Sponsored posts aren't something I typically do, yet here I am making an exception for two reasons. First, I had already intended to write about this topic—stick around and you'll understand why shortly. Second, the 8th Annual James Garfield Miracle is underway, and I needed additional funds to support children in need; this turned out to be an incredibly simple way to contribute. So by reading this, you're directly aiding underprivileged kids. IT'S A WIN-WIN FOR EVERYONE.
StoryWorth placed an ad on my blog this year, and I was so impressed that I purchased a subscription at full price for my father. Here's how it operates: StoryWorth sends weekly story prompts—framed as questions—to your family member via email. They respond, and you gain access to incredible family tales you never knew existed. At year's end, StoryWorth compiles all those stories into a keepsake book. My dad has been participating for roughly six months, and the emails containing his replies are so bizarre and wonderful that I often call him to ask, "Is that for real?" Stories about my grandparents and great-grandparents that I might never have discovered are now being shared across the family. It's fantastic, and I strongly recommend it because it's a gift for both you and them. Normally priced at $79, it's currently (until 1/31/18) available for just $59 through this link.
The tales my father tells are far too good to keep to myself, so I'm sharing a few of my favorite excerpts here. You might find them odd or terrible, but I adore and cherish them. I suppose that's how family stories work. (By the way, Nelda is my mom; she types the answers as my dad dictates.)
Have you ever pulled any great pranks?
One day, while prying something loose, I snapped off half the blade of my skinning knife. Foolish move! Suddenly, my six-inch blade was just three inches long. It became perfect for prying, but also ideal for a practical joke.
We have an electric knife sharpener at the taxidermy shop, and I'm the only one allowed to use it. If you're not fully focused, the high-speed sharpening wheel can fling the blade back at you. That's bad news.
I retreated to my private workspace where I hide from other employees and began crafting my joke. I super-glued the tip of my broken knife blade to the inside of my right forearm. Then, I built up the wound area using two-part epoxy—a product we use in the shop, similar to modeling clay, to create artificial skin on mounts. I smoothed the epoxy, textured it to mimic real skin, and shaped it so the knife appeared deeply embedded in my arm. Using an airbrush, I painted the epoxy to match my skin tone. Next, I blended in some white, purple, and red paint to create a realistic cut. Finally, I mixed blood-red and black paint, adding a bit of glycerin for a wet, glossy look. I poured the fake blood where needed and splashed the rest on an old rag, which I used to cover the gag.
I staggered into the shop and sat down without saying a word.
Don was the first to spot the blood. "Holy crap! What did you do?" Helen came out of the office, and I removed the blood-soaked rag to reveal my artwork. Everyone crowded around to stare or offer help. Helen yelled, "Don't pull it out! He's on blood thinners! He'll bleed to death!"
No sooner had she spoken than Jonathon grabbed the knife and yanked it out. I quickly covered the wound with the bloody rag, thinking the joke was over—until Jonathon looked at the knife and screamed, "It broke off in his arm!"
I received no compliments for my realistic artistry. I cleaned up the mess and returned to the shop. I sat down next to Jonathon and asked if it looked real. He replied, "Yeah, I thought it was real……..What are blood thinners?"
What have you changed your mind about over the years?
I used to believe that dogs are a man's best friend, but I've reconsidered. Dogs forgive you quickly if you ask, but they don't do laundry, they don't cook, they don't scratch your back, and they don't clean the house. They're pretty good at doing dishes, as long as you smear leftover gravy all over the plate.
I used to think a loving wife would see the humor in that previous paragraph. Dogs will still always forgive you quickly if you ask them to.
I used to think this was funny.
If you could choose any talents, what would they be?
I asked Nelda what this question meant. Any talent? She suggested singing, playing an instrument, or maybe x-ray vision. X-ray vision might be cool only if it's selective. Some old fat guy crossing your path could ruin your day. A cute young chick could also ruin my marriage. I'll stick with my near-sighted astigmatism with floaters.
I already sing beautifully. I have that talent, even though no one else thinks so. My ears are so good that in my head, the notes sound pitch-perfect. I call it self-corrective hearing.
I might like the talent to finish everyone's sentences before they could say them. Unfortunately, I hang around a lot of people who don't make much sense. I'm not going to take credit for a bunch of nonsense.
I would like the talent to communicate with animals. I want to understand their thoughts. Someday I will.
What is one of your fondest childhood memories?
One of my fondest memories is going perch fishing with my mom. When I was about five years old, I caught the fishing bug. I couldn't get enough of it. My dad had a farm out at Eola, about twenty miles from home. The whole family would pack up before daylight and drive out to the farm to work. My dad would usually be on his John Deere tractor. My mom would be either building electric fence or picking rocks from the field. My sisters would be together hoeing weeds. I, being the baby, stuck with my mom. We'd work until noon, then drive to our neighbor's pasture for a picnic lunch. A small dirt tank with green water surrounded by large mesquite trees was one of my favorite places to spread out homemade quilts and rest in the shade. We'd eat bread, summer sausage, longhorn cheese, and drink Cragmont orange soda water. After lunch, I'd get out my cane pole. I always saved some of my lunch to use for bait. Those perch would bite on anything, but bread was my favorite because it stayed on my hook the best.
My dad would usually sleep and rest while my mom watched me fish. She was actually watching a five-year-old kid, making sure I didn't fall in the water. The fish would bite as fast as you put the hook in the water. They weren't very big, but I kept anything that had eyes. I even kept a little turtle. When I caught a water snake, my fishing was over.
Have you ever won anything?
The last year that the famous Sam Lewis put on the World Champion Armadillo Races, I won. Actually, my armadillo won. All I did was get behind Army and stomp and holler and chase him across the finish line. I guess I came in second. I released the armadillo back in the woods, but I kept the silver ring. My daughter Jennifer has the ring (I think).
I probably wouldn't have given her the ring if it were gold.
What inventions have had the biggest impact on your day-to-day life?
The cube is probably the greatest invention of my lifetime. Before the cube, there was really not much stability in my life. Spheres were the rage when I was growing up. How can one build anything on a sphere? No matter how you slice it, you end up with just a lot of wheels. There was hope for wheels in those days, although someone took the idea too far. The whole world revolved around wheels and anything that could be made with them. Donuts were one of my favorites. It was like a wheel inside a wheel. Clever. But look at a really fat donut from the side. It's a cube. Give the cube the credit it deserves. You eat a donut from the side, don't you?
Cubes were the true building blocks of the future. The Egyptians knew this. They even made huge cubes all over their backyard. Then they sliced the cubes diagonally, tipped them over so they'd rest on their most stable side, and "BAM"! They had yard art that would last for decades. People would ride by, see the yard art, and ask the age-old question, "Do you think that's a cube cut in half on its axis, or is that cube half buried in the sand? If someone ever invents the wheel, we could build a big bulldozer and find out."
Ice cubes. How would you like living on this planet without ice cubes? Sure, there are people up north who don't appreciate ice like we do, but what if they want to sit down for a while? Up north, chairs don't grow on trees, but a big cube of ice would make a wonderful chair. You could probably build a house out of ice if you had enough of it lying around. An air-conditioned house. With an ice box.
I really don't dislike spheres. After all, a sphere is just a well-rounded cube that likes to travel.
I changed my mind. My favorite invention that has changed my life is a 19-volt battery-operated screwdriver with an extra lithium battery. Made by Craftsman.
How has the country changed during your lifetime?
The country hasn't changed at all. The cities are all screwed up. I lived in the country when I was a kid, and I live in the same country now. The trees I remember as a kid seemed to be a lot smaller back then. The country roads I used to walk down seem to be a lot shorter when I drive them.
Water skiing, tubing, and fishing weren't good at all on our local lakes, but I got pretty good at skipping rocks. The trick was to find flat rocks about three inches across. If you could find rocks that were flat on the top and bottom, you were in business. With a little practice, you could get thirty or more skips out of one perfect rock. You could get even more skips if the lakebed wasn't sandy. When you found that perfect rock, you didn't squander it. You walked out into the lakebed and retrieved it. Once, when I was retrieving one of my dad's washers (sometimes I used artificials), I found a rowboat. It was a Sears/Roebuck 10-foot aluminum, just like the ones in the catalogs. This boat was mine. There wasn't a drop of water in my new boat, and I started dreaming about all the adventures I would have on Lake Nastywater. (We used to call it Lake Nasworthy, until the water level went down and old tires messed up our rock skipping.) I named my boat S.S. Minnow. Gilligan's Island was my favorite after-school TV show. I liked Gilligan the best, but Ginger and Mary Ann got a lot better over the years. My dad enjoyed that show too. I knew he was really going to get excited when I showed him The Minnow. We walked out onto the lake and gazed down at our boat.
"Oh my gosh! Look!" Daddy saw my boat. He was excited. He peeled off his sweat-stained farmer's hat, smiled, sighed, and said something I couldn't believe. "There's my old boat."
"What! Your boat?"
"Sonny, I lost 'The African Queen' about forty years ago. I was noodling for yeller cats down here when this was the Middle Concho. You know what noodling is……Catching them with your hands. It wasn't against the law back in those days. Now, they'd throw you in the pokie. I found this big rock right here and knew this was where the big one lived. Right under this rock. Your Uncle Sam, my older brother, was a better swimmer than me, and he had more experience at catching big fish. Sam jumped in the water, took a deep breath, and went under. He came back up about 30 seconds later and told me the good news. 'There's a big hole under that rock, and there's a catfish down in there. His head is as big as a five-gallon bucket. As soon as I catch my breath, I'm going for him.' My brother Sam went under. He was down there a long time. He was down too long. I jumped in the water and found the hole that Sam had entered. I reached in and found Sam's legs kicking up a storm. I grabbed his legs and started pulling him out of the hole. It was a struggle, but I pulled him out. We surfaced, and Sam was as white as a sheet. We looked around and couldn't find 'The African Queen.'
We sat up on the rock, Sam caught his breath finally, and told me what happened. 'That monster fish was deep in the hole. I was rubbing his belly with both hands. My arms were extended, reaching for his gills. He kept swimming further into the hole. I didn't realize that the hole was getting tighter, and I was running out of breath. My arms were out in front of me, and I couldn't push my way out. I was stuck underwater. I was ready to give up when I felt you pulling me out. You saved my life!'
We reached down to release our boat from the encrusted mud, and it proved to be a lot lighter than expected. There was no floor in the boat. It had rotted out years ago, but it still held some shared memories for my dad and me.
Uncle Sam and Daddy are both gone now. Maybe they're floating down the Middle Concho in an old rowboat with a floor in it. Maybe they're fishing for big yeller cats. They're not noodling though, because Sam promised God that he wouldn't fish that way anymore.
Do you have any particularly vivid memories of your grandparents?
All of my grandparents were Czech. They didn't speak English, but they were successful farmers. They figured out early in life that to be wealthy, you had to have good discipline. They saved their hard-earned money from sharecropping. Then they bought land. They made do by growing their own fruits and vegetables. They raised chickens for eggs and meat. They had cows that they milked daily and butchered their own beef and hogs. They made their own clothes, churned butter, canned produce from the garden, made cheese, flour, cornmeal, and bread. The only thing easy on the farm was falling asleep at night.
Butchering hogs in those days was a big deal. There was too much work for one family to do in one day. There would also be too much meat and sausage to cure, smoke, and package. The meat from a three-hundred-pound hog would go bad before one family could eat it.
When the first cold day came around, all of the aunts, uncles, and third-generation heathens would meet at my grandparents' house with all their butcher knives, tow sacks, hog scrapers, and seasonings. We were having a butcher day. There was going to be a lot of work and a lot of fun for everyone except two fat hogs.
The women would build a big hot fire under a wash kettle full of water. The men would get the hogs up out of the mud and wash them off. The hogs didn't know what was going on with all this special treatment, but I bet they thought they were family and were being invited for dinner. Smart pigs.
My uncles would build a sled and then position our dinner guest close to it. A shot would ring out, and an unhappy but short squeal would alert the second dinner guest that now might be the time to cancel his reservation. The relaxing swine napping on the sled would be given a ride to the kettle area. Tow sacks (burlap bags) were pulled out of the boiling water and spread over a portion of the sleeping porker. The scalding loosens the hair on the pig, and a dull butcher knife is used to scrape the hair (root and all) off the pig.
The whole process is repeated on a new area of the pig until the whole hog is as bald as the top of my head. That pig is also pretty and pink like the top of my head.
Now it's time to gut the clean "organ donor." The liver, kidneys, and heart are saved. The small intestines are also saved. It was my job to clean out the green juice from these long tubes. I liked attaching a garden hose to one end and letting the water pressure do the work. My job was taken away from me because of the mess I made all over the porch. I think years later Wham-O made a fortune with a toy called a Water Wiggle. I guess I was just ahead of my time on inventions, but my marketing skills had not yet been perfected. Sometimes, poop happens.
The rolls of fat from the hog are collected for later use. The ashes from the fire were shoveled into a tilted wooden trough. Water was poured over the ashes and drained into another container. This was lye. The fat is put in the kettle and rendered down to lard. Some of the lard was saved for cooking. It was poor man's shortening. Then the belly meat and flanks were cut up (with the skin still attached), and the small pieces were fried in the lard. This was cracklins. You eat them hot with molasses and homemade bread. You now have a lot of lard in the kettle. Dump the lye in with some kind of perfume and boil the devil out of it. Let the whole mess cool down, and you've got soap. Cut the soap into bars with a butcher knife and let it get cold. It will last forever. I think it has such a long shelf life because no one wants to use it. It stinks, and it takes your hide off with the dirt. It will cure a young boy from cussing.
Cut up the pork chops, cure the bacon, cure the hams and hocks, and start turning the grinder. It's "SAUSAGE TIME."
Those casings that were rescued from me are refilled with seasoned ground pork and tied into links. Hang them in the smokehouse.
It's now pretty late, and everybody's tired. We sample the sausage and clean up the huge mess. I clean the front porch.
I give Babuska (Grandmother) a hug goodbye. I smell like the front porch, but she returns the hug anyway. That was sixty years ago, but I can still smell the aroma of fresh-baked poppy seed kolaches from her homemade apron.
I still smell like her front porch.
