Amish Youth

I spent a part of the afternoon with my brother-in-law, Ron.  He is in the midst of making maple syrup.  It is only for his family’s personal consumption, and done in a very primitive way.  He has about twenty taps installed in maybe a dozen trees.  They will produce possibly 2 or 3 gallons of syrup in a month long season.  We used his Polaris Ranger to go into the woods to gather the available sap from buckets attached to the spouts.  After returning to his home we poured the sap into a stainless steel flat pan about 16’ X 24” placed on top of a small wood stove set up in his back yard.  It wasn’t long after we had a good fire burning in the stove that the sap began a slow boil.  The rising steam gave evidence the sap was beginning to thicken into the future remaining syrup.  Between 30 and 40 gallons of sap will boil down into a gallon of syrup.  We needed to tend the fire under the syrup pan every 15 to 20 minutes to insure a proper boil, but in between we played several games of pool on the table he has set up in an old converted garage.  All in all it was a fine afternoon.

Later, on my way home I came to a fork in the road.  The road I live on split off the road I was driving on, in a wye.   Very near the intersection I spotted an Amish wagon with an attached team of horses.  They didn’t appear to be moving.  I started onto my road and traveled several hundred feet, all the time watching the Amish wagon in my rear view mirror.  The wagon never moved although I could see an Amish man near the horses’ heads trying to encourage them on.  I stopped and backed up to where they were.  Then it dawned on me that these were more children than men.  The oldest was about 14, while with him were two boys of maybe 10 and 8 years old.  I asked if they had troubles.  The older boy told me the team just couldn’t pull the wagon loaded with logs onto the road.  He had come out of a wooded area and attempted to enter the roadway at an angle.  Two wheels on one side were on the asphalt, but the other two wheels had sunk in the roadside wet sand.

I asked if the somewhat small team of horses would allow me to attach my pickup ahead of them without panicking.  The elder Amish boy was unsure, but offered to unhook them if I thought my truck would pull the load.  He asked if my truck was a four-wheel-drive, which surprised me as I didn’t realize he would know anything at all about trucks.  I assured him it was, so he pulled a pin, allowing the horses to be driven away from the load.  I then backed my truck up to near the end of the wagon tongue.  The Amish lad produced a chain, hooked it to the tongue, and I attached it to a trailer ball on the back of my truck.  With the transfer case in four-wheel-low, and the transmission in 1^st gear I slowly tightened the chain, and kept right on moving until all four wagon wheels were on the asphalt.  We unhooked the chain and he hooked the light team of horses to the wagon again.  He offered to pay me, but I assured him I wanted nothing for my help.  He was a fellow human needing a little assistance, and I was lucky enough to be able to help when it was needed.  We waved to each other as I drove away.

The Possessed Heating Pad

As I was having some muscular problems in my left shoulder area my granddaughter delivered a small heating pad to my home.  It was her idea that possibly if I placed it on my bed under my shoulder it might relieve some of the discomfort, and actually aid the recuperation.

She showed me the pad, about 16” X 24”, and gave me the following instructions.  Plug the cord into a receptacle.  There are four green buttons on it.  Each is for a different heat setting.  Four may be too hot, so try it on three first.  That was simple enough.  How could I go wrong?

As I prepared to go to bed yesterday evening I dutifully placed the heat pad about where I thought it would be the most beneficial.  I pushed the green # 3 button as instructed and retired on the pad.  Soon my lower back seemed almost too warm, and my shoulder not particularly warm at all so I decided the pad was hotter on one end than the other.  I roused up, moved the pad higher up in the bed with the cooler end under the pillow, bringing the lower part up under my shoulder.  That seemed about right.

A little later, not knowing if I had slept or not, I noted the pad was only as warm as my body.  It seemed not to be heating.  I found the control next to my pillow, turned it toward where I could see it, and it had this big red eye blinking at me.  Now that didn’t seem right, and the granddaughter hadn’t mentioned anything at all about a red light, only four green ones.  After considering the situation for a few seconds, I decided maybe placing the end of the pad under the pillow caused it to be too hot, and it went into a reset mode.  I placed that end of the pad on top of the pillow, punched the red eye, and instead of blinking it came on steady.  Progress, or regress, I didn’t know.  I punched the # 3 green button and once more the pad began heating as when I first lay down.  It should run for the night now.

A while later I noted, once again, the pad seemed to only be body temperature.  This time I grabbed the control expecting to see a blinking red light, and I was not disappointed.  Once more I punched the malevolent red eye and the cursed blinking stopped.  I punched the # 3 button for the third time, and all seemed well with the world once again.

Yet later I once more noted the pad had quit heating.  Upon checking the control, again the red light was blinking.  I’d had enough of this nonsense.  I followed the cord with my hand in the darkness to the wall receptacle, pulled the plug, and tossed the bewitched pad on the floor.  Sleep came and I made it through the night.

This afternoon I was explaining to my granddaughter what a restless night I had experienced with the goofy blinking red light instead of the nice glowing green I was expecting.  She then informed me that there was a 45 minute timer on it.  At the end of that time the pad control shut off, and a red blinking light announced the fact.  Now she tells me. 

Old Age 2

I wrote the below December 1, 2011, I shall add it here.

On Growing Old

My days are dwindling like the kindling that began the eternal flame at the tomb of the unknown-soldier.  Each day I marvel that I stand at the portals among the mortals of this planet.  My extended family is not one of longevity, but still I linger day to day among those who are young and virile as if I knew not how to leave with dignity.  Soon my life will be done, my time will come, and I beg of you to remember I did not choose to remain, it was merely my time of passing had not yet been determined.  Do not hesitate, do not meditate, but continue on.  This world will little note my passing, and that is as it should be.  We are all fleeting beings on a planet hurtling through space at breakneck speed with little idea of where we shall spend eternity.

Back in August of last year, some six months ago, I wrote of some of the foibles of old age.  That can be found here: http://lion-tales.blogspot.com/2012/08/old-age.html

Yesterday, February 24, 2013, I became painfully aware of another side effect of aging.  Although I have not had it checked by a medical expert, nor do I intend to, I believe I had a small cardiac infarction, or as it is more commonly known, a slight heart attack.  It’s another way of knowing I am vulnerable to the vagaries of growing older.  If it weren’t for these periodic awakenings I would never know how lucky I am to yet be alive.

The result at this point is that the left side of my upper torso has a steady dull pain.  Also it is painful to move my left arm in relationship to the remainder of my body.  The arm and attached hand are fully functional, but it is less painful to move my entire body than to raise or lower the limb.  Such it is to live on into older decades.

Smoking

I started smoking cigarettes while still in high school at around age thirteen.  It was considered the really cool thing to do at the time.  I would beg, borrow, buy, or steal to support my “cool” habit.  After a while my poor mother gave up on me and began to buy my cigarettes for me, “but only one pack a week.”  For any more than that I was on my own.  The smoking habit stayed with me through 15 years of U S Navy service, and continued after that was over.

At age 41 I had a heart attack.  I spent 10 days in an Intensive Care Unit, and having survived that, I was placed in a bed on a regular hospital care unit.  After ten days of no smoking due to oxygen service in the ICU I was about ready to bite myself just out of pure meanness.

The first evening I was in the bed on the regular floor of the hospital my doctor dropped by for a checkup on his patient.  While he was there I asked, “Doctor is it okay for me to smoke now?”

He answered, “Yes, but your children will miss you.”

I decided I had just gone ten days without a cigarette maybe I could go eleven if I tried hard enough.  It has now been more than 33 years since I had that last cigarette.  I’m obviously still alive, as are all four of my children, none of which smoke.

I’ve often said Doctor Federico “Fred” Loinaz is the smartest man I ever knew.

The Chess Set

December 19, 1958 was the eve of my wedding day.  Home on leave from the U S Navy I was staying with my parents in the home I was raised in although I had left it some three years previous.  That evening I went to visit with my future wife at her parent’s home a few miles away.  It was close to midnight on a viciously cold night with the temperature down well below the zero mark on the thermometer.  Snow was falling lightly and drifting across the highway as I returned to my parent’s home.

I was following another car at about 40 mph when that driver lost control of his vehicle and landed in the ditch.  I stopped my ’51 Studebaker business coupe that I owned at the time to insure no one was injured and help as I was able.  The occupants were a couple near my own age, out on a date.  They had no idea what they should do about their present situation.  As they were uninjured, and their car was running fine supplying heat, I told them if they just stayed put I would drive to my brother’s home, borrow a farm tractor, and haul them out of the ditch.  They had little other choice.

It was probably a half hour later by the time I got back to them, and in the bitter cold I managed to get them back on the road and headed toward their destinations.  I returned the tractor to my brother Bert’s farm, and returned to my boyhood home to rest a while before getting married that day.  I promptly forgot about the entire incident.

A few days later I received a telephone call from a Mr. Greenblatt.  He told me that he owned a furniture store, and asked that my new wife and I stop by for a free wedding present.  Not sure about receiving “free” items I yet decided to go to the business.  Upon our arrival Mr. Greenblatt asked us to select any item from his store, no strings attached, as a wedding gift.  Unsure what to do, I finally selected a very modestly priced wooden chess set which was gift wrapped and given to us.

As we left the store, surprised, but feeling wonderful, Mr. Greenblatt asked if we remembered aiding a young couple a few nights earlier when they were in the ditch.  Wondering how he knew about it, I asked.  He informed me the young lad was his son.  I then tried to give back the chess set as I wanted no payment for helping someone on a terrible night, but he insisted it was not a payment, but a bona fide gift.  I have that chess set yet today, 54 years later.

Canada Wintergreen Mints

At the end of WW II I when I was about 7 or 8 years old I, along with my older brothers, would arise every morning at 6 o’clock, groggily dress, and head to the barn to tend the cattle after their long night alone.  On a dairy farm the cattle are always the first order of the day.  Human needs are taken care of after that.  We would work in the barn for an hour or more before we got to eat our own breakfast, change clothes, and walk the mile to school in fall, winter, and spring.

By this time in history my mother had developed a keen taste for the round pink wintergreen candies that had the word CANADA stamped upon their face.  Although we were a large family that didn’t lack for food (which included candy) under any circumstances, mom’s metal can with the tight fitting cover held her private stock of the wintergreens and we children were not supposed to touch them.

This meant, of course, that it was merely a challenge to locate her latest hiding spot, and see how many we could pilfer without her knowing, or at least not saying anything about it.  Often that was the first thing to do in the morning.  We all slept upstairs in our two-story home.  After arising we trudged down the stairs supposedly to head for the barn.  However from time to time some of us would start a search for mom’s candy stash.

Sometimes it would be high on a pantry shelf.  Other times high on a shelf in the big cabinet in the living room.  We boys would boost one another up to search these higher places.  Inside the washing machine was another prize location.  Once located each of us would take two and head for the barn.  They had to be eaten very soon so that the pink residue on our tongues would at least mostly go away during the hour or so we were completing our morning chores.

I never asked her in later years, but she must have known we enjoyed the little game of hide and seek nearly as much as she did, and it wouldn’t have been near so enjoyable if they had been in a dish in plain sight.

These candies were first made in Canada in the late 1800s, and brought into the United States in the early 1900s, about the same time my mother was born.  I still enjoy them some 70 years after I first tasted them.

Bank Den Beaver

About a mile from my home there is an approximately 20 acre mostly abandoned gravel pit.  Gravel has been removed from the site for at least 75 years, ever expanding, and ever deepening.  In places it is at least 100’ deep where gravel was removed with a dragline.  In more recent years the gravel banks have largely petered out, and only occasionally are smaller amounts of gravel yet taken.

As I approached it a few days ago rafts of geese took wing from their sanctuary.  They settle in nearby harvested corn fields to reap the bounty of remaining ears of corn scattered on the ground.

I continued nearing the area where I knew beaver to have a den.  Situated near a beautiful small evergreen the den can be noted where the scattered limbs are on the surface of the hill.  The entrance is underwater, dug into the bank of the gravel pit.  It extends back in a moderate distance and then rises to above the water line.  Once inside they are snug, and reasonably safe from nearly all predators.  Beavers store a winter food supply which can be seen floating on the water.  It is merely small sections of tree trunks, or limbs, of which they will eat the bark from through the frozen winter months when access to fresh food is hard to get to.

These medium size poplar trees are the result of the beaver’s work of gathering that winter food supply.  Note the size of the chips on the ground where they have removed the wood necessary to fell the tree.

This dirt pathway leading down from the hill is their skid way where they drag the sections of tree down to the water’s edge from that small stand above.

This is an abandoned den from previous years.  All nearby trees had been felled, and as the food supply depleted they were forced to move on to greener pastures, or maybe that should be greener woodlands.