular home and decided that it was a loved home so it might be a safe refuge for my daughter and me. The woman who answered the door welcomed us with gentle kindness. While we waited for the old wagon to cool down, we visited over a cold glass of water and a popsicle for my daughter. Shortly thereafter, we were on our way again.

With only thirty miles to go, we once again found ourselves with steam ready to spew from the radiator. We were close to a large farm implement dealership and as we limped into their driveway, I wondered why I didn’t heed the words of my friend. Too late for despair now. My daughter and I walked into the dealership and it was clear to me that all the men were gathered together for their afternoon coffee break. As I explained our plight, I could see that I was infringing on their much needed break, but they didn’t hesitate for a moment. A couple of gentlemen quickly got up and followed me out to the vehicle. There was really no fixing to be done, but they added fresh water and gave me some encouraging words as they delicately explained that it might be best if I didn’t attempt another trip with the golden beast.

Finally, we chugged our way home without further incident. When I returned the vehicle to our friend, I just said, “Thank you and I’ll tell you later.”

It is certainly not a trip I would ever want to repeat. The memories created, however, have been a treasure to me. I have yet to drive by each place of refuge without thinking of the graciousness offered to me and my daughter.

So if you ever find yourself in a metaphorical Walleye Wagon, be prepared for an adventure. And, who knows, you might meet a few new friends along the way.

Convenience

The older I get, the more amazed I am at the number of conveniences we have available to us. It doesn’t seem all that long ago that the microwave was a new and wondrous invention. The original models were about the size of a small car and came with a certain fear factor as we wondered if we would grow a third eye from the alien appliance. Now it is hard to imagine life without it and they are portable enough to set up almost anywhere. As time has marched on, I have discovered that there are some conveniences that I can’t live without and others that just aren’t worth the time savings to me.

Here are a few conveniences that have fallen off my radar.

1) Boxed potatoes—I’m a potatoholic and I like the real deal. Baked, mashed, fried or hashed, it’s the ultimate comfort food. The boxed taters are okay in a pinch, but I like to keep my peeler at the ready and enjoy a fresh spud when the mood hits.

2) Baby carrots in a bag—For years I used the little orangish torpedoes and convinced myself that they were just fine. That was until a few summers ago when our neighbor brought over a bag of fresh garden carrots and I got a taste of what my brain remembered as a real carrot. Orange, sweet and shaped like a carrot. Despite the time it takes to peel and chop, I haven’t gone back.

3) Minced garlic in little jars—I love cooking with garlic and I would dearly love to dearly love the ready-to-go stuff in a jar. I just don’t like the flavor and I’m always second guessing its shelf life. I still buy cloves of garlic, peel off the sticky paper covering and dice away. The freshness is worth it to me.

Here are a few conveniences that I am hooked on.

1) Shredded cheese—I know that freshly grated cheese is much creamier and doesn’t have that “dairy dust” coating  to keep it from sticking but I just can’t make myself haul out the cheese grater and scrape my knuckles as I try to get the last bit of cheese shredded. Then I am faced with a sticky cheese grater that defies an easy clean up. If I didn’t scrape my knuckles on the first round, I can be sure I’ll seal the deal during the scrubbing.

2) Paper towels—Yes, cloth rags might be more eco-friendly and yes, they carry pathogens around like fleas on a dog. Yuck. I am a messy person and I need the convenience and comfort of a fresh wipe up when my spills occur.

3) Bagged greens—There is nothing easier than a salad in a bag. During the summer I cut, wash and spin my way to fresh garden salads. But, the winter season is another story. Just give me a ready-to-go veggie mix, a little dressing and we’re in business until the frost is out of the garden soil and seeds are planted once again.

The ultimate luxury, however, is indoor plumbing. I have childhood memories of scuttling out toward our outdoor toilet that was nestled in among the lilac bushes. My overactive imagination was always convincing me that I would surely be the kid who would somehow collapse the whole business and find myself in a malodorous soup of trouble. Fortunately, that was never the outcome, but, to this day, I never take for granted the convenience of flushing a toilet.

Festivals

This time of year it is easy to get caught up in all things Irish. Although I don’t believe I have a drop of green blood in me, I must admit that I am a bit jealous of a culture that promotes festivals and parades just for the sake of fun and frivolity. Parade routes are painted with giant shamrocks and much ado is given to processions of Mc’s and O’s and everything in between. Corned beef, cabbage and Irish soda bread are on many menus and there are green McShakes available from the drive by food purveyors.

I don’t think my ancestors were much into merriment. In defense of them, it was a hard scrabble life during their early years on the prairie. Drought, grasshoppers and disease made it difficult to scratch out a living, much less find time to plan parades and festivals. But, I do wonder what it would be like to have a national day of Dutchness like the Irish have with their St. Patrick’s Day. This is what I think a Dutch day might look like.

First of all, we would probably not have a Saint something-or-other in the name. We’re not big on people being canonized. My people prefer keeping a low profile. So, I guess the name of our special day would probably be related to horticulture. Since there are a few Dutch tulip festivals in the country already, I think a national Tulip Day should do it.

The Dutch like to keep things fastidiously clean (pretty sure I didn’t get that gene) so, naturally, there wouldn’t be any painting on the streets before the parades begin. In true Dutch tradition, the streets would be swept and scrubbed in preparation for the event. The procession would be filled with De’s and Vander’s and the clomping of wooden shoes.

Menus would feature foods such as oliebollen (donut balls fried in oil), bunket (almond pastry) and snert (pea soup).  Edam and Gouda cheese would be promoted as well as red cabbage. And, of course, potatoes—mashed and infused with bits of carrots. Not sure what our traditional drink would be, but I’m pretty sure buttermilk pop wouldn’t be the selected favorite. My grandmother seemed to like it but it had a fear factor for most of us. We’ll probably have to stick with Droste chocolate drinks with a black licorice swizzle stick.

Trinkets would be blue and white Delft pottery, the real thing and knock-offs. Windmills and little wooden shoes (klompen) would be everywhere. Tins of Wilhelmina peppermints would be as popular as Altoids  and “I Love Oma and Opa” (grandpa and grandma) mugs and T-shirts would line the store shelves. Dutch aprons and hats would, of course, be the costumes of choice and any plant with a bulb on the end of it would be part of the festival wares.

I don’t think we’ll ever have a national Tulip Day. Not because it’s not a good idea, rather, I think it would imply that my people have time for gaiety and monetary extravagance. We are a nose-to-the-grindstone bunch and it’s best not to tinker with tradition. Yes, there are pockets of Tulip exuberance around America, but we’ll blame that on a community’s desperate need for tedium release.

So I will don a little green this weekend and tip my hat to the festival of shamrocks and lamb stew. 

Happy St. Patrick’s Day!

DST

Love it or hate it, the time has come to set our clocks forward for Daylight Savings Time. No doubt my closest friends and relatives are, by now, skipping on to other reading material to save themselves the pain of hearing another one of my DST rants. For those who are still reading this, consider it a public service to my husband. His eyes glaze over every time I bring up this topic and I know he is forced to retreat into his happy place while I foam at the mouth.

I’ve done a little research on the significance of this sadistic adjustment of natural circadian rhythms and it is clear to me that this is a practice that has no innate value other than habit. There are just about as many stories about when and how DST began as there are arguments for and against the changing of the clocks. It is believed that Benjamin Franklin was the first person in the United States to mention the value of changing clocks to save energy, however, an official act of Congress did not occur until the early 20^th century. The theory posited was that electricity was saved when there is less light in the morning and more in the evening. After all, most people are sleeping in every morning so why waste daylight on the early risers?

My father, a farmer, was not a big fan of DST. His work hours were dictated by the needs of livestock and crops, not necessarily the clock. He always said DST was the invention of city folks so they could take their boats out and go fishing later into the evening. Imagine my surprise, when I discovered that my city friends claimed that farmers invented DST. They believed that farmers wanted the extra daylight hours so they could spend more time in the field. News flash. Tractors have lights. No extra daylight needed.

I would dare guess that parents with small children would also appreciate the abolition of DST. It takes a great deal of effort and finesse to cultivate a sleeping schedule for the little ones. Removing an hour from their sleep regime means a lot of grumpy folks under one roof. It can take weeks to develop an acceptable routine again. Never mind the pets scratching at your door early in the morning, demanding your attention because they never learned to read a clock.

It is no surprise that statistics indicate that there are more accidents the week following the beginning of DST. Groggy folks desperately slurp coffee on their way to work in the dark. Reflexes are dulled from the loss of REM time. Those of us with fragile circadian wiring and tenuous sleeping habits are now deemed a public hazard. It is probably best for some of us not to make any big decisions until April.

Despite its dubious value, I’m afraid DST is here to stay. World peace, jobs and the price of a barrel of oil will always be more important issues in Congress than setting our clocks forward once a year. I guess my only hope is to retire to Arizona or Hawaii. They have the good sense to stay off the DST train track and keep their clocks ticking along without interference.

Maybe, that is why Hawaii is called the land of paradise.

Snow Day

The weather did a little huffing and puffing this week which gave us the possibility of a snow day. One of the advantages of living in the upper Midwest and being in the field of education is the occasional gift of the unrequested day off. With it comes the anticipatory build up as the weather stations begin squawking away about the impending storm system moving into the region. Advisories, warnings and blizzards are color coded on maps as we try to piece together the puzzle of disaster. When the predicted day of doom arrives, we wait for that all important crawl across the morning TV screen announcing the school closings and late starts.

I must confess that the older I get, the less I long for a snow day. Yes, it is lovely to keep the jammies on a bit longer and read a good book rather than hammer out another day at school. However, my mind just can’t stop doing the math as I calculate the addition of days at the end of the school year. Seasoned teachers know that the fewer days in the last week of school, the fewer “last days” have to be experienced. If we are scheduled to get out on a Tuesday, we will have 2 last days and if we are scheduled to get out on a Thursday, we will have 4 last days. Productivity tends to wane during the final days and adding to the calendar isn’t enough of a carrot for me to fully enjoy our inserted day of freedom during the winter months.

This was not the case for me as I was growing up on the farm. There was nothing sweeter than my Mom announcing to us that we didn’t have to go to school because the radio had just announced the closing of our school for the day. Yippee!! Glee reigned among the children. I’m not sure our mother experienced the same exhilaration. Being cooped up with a house full of rambunctious children certainly would test the fortitude of most parental units.

I remember one year in particular. It seemed as though the snow never stopped coming down.    I don’t remember how many school days were called off, but I know it was enough to go down in regional record books. The snow was piled so high on our little country road that it became a one lane trail. Neighbors and occasional stray cows had to coordinate their travel along the snow packed thoroughfare. It was a great year for sledding down huge piles of snow. We didn’t have fancy saucers or polished sleds. We used aluminum hog watering pans that seemed to fit our little butts as we swirled down the piles of winter’s bounty.  Snow forts, snow huts, snowmen and snowballs kept pre-video game kids rosy cheeked and entertained. Mounds of wet, soggy coats and mittens kept our teachers and mothers longing for spring.

Well, our fair city dodged the blizzard bullet this time around. The rain-slush-sleet mix we received wasn’t enough to keep the busses from rolling. I, for one, was pleased to keep the school calendar intact. One less “last day” at the end of the year is a blessed thing.