I'm sure that I can never remember all of these in one sitting, so this will have to be an ongoing topic, writing about them when I think of them.
1. "cheese the racket" I admit to you that I have always thought that this line was one of the stupidest lines I had ever heard, and I haven't changed my mind on that. This statement was used in a gruff manner by either of my parents to express their desire for me to shut up. They never would have said shut up, but it sure would have made better sense to me if they had.
2. "Well, I'll swan!" This was an expression that my mother would use to proclaim her surprise at some fact or sight. For instance, let's say the neighbor may have painted their house a strange color of blue. Mother might look out the window and say, "Well, I'll swan!" I recently experienced hearing that same expression in a Tom Selleck western movie, spoken by one of the characters. What a treat to hear it again! Ron had never heard it before, and I had not heard it since my mother died. Since coming south to live I have discovered some possibilities as to where it began, but I have nothing concrete to prove it. It may have something to do with the name Swanee which is prevalent in Georgia.
After further review from the dictionary:swan
34 ENTRIES FOUND:
1) swan (noun)
2) swan (verb)
3) swan (verb)
3 swan verb
swanned swan·ning
Definition of SWAN
intransitive verbdialect
: declare, swear
Origin of SWAN
perhaps euphemism for swear
First Known Use: 1784
Well, I'll swan!
3. "addle-do" Actually what my Mom was saying was "that'll do", meaning hush, or no more behaving like that. John, Jay and Jill all thought that she was saying "addle-do" and thought this was pretty strange and funny. So did I, kids.
4. "Grab a root and growl." This was an expression my mom used when feeding a larger group, always family. It must have been a very common thing to say in her family, as everyone would give a big smile and dig into the food. I have never heard anyone but my mom use this term, but I have heard it said in old John Wayne movies.
I have realized that I have a friend in Georgia, Debbie Bell, who says this. I was just wide-eyed the first time I heard her say it, and now realize she says it every time we are ready to eat. It's such a thrill for me to hear it!
5. When shopping with mom we always met people that she hadn't seen in a while. When asked how she was she always responded, "Well, I can't complain, but I do anyway."
6. Mom was almost always ready to go, to jump in the car and go someplace. The ony thing that would need to be done was to put some shoes on because she loved to go barefooted. So, if anyone said, "Lucile. Do you want to go to the store with us?" Mom would reply, "Just let me dress my feet."
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
Fishing and Hunting With Daddy
I wish with all my heart that you could have heard my Mom and Dad laugh. They both had an infectious, hearty laugh that would fill your heart with the same pleasure that caused it. Their lives had been filled with tragic heartaches and losses, and yet they nourished their capacity to enjoy life with delight at the humor that one finds as they trod on through it. My Mom loved God, worshipped Him in her life and in her singing, and so there was a constant peace and joyfulness about her. My Dad was angry with God for taking two of his children away from him, so his life was less than peaceful, and his moments of joy came and went with the people that he chose to be with. Still, the love and contentment that my Mom and Dad shared with one another was one of their greatest times of laughter and fun.
My Dad was not an educated man, leaving school after the 8th grade, but he was a hard working man and was very personable and social. He had a working knowledge of mechanics, so he was employed for some years as a car mechanic for Ford when we lived in Auburn. When we moved to Falls City he again worked for Ford Motors, but then put his talents to good use by selling cars, rather than fixing them, and then finished his life working for a car parts store. He was good at everything that he did, but I think one of Dad's flaws was his temper and pride that, many times, got in the way of being a reasonable man. Dad was never fired, but if he felt he was being offended in any way he could walk away and never look back. He was a civil man, but if you ever crossed him you lost his respect and friendship. He never spoke badly of you to others, but he would never recommend you either. He held grudges until the day he died, but he did it quietly.
Hard work and special talents do not guarantee high salaries. I remember at one time my attentive ears heard that my Dad brought home $50 each week. I had no idea at the time what that meant, but I was able to assemble all my facts to realize that we certainly had to do without a lot of things. My parents did a lot of things to make up for their lack of funds and to pay bills. My mother sewed almost all of my clothes, and hers, including our coats and jackets. My dad did all the grocery shopping, using Mom's list of necessities and his knowledge of where he could find the cheapest meats and vegetables. We had a big garden every year and canned what we couldn't eat. Our freezer was filled with fish and wild game that Dad brought home. We were friendly with many people who farmed and we purchased sides of beef and chickens and hams at much less than we would have paid in the store. Twice I remember my Dad shooting a deer, and we feasted on the meat for months. All these things, and much more, were done to help make ends meet financially, and I really appreciated none of it. I had no idea then just how hard my parents worked every day, though I do believe that I came away from their examples with a very excellent work ethic.
Many times after work when Dad went fishing on summer evenings he would take me along. Mom went in earlier years, but her knees kept her from climbing some of the river banks where we fished, so she would stay home if she knew it would be difficult. Some places were easier to get to than others. I loved going fishing with Daddy, especially when it was just the two of us. When you're fishing on a river bank there can't be a lot of talking going on or the fish won't come around. But when we did we talked softly, and he would share stories with me or just talk to me a little bit about his day. Often he played little tricks on me just for fun. He laughed a lot when we were together fishing.
Many times we fished with Dad's friend Vern Malick. Vern was Dad's best friend who owned a car body shop. They were both fun, terrible teases, and I was a very good target because I was shy and quiet, very gullible and naive. I became friends with Vern's daughter Carol who was a year older than I, and she was none of these things, so I'm pretty sure I was brought along for the comic relief, which was fine with me. I loved it because I loved them and I loved the attention I got from them. And they teased me with love.
I think I must have been eleven or twelve the night that Dad and Vern and I went fishing on a small creek just east of Salem, NE. It was a beautiful early fall evening, still warm but fall was in the air. There weren't a lot of trees surrounding this area, so the autumn moon, which was directly behind us, filled the sky with it's light with little to break the view except an old grain barn. This barn stood against the moonlight like a giant A with short wings on the side. The moon made the barn loose all of its detail and it was a black shape with a spooky air about it, especially if you're a twelve year old girl.
Soon Dad and Vern began to tell ghost stories, and I wished they would start a fire so I didn't feel so cold and alone in the dark. Their eyes twinkled as they told a story of three hunters out in the woods years ago. One of the hunters had been accidentally shot and died in the hunt, and the other two had carried him back to their cabin, lit a fire for comfort, and then began to mourn the loss of their friend. Along with the fire for comfort they also produced a stash of whiskey that they had brought along for the long cold nights, and they began to drink it and talk of the friendship that the three had shared over the years. The more they talked, the more they drank, and they began to feel sad that they couldn't share their strong drink with the deceased. An idea came upon one of them, and they decided to prop open the dead man's mouth and pour a little whiskey down his gullet. The more they drank the more they talked and the more whiskey was shared with their dearly departed.
At this point I remember my Dad and Vern had paused in the story for some reason because I had to ask my Dad if that was all of the story. "Oh, no. That's not all!" And then they picked up where they left off knowing that they had me right where they wanted me. I was totally fixed on the story and the pictures that I had created in my mind of those two old hunters and a dead man.
All of a sudden the dead man, full of whiskey that had been poured into his throat, sat straight up on the table where they had laid him out. The two remaining friends left all behind and scrambled out into the cold night and forest never to be seen again.
By this time my Dad was laughing so loud and so hard that there was no way we were ever going to catch a fish that night. Of course, his laughter had nothing to do with the story. It had to do with the look on my face at the thought of a dead man sitting straight up on a table. They laughed and laughed and then explained to me that the body full of alcohol would cause the muscles to contract and make the body involuntarily move. Well, then I was fine, but they had had their fun for the night, at my expense, and so we went home empty handed. No fish to clean that night.
Another evening my Dad and I were alone on the Nemaha River, a few miles between Falls City and Salem. It was a very popular fishing spot, and surprisingly there was no one else there that night. It had just begun to get dark. All was quiet, and Dad and I were enjoying the sounds of the summer night. I noticed that Dad had begun to look over at me quite a bit, but he said nothing. Trying to behave I didn't ask why. We sat quietly. He kept looking at me and he began to grin. I know my Dad well, and I knew he was up to something, but I had no idea what. All of a sudden there was this loud, screeching sound right behind me, and the next thing I knew I was up to my knees in the edge of the river, soaking wet from the splash, my hair dripping. My Dad could hardly stand up to help me out of the water because he was laughing so hard. He had watched a tiny screech owl walk up behind me, not realizing that this very still statue was a real person. It must have finally realized I was there, made an alarmed and frightful scream and ran for the brush. After I was out of the water, and the truth was known, that I was not going to be eaten by some huge animal, I had a good laugh about it, but it took a long time for me to stop shaking and calm down. It took a long time, months...years, for my Dad to stop laughing about it. And, again, we went home empty handed.
I hunted with my Dad for years as well. He had given a .22 caliber rifle to me, and I wasn't a bad shot. When he flushed birds I was often able to hit one, but I think only because I got lucky. What I was able to do was hit a squirrel if he sat still long enough on the tree limb. He wouldn't take me deer hunting because he didn't think I could sit still long enough or be quiet enough. We did a lot of road hunting, but you can't tell anyone that because it was illegal. Still is, I think. I didn't like to rabbit hunt, though I went along, because I couldn't hit the stupid things because they ran so fast and jaggedly. I also had pet rabbits at home, so I was a bit loathe to kill one, no matter how tasty they were. I could eat them, I just couldn't kill them.
One very cold winter day we went out for squirrel. He had parked the car along a roadside and we had walked but a few feet when Dad stopped and pointed silently at a small tree maybe thirty yards away. On the bare tree limb sat a red squirrel munching on his lunch and watching us very carefully. I stopped, checked my rifle, and then I aimed it at him. And he just sat there and looked at me. I knew what my Dad was thinking, and I was trying to take the shot, but I couldn't. That dumb squirrel was looking at me! Right at me! And he was still chewing on his lunch. The look in his eye was almost a trusting look; trusting that I was not going to hurt him. And I didn't. I couldn't shoot him. That was the last time I went hunting with my Dad. I knew I would never be capable of shooting another animal, so there was no sense in going. Dad wasn't mad or even disappointed. I'm pretty sure he understood.
We drove up into Minnesota a couple of times on fishing trips, but mostly we stayed close to home. There were a couple of lakes in Nebraska where we went to frog hunt, and that was fun. The most fun about that was watching Mom trying to keep the frog legs from jumping out of the skillet as she cooked them. Again the muscles thing. When the muscles got hot from the grease it caused them to contract and they would leap out of the pan onto the floor, with Mom trying to catch them before they landed.
We spent lots of nights at certain creeks where we would catch crawdads and minnows for fishing the next night. And after a good rain I hustled over to our neighbor's yard where the night crawlers were so thick they made the whole ground look shiny when you shone your flashlight on them. Oh, what fun! You grabbed for the night crawler as he quickly slurped back into his hole, then you had to hold on tight to keep it from slipping out of your hands and disappearing. The neighborhood kids and I went home with buckets of worms and slimy mud and worm goo up to our knees and elbows. I can honestly say that catching night crawlers is one of the most fun things I've ever done in my whole life; right up there with riding a roller coaster.
The worst part of hunting and fishing is cleaning the kill. Thankfully my Dad never made me clean fish. I think he was a little picky about how that was done. He did make me bait my own hook, but that was no big deal, aside from the fact that sometimes I couldn't get my worm to hold still.
I was seldom excused from cleaning the squirrels that I shot. He always said, "You kill it, you clean it." Funny that didn't go for fish. But I'm glad. What I didn't like to help with were the birds; the ducks and the geese and even the chickens when Dad would bring home a live one, and Mom had to kill it, and I got to help clean it. Yuk. I hated the feathers.
One day Dad had three wild geese laid out on the kitchen table to be cleaned. He had already started the process, scalded the dead birds so the feathers came off easier. I said easier, not easily. It's a stinky, yukky job. All of a sudden Mom announced that it was time for them to leave; they needed to go vote. So guess who got stuck with the geese. They left, and I picked and I pulled and I picked. Now, I ask you. How long does it take for two grown adults to go to the polls to vote? I was almost completely done with all three of those stinky birds before they came home to relieve me. My Dad was so surprised that I had not finished yet. I'm convinced to this day that they took the long way there, the long way home, and stopped for a visit somewhere. I hated doing dishes, but I hated cleaning birds worse.
So, growing up I ate lots of rabbit, squirrel, quail, pheasant, catfish, bullheads, even carp, wild ducks and geese and deer. All furnished by a fun trip to the river or the open fields. These were wonderful times, good memories with my Dad, and I will cherish them always.
My Dad was not an educated man, leaving school after the 8th grade, but he was a hard working man and was very personable and social. He had a working knowledge of mechanics, so he was employed for some years as a car mechanic for Ford when we lived in Auburn. When we moved to Falls City he again worked for Ford Motors, but then put his talents to good use by selling cars, rather than fixing them, and then finished his life working for a car parts store. He was good at everything that he did, but I think one of Dad's flaws was his temper and pride that, many times, got in the way of being a reasonable man. Dad was never fired, but if he felt he was being offended in any way he could walk away and never look back. He was a civil man, but if you ever crossed him you lost his respect and friendship. He never spoke badly of you to others, but he would never recommend you either. He held grudges until the day he died, but he did it quietly.
Hard work and special talents do not guarantee high salaries. I remember at one time my attentive ears heard that my Dad brought home $50 each week. I had no idea at the time what that meant, but I was able to assemble all my facts to realize that we certainly had to do without a lot of things. My parents did a lot of things to make up for their lack of funds and to pay bills. My mother sewed almost all of my clothes, and hers, including our coats and jackets. My dad did all the grocery shopping, using Mom's list of necessities and his knowledge of where he could find the cheapest meats and vegetables. We had a big garden every year and canned what we couldn't eat. Our freezer was filled with fish and wild game that Dad brought home. We were friendly with many people who farmed and we purchased sides of beef and chickens and hams at much less than we would have paid in the store. Twice I remember my Dad shooting a deer, and we feasted on the meat for months. All these things, and much more, were done to help make ends meet financially, and I really appreciated none of it. I had no idea then just how hard my parents worked every day, though I do believe that I came away from their examples with a very excellent work ethic.
Many times after work when Dad went fishing on summer evenings he would take me along. Mom went in earlier years, but her knees kept her from climbing some of the river banks where we fished, so she would stay home if she knew it would be difficult. Some places were easier to get to than others. I loved going fishing with Daddy, especially when it was just the two of us. When you're fishing on a river bank there can't be a lot of talking going on or the fish won't come around. But when we did we talked softly, and he would share stories with me or just talk to me a little bit about his day. Often he played little tricks on me just for fun. He laughed a lot when we were together fishing.
Many times we fished with Dad's friend Vern Malick. Vern was Dad's best friend who owned a car body shop. They were both fun, terrible teases, and I was a very good target because I was shy and quiet, very gullible and naive. I became friends with Vern's daughter Carol who was a year older than I, and she was none of these things, so I'm pretty sure I was brought along for the comic relief, which was fine with me. I loved it because I loved them and I loved the attention I got from them. And they teased me with love.
I think I must have been eleven or twelve the night that Dad and Vern and I went fishing on a small creek just east of Salem, NE. It was a beautiful early fall evening, still warm but fall was in the air. There weren't a lot of trees surrounding this area, so the autumn moon, which was directly behind us, filled the sky with it's light with little to break the view except an old grain barn. This barn stood against the moonlight like a giant A with short wings on the side. The moon made the barn loose all of its detail and it was a black shape with a spooky air about it, especially if you're a twelve year old girl.
Soon Dad and Vern began to tell ghost stories, and I wished they would start a fire so I didn't feel so cold and alone in the dark. Their eyes twinkled as they told a story of three hunters out in the woods years ago. One of the hunters had been accidentally shot and died in the hunt, and the other two had carried him back to their cabin, lit a fire for comfort, and then began to mourn the loss of their friend. Along with the fire for comfort they also produced a stash of whiskey that they had brought along for the long cold nights, and they began to drink it and talk of the friendship that the three had shared over the years. The more they talked, the more they drank, and they began to feel sad that they couldn't share their strong drink with the deceased. An idea came upon one of them, and they decided to prop open the dead man's mouth and pour a little whiskey down his gullet. The more they drank the more they talked and the more whiskey was shared with their dearly departed.
At this point I remember my Dad and Vern had paused in the story for some reason because I had to ask my Dad if that was all of the story. "Oh, no. That's not all!" And then they picked up where they left off knowing that they had me right where they wanted me. I was totally fixed on the story and the pictures that I had created in my mind of those two old hunters and a dead man.
All of a sudden the dead man, full of whiskey that had been poured into his throat, sat straight up on the table where they had laid him out. The two remaining friends left all behind and scrambled out into the cold night and forest never to be seen again.
By this time my Dad was laughing so loud and so hard that there was no way we were ever going to catch a fish that night. Of course, his laughter had nothing to do with the story. It had to do with the look on my face at the thought of a dead man sitting straight up on a table. They laughed and laughed and then explained to me that the body full of alcohol would cause the muscles to contract and make the body involuntarily move. Well, then I was fine, but they had had their fun for the night, at my expense, and so we went home empty handed. No fish to clean that night.
Another evening my Dad and I were alone on the Nemaha River, a few miles between Falls City and Salem. It was a very popular fishing spot, and surprisingly there was no one else there that night. It had just begun to get dark. All was quiet, and Dad and I were enjoying the sounds of the summer night. I noticed that Dad had begun to look over at me quite a bit, but he said nothing. Trying to behave I didn't ask why. We sat quietly. He kept looking at me and he began to grin. I know my Dad well, and I knew he was up to something, but I had no idea what. All of a sudden there was this loud, screeching sound right behind me, and the next thing I knew I was up to my knees in the edge of the river, soaking wet from the splash, my hair dripping. My Dad could hardly stand up to help me out of the water because he was laughing so hard. He had watched a tiny screech owl walk up behind me, not realizing that this very still statue was a real person. It must have finally realized I was there, made an alarmed and frightful scream and ran for the brush. After I was out of the water, and the truth was known, that I was not going to be eaten by some huge animal, I had a good laugh about it, but it took a long time for me to stop shaking and calm down. It took a long time, months...years, for my Dad to stop laughing about it. And, again, we went home empty handed.
I hunted with my Dad for years as well. He had given a .22 caliber rifle to me, and I wasn't a bad shot. When he flushed birds I was often able to hit one, but I think only because I got lucky. What I was able to do was hit a squirrel if he sat still long enough on the tree limb. He wouldn't take me deer hunting because he didn't think I could sit still long enough or be quiet enough. We did a lot of road hunting, but you can't tell anyone that because it was illegal. Still is, I think. I didn't like to rabbit hunt, though I went along, because I couldn't hit the stupid things because they ran so fast and jaggedly. I also had pet rabbits at home, so I was a bit loathe to kill one, no matter how tasty they were. I could eat them, I just couldn't kill them.
One very cold winter day we went out for squirrel. He had parked the car along a roadside and we had walked but a few feet when Dad stopped and pointed silently at a small tree maybe thirty yards away. On the bare tree limb sat a red squirrel munching on his lunch and watching us very carefully. I stopped, checked my rifle, and then I aimed it at him. And he just sat there and looked at me. I knew what my Dad was thinking, and I was trying to take the shot, but I couldn't. That dumb squirrel was looking at me! Right at me! And he was still chewing on his lunch. The look in his eye was almost a trusting look; trusting that I was not going to hurt him. And I didn't. I couldn't shoot him. That was the last time I went hunting with my Dad. I knew I would never be capable of shooting another animal, so there was no sense in going. Dad wasn't mad or even disappointed. I'm pretty sure he understood.
We drove up into Minnesota a couple of times on fishing trips, but mostly we stayed close to home. There were a couple of lakes in Nebraska where we went to frog hunt, and that was fun. The most fun about that was watching Mom trying to keep the frog legs from jumping out of the skillet as she cooked them. Again the muscles thing. When the muscles got hot from the grease it caused them to contract and they would leap out of the pan onto the floor, with Mom trying to catch them before they landed.
We spent lots of nights at certain creeks where we would catch crawdads and minnows for fishing the next night. And after a good rain I hustled over to our neighbor's yard where the night crawlers were so thick they made the whole ground look shiny when you shone your flashlight on them. Oh, what fun! You grabbed for the night crawler as he quickly slurped back into his hole, then you had to hold on tight to keep it from slipping out of your hands and disappearing. The neighborhood kids and I went home with buckets of worms and slimy mud and worm goo up to our knees and elbows. I can honestly say that catching night crawlers is one of the most fun things I've ever done in my whole life; right up there with riding a roller coaster.
The worst part of hunting and fishing is cleaning the kill. Thankfully my Dad never made me clean fish. I think he was a little picky about how that was done. He did make me bait my own hook, but that was no big deal, aside from the fact that sometimes I couldn't get my worm to hold still.
I was seldom excused from cleaning the squirrels that I shot. He always said, "You kill it, you clean it." Funny that didn't go for fish. But I'm glad. What I didn't like to help with were the birds; the ducks and the geese and even the chickens when Dad would bring home a live one, and Mom had to kill it, and I got to help clean it. Yuk. I hated the feathers.
One day Dad had three wild geese laid out on the kitchen table to be cleaned. He had already started the process, scalded the dead birds so the feathers came off easier. I said easier, not easily. It's a stinky, yukky job. All of a sudden Mom announced that it was time for them to leave; they needed to go vote. So guess who got stuck with the geese. They left, and I picked and I pulled and I picked. Now, I ask you. How long does it take for two grown adults to go to the polls to vote? I was almost completely done with all three of those stinky birds before they came home to relieve me. My Dad was so surprised that I had not finished yet. I'm convinced to this day that they took the long way there, the long way home, and stopped for a visit somewhere. I hated doing dishes, but I hated cleaning birds worse.
So, growing up I ate lots of rabbit, squirrel, quail, pheasant, catfish, bullheads, even carp, wild ducks and geese and deer. All furnished by a fun trip to the river or the open fields. These were wonderful times, good memories with my Dad, and I will cherish them always.
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