Pardon a turkey?

While watching TV in November, I saw a short clip of the President "pardoning" the Thanksgiving turkey.  It troubled me that BOTH of the turkeys were white.  Why were there no black turkeys?  This is rampant discrimination of the worst kind !!!  This only confirms there is "trouble" in the white house.  There are several other troubling aspects to this "happening".  Why were the turkeys not donated to a homeless shelter or a children's home?  The forty some pounds of turkey would have fed at least 50 or 60 people.

  Did you notice that the turkeys had their feathers ruffled and strutted around?  This is an OBVIOUS reference that the turkeys were republicans or at least tea party members.

  Finally, the turkeys were named APPLE and CIDER.  This is a sure reference to the states of Washington and Michigan, both apple producing states AND HEAVILY DEMOCRATIVE.  Why not name them ORANGE and JUICE, in honor of Florida and California.  They could have been named GRAPE and JUICE.  This would not only honor California, but also the nation of France.  Lastly, Corn and Wheat would have been a nice combination.  Again both Kansas and Iowa would have been honored.

  Did you notice that the President did not have an axe, a sure reference to his appeasement mentality and a sign to the left that he ain’t tough.

MY fIRST VISIT TO A HOUSE OF ILL REPUTE

                                            

The following is a true story and was the subject of a composition that I wrote for an English class at Purdue in 1971.  The complete essay was a lot longer but this will get the job done.

  In 1958 I was a brand new Army recruit at Ft. Bliss, Texas in El Paso.  A new friend was expounding about the exciting times to be experienced in Juarez, Mexico, just across the international bridge.  I decided that I just had to see it for myself.

  As we crossed the bridge over the Rio Grande, a muddy ditch, I saw a group of small children lining the river bank.  They were waving long poles with large cardboard funnels attached to the ends.  The purpose was to catch coins tossed over the rail by the tourists.  The coins that they missed were gathered up by smaller kids.  Some even jumped into the muddy river to get the coins.  I asked my guide where these kids came from.  He told me that when one of the prostitutes in Juarez became pregnant and could not afford a back alley coat hanger abortion, she had the child and he or she became a street urchin and beggar.  I decided then that I would never allow my first born child to end up in such a situation.  I have never regretted that decision.

.

  We walked down the street and entered one of the first bars we came to, The Golden Horseshoe.  It had a large U-shaped bar.  I sat down on a bar stool and ordered a tequila sour.  I thought that I was some poop on a stick.  Here I was, twenty years old, in a foreign country, drinking a foreign drink.  Then it happened !!!.

  A slim brown arm snaked over my shoulder.  I could see that it belonged to a female.  SHE THEN GRABBED MY PLUMBING.  I grabbed her arm and pulled her loose.  I looked around to see if anyone had seen it happen as I was embarrassed.  Then it happened again.  Another arm came over my other shoulder AND GRABBED MY PLUMBING AGAIN.  I shook her loose again.  She retreated to her bar stool around the curve in the bar.  She and a friend held a conference and apparently felt they had reached a solution to MY and their problem.  They started to throw peanuts at me and called out, “CHERRY, CHERRY"

I was so mortified that I felt about two inches high.  I jumped off my bar stool and ran out the bat-winged doors.  It seemed that everyone in the place was laughing at me.

  My English professor at Purdue said it was one of the funniest essays that he had ever read and then proceeded to read it to the whole class. I acted as though I knew nothing about it.  I got an “A” on the report and an “A” for the course.  I figured that I could handle college pretty well.  Nothing has changed in Juarez in the past fifty years except for all the murder and drugs.

Dal.  

Super Bowl Sunday

Ahhh!   Let the festivities begin.  Connie and I started the superbowl holiday by going to do our weekly shopping.  While I picked up an RX and a light fixture, Connie did the food shopping.  Since I completed my tasks first, I sat on a bench at the exit and watched the shoppers go by.  I did a beer brand survey.  Bud lite was far and away the winner.  I think the stuff tastes like skimmed swamp water, but that is only my opinion.  Guinness Stout; now there is a real beer. The munchies that were purchased were an eclectic assortment of barbecued junk food.  I predict there will be more than a few upset stomachs by the time the game is over tonight.  (Maybe even by half time)

  Experience has taught us NOT to go to the super bowl night at the community clubhouse.  It is sort of distracting to see two 80 year old men get in a fistfight over a supposedly bad game call while their wives pull each other’s hair.  I will have to admit that they do get into the spirit of the game.  Football is a hard game to figure out.  People in the stadium seem to cheer if a player either catches a ball or if he drops one.  It’s hard to tell if it is the same people doing both.  Their faces are usually obscured by the sponge rubber #1 figures on their hands.

Sadly, I will miss the game.  I plan to install a light fixture in the laundry room.  At least I will enjoy myself.

Dal

National Christmas tree

Have you seen the latest screw up in Washington, D.C.?  Somehow the dang fools in Washington let the National Christmas tree blow down.  I think it may be a Muslim plot by "someone" to stamp out Christmas.  The tree had been there for over 30 years.  Do you suppose that stimulus money will be used to replace the tree?  Will Algore blame it on global warming?  Would green energy have prevented this?  Maybe they can saw the tree up and pay down the national debt.  Phooey.  I have run out of ludicrous things to rave about.    Dal

My golf cart

About a year ago I decided out of the blue that I just could not live another day without a golf cart.  I enlisted the help of Bill, my brother in law.  He lives in north Ft. Meyers and knows everyone and what is going on.  I told him to find a good deal on a golf cart for me.  He did.  I got a used Club Car for $500.  It had been repainted blue and had two rear facing (made at home) rear seats.  It had batteries that were just a year old.  I won’t say that I stole it but I wrote the check in a hurry.

My buddy, Jim, helped me haul it home.  As soon as it arrived here the homemade seats disappeared and it got a much needed bath.  Now I had to concentrate on things that would make it unique.   The first thing was to give it a name.  I settled on “LITTLE BOY BLUE”.  Two inch decal letters were centrally aligned on the front to proclaim the cart’s new name to the world.  I had planned to add the phrase “come blow your horn” in half inch characters next to the name.  I was persuaded by un-named parties that this phrase could be interpreted in a variety of ways, mostly bad.   No phrase needed.  We have a security golf cart in the park.  It has “SECURITY” emblazoned on a sign on the rear. Seniors sign up to drive the cart on specific times on specific days.   Several others in the park have also added the same sign to their carts to make all the boogie men think that these seniors really keep an eye on things. People take turns driving it around with the rotating yellow light on.  Naturally I installed a sign on my cart that read”IN-SECURITY”

My buddy Jim has two marine batteries assembled to the rear of his cart.  He uses the batteries to power a 110 vac inverter.  He is able to run several strings of Christmas lights at a time.  He can change the outline of the lights to form hearts or shamrocks or other seasonal decorations.  I decided to do him one better.

The cart came equipped with one headlight and two tail lights.  I added four turn signal-stop light combinations to the four corners of the canopy.  Next was a yellow strobe light on the center rear of the canopy.  I rewired the whole apparatus to run off an auxiliary implement batter.  There are also two blue clearance lights assembled to the new battery cover.  The reason for the aux. battery was to preclude undo imbalance of the six, six volt batteries that power the cart.  The last addition was a running light to act as a dome light. In all there are 14 lights controlled by five switches on the cart.

Jim retaliated by installing an oogaa horn.  I responded by adding a bulb type bicycle horn.  He added floor mats.  I added a kitchen clock and an outdoor thermometer.  He just shook this head so I added a vase of flowers in a cup holder.  I then installed a high end steering wheel cover.  Jim gave up.

I have a plan for next year.  I will find some kind of fuzzy critter, preferably a dog or cat and drape it across the front fender.  This will probably cause some of the older women in the park to faint.    

Dal

How to butcher a hog (farm style)

The first and most important thing to do is find the correct pig.   (The term “pig” or “hog” may be used interchangeably in this essay)  This means you must find the best proportioned pig in the pigpen. If you are a cheap ass, you will use the runt of the litter.  Next you must single the chosen one (no, not Obama) out from the rest of the pigs.  This can be a problem.  Pigs do not, yea hate, to have someone direct them in any direction.  They are suspicious creatures and seem to zig when you zag. A day or so before the fateful day it is best to stop feeding the pig but make sure that he gets plenty of water.  If you don’t understand the reason, you have never been around pigs.   The pig should be washed thoroughly just before being dispatched.  This tends to sooth the pig and removes any doubts about what lies ahead.  The pig’s spirit is removed from this earth by shooting it in the front of the head right between the eyes with a .22 caliber rifle.  This causes the pig great discomfort and he (she) feels a great need to lie down and think the situation over.  The pig’s throat is slit with a thin butcher knife (exsanguinated!!!  This is a word that I learned from the Orielly show) and the pig is left to “bleed out”.  It is best to elevate the rear of the hog to get a good bleed out.   About this time, as a kid, I was usually behind the barn puking my guts out and may have missed a few steps

Butchering is usually done in the fall after the fly “problem” has been eliminated by cold weather.  It is a festive occasion with a neighborhood get- together.  Many hands are required to do the butchering process correctly.  Everyone has a gay time.

After the pig is “bled” it is dragged (or better yet carried) to a large caldron (55 gallon drum) of hot water that sits on 4 cement blocks with a coal fire underneath.  There is a tripod assembled above the drum.  The pig is attached to a block and tackle hung from the top of the tripod.  Cuts are made in the pig’s rear hocks and a rope is assembled to tie the hocks together.  The hog is hoisted in the air and two men pull the pig to the side until he (she) is directly over the drum.  The pig is then lowered into the water to be scalded, much the same as dunking a fresh killed chicken in a bucket of hot water.  The water should be hot enough that a finger cannot be inserted without great pain but not hot enough to start to simmer.  Dunk time should be between two or three minutes.  The pig is then hoisted up and a test is made to see if the hair has been loosened.  If not, the pig is again dunked a second time.   After the hair is sufficiently loosened the pig is hoisted up and transferred to a plank covered pair of sawhorses.  The same two guys that got him into position above the drum move him to the table.  The hair is scraped off using cup shaped scrapers.  ----- There is an alternate method that I don’t personally think works as well.  The hog is placed in a trough and boiling water is poured over the carcass.  This tends to loosen the hog hair somewhat.  The hog is turned over and the process is repeated on the other side.  The hair is then scraped off the entire hog using the special cupped shaped scrapers until the hide is as smooth as a babies butt.  ---- In the first method, the carcass is then washed with very hot water to completely clean it This done, the tripod is removed from the fire area and moved to a spot away from the fire.  The hog is hung from the scaffold by his rear feet and he (she) is eviscerated.  (I know a few big words too. Anyway it beats “degutted”)  Be careful at this time because the guts can tumble out and make a mess.  If the guts do not tumble out, you may have to remove them by the handful.  Yuk.

The head is removes and the feet removed at the knees.  The heart, tongue, and other offal is saved for a later process.  The intestines are removed from the disembowelment pile and washed. Care should be taken to remove the bung hole from the intestines.  The intestines will be used later in the sausage making process. Sometimes instead of using the natural intestines, modern purchased casings are used.    At this time, the operation may be suspended to let the carcass cool overnight.  All hands can enjoy a case of beer.

The carcass must be cool in order to cut properly. (Just like a thanksgiving turkey)

Next is the division of the carcass.  The first operation is to cut the hog lengthwise down the spine using a meat saw.  This is nothing more than a three foot long hacksaw.  This gives you two “half hogs” or two “sides”.  The hog is then quartered.

The carcass is divided (cut, hacked, sawed, and chopped) into many categories of cuts.  Among the parts are head, jowls, shoulders, hocks, ribs, bacon, side meat, hams, pork chops and loins.  Salt is usually applied to the hams and bacon and they are smoked in a “smokehouse”.  The smoke house can be an elaborate building that could be mistaken for an outhouse except it has no crescent moon on the door.  The inside is usually plastered and many “meathooks” are bolted into the ceiling.  Two small openings about 4” square are located near the ceiling to permit the escape of the smoke. Shagbark Hickory is usually the smoking wood of choice; however wood like cherry can be used.  This curing tends to cause drying and will help to preserve the meat.  The perfect smokehouse fire actually smolders and does not burn.  Hams may also be “sugar-cured” but the exact method escapes my memory.  I do remember that it requires a crock, salt brine, and brown sugar.

Most of the fat is cut into small pieces.  A caldron is heated over a fire and the pieces of hog fat left over are heated to a boil.  This produces lard and cracklings.  The cracklings produced from a midsized hog would amount to a ten quart bucket full.  You can buy a similar product today but it costs a lot.  The lard is stored in “lard buckets” and kept cool less it go rancid.  Intestines not used in the sausage making process are cut into small sections and fried to make chitlins.  Any spare parts left over are made into “headcheese”.  I will not go into detail on that as the thought sort of turns me off.  Parts of the skin can even be saved to cook with beans.  To the best of my knowledge, the squeal and tail are not saved. 

The parts that I personally liked best were the parts that could be “pickled” in vinegar.  This included the pigs feet, heart, tongue, and other parts I do not wish to recall.

Try as I might I do not recall the complete sausage making routine.  I do remember that it took cooked meat, fat, spices and the aforementioned (used it again) intestines.  One person holds the intestine open and the other turns the meat grinder and forces the sausage into the casing with a round piece of wood.   I cannot remember how it was processed or stored.

There, you have it all.  I cannot remember any more because I was only seven years old the last time I saw a hog butchered.  Enjoy

Dal

How to make cottage cheese and butter

The most important thing to have when making cottage cheese or butter is a source of milk.  AKA, “moo juice”.  At this point it is important to note that a cow (Genus Moo) is not the only viable source of milk.  There are several other common sources of milk.  They include, but are not limited to:

Goats and sheep:  (Genus Baaa)

Mountain goats and bighorn sheep: (Genus Baaa, wild)

Tibetan Yaks: (Genus Moo, shaggy)

Water buffalo (Genus Moo, horny)

Horses and mules: (Genus neigh or Genus bray)

Camels: (Genus Humpus1 or Humpus2)

The above can be divided into two sub Genus categories:  Two handled and four handled or (-2 and -4) as they are known to us cheese and butter makers. This has no real meaning to the subject at hand so we shall not go any further into the matter.

The first and most important task is to extract the milk from the animal at hand.  Under some conditions this can be a difficult and possibly even a dangerous job.  In an effort to make this essay simple and not go into too much detail we shall consider only Genus Moo.  This is not an attempt to slight the other milk producers but this essay is going to be long enough and possibly boring...

For the purpose of this essay, we shall consider the cow to be a single cow (a loner, not one without a mate), and not a member of a herd or not a strictly dairy cow. (Bulls cannot be milked and attempting to do so would embarrass the bull and possibly even piss him off) Necessary items to get started in the milking process are   1. A cooperative cow.  2. A milk bucket.  3.  A milk stool.  The cow is milked by firmly grasping a set of “handles”, closing the thumb and forefinger at the top of the “handle” and firmly closing the three remaining on the “handle” and then closing the fingers firmly against the palm of the hand.  The result is a stream of milk.  One must be careful in that the stream of milk must be aimed directly at the bucket.  The result is a satisfying “zing” as the milk strikes the inside of the bucket.  After the flow of milk starts to diminish, one must perform the operation of “stripping” This amounts to grasping the “handle” between the thumb and forefinger and gently stripping down the “handle”.  When the flow completely stops, the operation is repeated on the final set of “handles”. It is the choice of the milker to select the proper set of handles of the “milkee”.  There is, however an inherent danger involved in milking a cow.  A cow may take offence to being milked for some reason or another.  The cow may lift a dirty rear foot and search for the milk bucket.  Once found, the cow may give a mighty kick sending the bucket and milk hurtling across the stall.  The milker has no choice other than to get a clean bucket and try over.

The bad behavior of the cow can be cured, (sometimes) by installing a set of “kickers” to the cows rear legs just above the hock. (Knee).  This set of kickers looks similar to a u-shaped set of steel cuffs about the size of your hand.  The problem with the kickers is that an inexperienced cow may try to kick anyway.  If the cow kicks hard enough, she may on occasion, lose her balance by carrying the “tripod” leg along with the kicking leg.  The result is that the cow falls on its rear and in the milker’s lap.  On its way down the cow hits the milk bucket, spills the milk, knocks the bucket into a sensitive area of the milker, and generally makes a mess of things.  The milker is left with no choice other than to grab the milk stool and beat the crap out of the cow.  The only thing this accomplishes is a sense of satisfaction on the part of the milker and bewilderment on the part of the milkee.

After the milking process is finished, the next process is to separate the milk from the cream.  The old fashioned way is let the milk stand (cooled) and allow the cream (fat with lower specific gravity) to rise to the top of the container.  The newer method is to run the whole milk through a cream separator.  A separator is nothing but a small centrifuge.  In the “early days” these units were hand cranked but later models were powered by an electric motor...I cannot remember the exact process but I do remember that the whole milk was poured into a large bowl set atop the separator.  The skim milk came out of a big spout and fell into a big bucket sitting on a big swiveling shelf.  The cream came out of a smaller spout located at 45 degrees to the large spout.  Cream fell into a smaller bucket sitting on a smaller shelf.  The “best” milk had a butterfat (cream) content of about 3.5%.  You can do the math to see how much cream you would get from 5 gallons of whole milk.  The skimmed milk not used for household use was deposited in a large barrel along with any surplus whole milk to feed the hogs.  This barrel was known as the “swill barrel” After the skimmed and whole milk separated into curds and whey; it was fed to the hogs.  They loved it.  During the fermentation of the milk, the flies had a field day.  You have no idea how many thousands of flies a barrel of rotten milk can attract.  Sometimes a wire screen was placed over the top of the swill barrel.  This tended to anger the flies

The next step is to churn the cream into butter.  For small household amounts the cream is usually churned in a small hand cranked churn.  The churn consists of a large (one gallon) glass container topped by a “screw on” set of wooden paddles.  One or two unfortunate kids are assigned to take turns cranking the damned churn.  Turning the churned cream into butter is sort of a two edged sword.  The cream is easy to churn.  As it thickens into butter the littlest kid doing the churning is usually left to end up the process as it can be very difficult.  The butter is then transferred to a large (12”) wooden bowl.  A 4” wide wooden spoon is used to “swab” the butter to work out the “buttermilk”.  As the buttermilk is worked out, it is transferred to a glass and the lucky churners get to drink it.  This ain’t your run of the mill cultured buttermilk, but the real thing.  A great treat.  Salt is usually added to the butter before the swabbing action is started.   The completed butter is packed into a bowl much like a cereal bowl and cooled in the refrigerator.  Thus ends the butter making process.

To make cottage cheese the whole milk is left to curdle.  When the “curds” separate from the “whey”, the whey is drained off and the curds place in a cheese cloth bag.  (And where did you think the name “cheese cloth” came from).  The bag is tied at the top and left to hang in the sun, usually from the clothes line.   After the bag hangs for a period of time (just before it rots), it is deemed done and removed from the line.  The next step is to place the dried curds in the wooden bowl that was mentioned in the prior paragraph.  Next, whole milk is added to separate the large curds into smaller ones.  The curds are “rolled” using the aforementioned paddle until the curds are about the size of b-b shot.   Salt and pepper are added to taste.

There, you have it.     Dal

New un-employment solution

Wow!!!  The state of Florida has come up with a doozy of a solution that will solve many problems and save time and money in the long run.

  As you may know, there is a real problem in the Everglades with the booming population of Burmese Pythons.  When they get too big people that have them as “pets” (ugg) just turn them loose.  They have no natural enemies and so breed like rabbits.  It is not uncommon to find a 10’ python in your back yard.  They love to snack on cats and dogs

  Anyway, I digress.  The county plans to hire many of the illegal’s to work as “snake catchers”.  They will be supervised by the local swamp experts.  They plan to hire the aliens to work as decoys to attract the snakes.  They are to be paid $9.50 per hour plus a bonus if the python caught is over 12’ long.   In order to maximize the effectiveness of the decoy, they will attach a log chain and large cement ball to the decoys leg.  This is to keep the alien from making any evasive movements as the snake advances to inspect the potential meal.

The swamp expert will make hourly rounds to check on the decoys under his charge.  If he finds the alien gone, he will immediately look for a slow moving python with a large round bulge in his (or her) midsection.  Upon finding a likely reptile the swamp expert will use a magnet to check and see if the log chain is present inside the snake.  If so, he will then dispose of the snake and retrieve the ball and chain for future use with the next decoy. If the chain is not present, he will run like hell.   The decoy used will end up as python poop.  This eliminates any need for deportation.  In addition, the decoy is not paid this (or her) hourly wage or any possible bonus.  He (or she) is also removed from the welfare rolls. 

  Any alien too smart to fall for the scheme will beat a hasty path to the border.  It is a win-win situation for the county and state.

Dal

Golf Superstore

Connie and I paid a visit to the PGA GOLF SUPERSTORE in north Naples today so that she could pick up tickets for the ACE golf tournament to be held at “The Quarry” next week ending 2-20-2011.  I knew that I was in for a different experience before I even entered the store.  There was a really worried looking fellow that got out of his BMW convertible, clutching 3 or 4 golf clubs under his arm. He hurried into the store looking as though he had lost his best friend.

On entering the store the first thing that struck my eye was a huge banner that stated, “ARE YOUR BALLS RIGHT FOR YOUR GAME”?  Funny I thought, I had never considered that before.  I was born with them.  Then I realized they were talking about golf balls.  I always thought if the ball was white and round it was O.K. Apparently, I was wrong.  They had at least 25 different brands of golf balls.  Right across from the ball display was a compartmented shelf that held 360 different golf hats.  (Yes, I counted them).  Ten racks high times 36 compartments wide equals, (cipher, cipher), 360.

Then I saw five or six guys playing miniature golf.  Funny I thought, why on earth anyone would play miniature golf in a place like this.  Then I realized that it was not Astroturf they were playing on.  It was real grass.  There were grow lights hanging above the players to keep the grass in shape.

  There were at least half a dozen different kinds of golf clubs for sale.  There were men’s, women’s, Boys, girls, (pink) left handed and, (gasp), used.  There were new men’s drivers that started at $399.  I resisted the temptation to buy five on the spot.  I swear that some of those clubs were lighter than my glasses.

I figured that the store was owned by one family, the Pro family.  Everywhere you went you saw men and women with the same clip-on name tag.  It said, “Hello.  I am a Pro”.  People seemed genuinely awed by the Pro family members.  A person would approach one of them, talk very seriously, in hushed tones, while making gestures with his/her hands.  The Pro family member would laugh, pat the person on the back, and make a slightly different motion with his/her hands.  This seemed to please the person greatly and they would walk away with a big smile on their face.  Strange.  I even saw the worried guy with the BMW.  He was busy talking to one of the Pro brothers.  Mr. Pro led him over to expensive club rack.  I could see that Mr. Pro was very serious in his talking and Mr. BMW started to get a smile on his face.  Maybe they were just dating.

There were about a dozen driving areas.  A person would whack the bejabbers out of a ball.  The intent was to hit a numbered spot on a tarp about 25 feet away.  The number on the spot corresponded with the club number.  I definitely would have had a problem with my first set of clubs 40 years ago.  The irons didn’t have numbers; they had names like “brassie” and “niblick”.  Connie sold them in a garage sale for 25 cents each

Then there were the shoes.  Every kind of shoe that you can imagine was there for sale, except possibly flip-flops.  Not only could you buy the shoes, you could buy any different number of spikes assembled to your new shoes in any pattern your heart desired.  The spikes could even be color coordinated to match your shoes.

And the golf bags.  You could buy a bag as small as a piece of 3” PVC pipe to as large as one modeled after an elephant leg, COMPLETE WITH TOENAILS, and an elephant trunk for a carrying strap.  I was truly amazed.  There was also quite an exhibit of club covers.  The ones I liked best were designed to look like wigs of different colors. Problem was they could be mistaken for shrunken heads.  Wait a minute, maybe they weren’t wigs after all.  I will bet that you didn’t know that they manufactured designer golf tees.  Calvin Kline seemed to have the biggest display.

The only thing I could really relate to was the grungy looking guy that replaced grips.  He would clamp the club in a vise, strip off the old grip with a wood chisel, buff the handle, and apply soap.  Then he would push on a new grip and pound the handle twice on his bench.  There were guys there that stood in awe of his ability.  Probably never saw a chisel before.

There were other departments that I did not venture into.  Did you know there was such a thing as a golfing bra?  Personally fitted golf gloves?   Special socks with the logo of your choice or a logo designed just for you?   There was row after row of golfing shirts and pants.  Most of them were priced higher than the first car I ever owned.

The cashiers were a friendly bunch.  They were not part of the Pro family because they had just plain old name tags like Shirley, and Nancy.  They seemed to enjoy collecting all the money.  They smiled a lot.

I could go on and on but Connie thought I had seen enough for one day so we went to Wal-Mart to view the other side of the coin.

With tongue firmly in cheek.

Dal

Sharron and Bill's first date

First Date-Sis & Bill

At the 50^th wedding anniversary party and wedding reception hosted by Sharron and Bill at Pigeon Forge two years ago, Sharron related what happened on their first date.  According to Sis, they went to Buck Lake Ranch (a well known honky tonk).  Bill was supposedly so excited by her charm and grace that he steered her right through a mud puddle.  Sis said that Bill took her shoes home and polished them and then gave them back ON THE SECOND DATE.  That brings to mind several questions.  1.  Did he take the shoes home just to have a ready excuse to come back?  2.  What did she wear home if she had no shoes?  3.  What was he doing with white shoe polish at home?   Was he just a little bit (ahem) ,you know?

Get ready to hear the real truth as told by Dal.  I was there when Sis tried to sneak home that night through the back door, with muddy shoes in hand.  Dad was asleep in his easy chair as was his custom when Sis was out on one of her many dates.  He woke up when she stumbled on the door sill.  The following conversation took place.           (I won’t use quotes because I have no intention of making this saga grammatically correct)

Dad:  Dear daughter, what happened to you?  Your shoes are all muddy and your beautiful hair is messed up.

Sis:  Oh dear father, my date chased me through a muddy corn field.  I feared for my maidenhood but I found that a girl can run faster with her dress up than a boy can with his pants down!!!

Dad:  What!!!  Wait till I get my shotgun.  I will take care of that little twerp.  I will shoot him in the butt.

Sis:  Oh wait father dear.  Do not be hasty.  This may have a happy ending after all.

Dad:  What do you mean dear daughter.

Sis:  I think that if I play my cards right.  I might be able to snag the little booger.  He ain’t too bright and God knows he ain’t good looking, but I hear he is a good worker.  If I can snag him and nag him to death, I think that I can get him to work four different jobs at the same time.  If so, I will have it on EZ-street for the next 50 years

Dad:  Hmmm dear daughter, I think that is a good plan.  After all, you are 16 and ain’t getting any younger.  I think you should go for it.

Now, being a young man of sterling honor, I did the only just thing possible.  (Warn Bill?  You gotta be kidding).  I ran off and joined the Army because I did not wish to be in any way connected with such a dastardly plot!!  While on a Nike missile site in Chicago several months later, defending my country, I received notice that a wedding had taken place between the parties mentioned above.

Fortunately, all has ended well.  Sis and Bill have been married for over 50 years and have given the world four well adjusted children and Steve, the Bean King of Tennessee.

Dal

Modern education

There have been several letters recently discussing the state of modern education, good and bad.  Let me state first that I am not and educator.  I am just a guy that spent 19 years taking credit and non credit college courses while working a full time job before I got my degree.

Along the way I learned that there are two methods of instruction.  The first is the conductive method.  In this method, the professor or instructor sets out a basic set of rules.  The class is given a sample of the method of solution and then assigned a set of problems to solve. In the following class the instructor and the class discuss the problems and the correct answers.  This method works well in subjects such as physics, chemistry, or engineering

The other method is called the inductive method.  The instructor assigns the material to be covered.  The student is allowed to reach a decision based on how he/she interprets the material.  Different ideas or solutions are discussed in the following class.  This method works well in such subjects such as literature, art, sociology, and philosophy.

The use of the conductive method in all classes would result in a group of robots, all thinking the same things.  To use the inductive approach in all courses would result in chaos with all students having a different opinion of what works in the real world.

The solution, of course, is to have a balance between the two methods.  It is up to the college to provide that balance and the student to select the school that has the best track record in producing results using the balance.

Dal Wolf.     

The first plowman

The First Plowman

The first attempt at plowing was by an Arab named Mohammed Dumbdumb, a close friend of Adam, the first man.  While severely beating his wife with a stick, he missed his target, breaking open the dirt at his feet.  This being the Garden of Eden, a plant sprung up and quickly bore fruit.  Shortly after that Adam and Eve and all their relatives, including Dumbdumb, were driven from the garden, something to do with an apple if I remember correctly.

Dumbdumb did not really understand that the rest of the world was not as fertile as the Garden of Eden.  He went about beating the ground with his stick, making a terrible mess of the land.  His neighbors seeing this odd activity, named him “Plowman”.  This word in ancient Arabic means “idiot who goes about beating the earth with a stick”

I hope this helps your understanding of history.

 Dal

School Daze:

I started school about 2 months after D-Day in 1944 in a one room country school house in DeKalb county Indiana.  I was a farm kid just like all the other students in the school.  School was an unfair proposition from the start.  First of all, we were seated in alphabetical order.  Guess who sat in the rear?  Yep, me, Dal Wolf.  The reading class was split into two groups, the BLUE BIRDS and the RED BIRDS.  I was a RED BIRD.  I think it was the start of segregating classes by supposed learning ability.  Most of the other Red Birds were not too swift.  My cause was not helped by the fact that my brother started school 2 years before I did.  He was more interested in goofing off than any scholarly pursuits.

When it was our (red birds) turn to read, the teacher passed out reading books that both groups shared.  The first page showed a picture of a boy with the lettering DICK underneath.  I had never heard the name before.  As far as I was concerned DICK had an entirely different meaning.  We had kids in our class named   Orfus,    Opsey,    Melva,    and   Viola.  No Dicks.  Dick had a sister in the book.  We learned her name on the second day of school.  Her name was JANE.  I didn’t know anyone named Jane either.  On the third day they combined the words Dick & Jane.  You could tell that things were getting tougher. They had a dog named SPOT.  Spot was a Cocker Spaniel and he was not spotted.  If he had been a horse, he would have been referred to as a “paint”.  Then there was “Baby”.  I don’t know if baby had a real name.  (In proof reading this I remembered that her name was “SALLY”)  There was “Mother” and “Father”.  They didn’t have names either.  I don’t have any idea what “fathers” job was but he drove a big Art Deco styled car with lights atop the front fenders and two spare tires on the sides of the car.  I suspect he was in the mob.  We learned to “sight read”, not to sound out the letters to form a word.  I still have trouble today spelling some (most) words correctly, but I can spell Czechoslovakia correctly.

I did not like arithmetic class.  The teacher had one of those snotty Blue Birds help with grading the papers.  He always gave me a bad mark because he did not like the way I made the number “two”.  I made it look like a “Z” (I found out recently that the original number two was made like a “Z” because the figure contained 2 acute angles).  We did most of our advanced arithmetic from a notebook.  I remember one picture problem that contained 5 ducks.  I did not read the part about 2 of the ducks swimming away.  The question was, “how many ducks were left”?  Well, the picture showed 3 ducks facing one direction and 2 ducks facing the other way.  Any dang fool could see there were 5 ducks in the picture.  Wrong answer.  The hell with the stupid ducks, anyway.

Then there was writing class.  We always got warmed up by making a series of ovals at the top of the page.  The idea was to make 15 ovals in one spot and then move to the next practice oval.  Rather than count, (yes, I could count) I just made ovals in the same spot till my pencil wore its way thru the paper.  That was a lot easier.  Most first graders cannot multi-task anyway. I always got my ovals done faster than the snotty, Blue Bird, number checker.

Most of the kids had fancy new lunch boxes with cutesy cartoon characters on them.  Not this boy.  My dad had picked up this heavy duty box that was olive drab in color and had “30 Caliber” In yellow stenciled numbers on the side.  It had a really neat latch and was water proof.  It always made my baloney sandwich taste stale. But was a heck of a good weapon in a lunch box fight on the school bus.

  I did not have a pencil box.  There was one girl that had a pencil box the size of a small suitcase.  She had 6 pencils, scissors, a mirror, pencil sharpener, and a compass contained in that monster.  She was a cute girl but I coveted her pencil box, not her.  I had to keep my one penny pencil in the pencil groove on top the desk.  A penny pencil was a skinny brown pencil with soft lead and an eraser made from a coarse stone like material that wore its way right thru the paper.  The girl with the monster pencil box had yellow Eberhard-Faber (2H) pencils each with a metal ferrule and a genuine pink eraser.  Envy envy envy.  Our desks had these neat cup holders right next to the pencil groove but I never saw anyone use one. (Ok, they were really ink wells.  How do you explain “nibs”, “quills”, “nib holders”,” ink bottles” or even “fountain pens” to someone from the X generation.)  This was long before ball point pens had been invented. By the way, the early ball points always leaked.  The use of ink was far in the future for a first grader so I won’t dwell any more on the subject.

There was only one cup at the water jug for everyone to use.  Then one girl died of diphtheria and presto, disposable Dixie cups appeared overnight. We got the water, one bucket at a time from the farm across the road.  The well was right next to the farmer’s barnyard but no one cared.  I don’t think anyone thought of the word typhoid. We also had “milk day” twice a week.  For 10 cents a week you could have a half pint of milk. (Tue & Thurs).  After a month or so my folks decided that I did not need the milk.  Ten cents a week could really add up over the course of a school year.    I could only sit and drool on those special days when chocolate milk was delivered.

There were two different sized yellow lined “goldenrod” tablets that we used.  One cost a nickel, the other a dime.  The dime size had three times the paper as the nickel size did.  It was “during the war” so we had to use both sides of the paper.  I hated that.  When we took a new tablet to school we had to give it to the teacher.  She inspected our old tablet and only issued you your new tablet when every last line was filled on the old one.  White lined notebook paper was far in the future for a first grader.

Bathroom facilities were outside, down the hill.  Every Halloween they were upset and a local farmer had to come over with a team of horses and pull them upright.  When the teacher had to use the bathroom a covey of girls stood guard outside.  I was never quite able to figure that one out.

The building had 4 hang down light bulbs, one fire extinguisher, no storm windows, no insulation, one pencil sharpener, and a pot bellied coal stove.  The teacher doubled as the janitor and carried the coal from the coal shed into the school one hod at a time. (What is a hod, you say).  We old timers will just keep that a secret.

My guess is that my eight years in that school cost far far less that it costs to educate a child today just for one semester.  There was a lot more that happened in the first grade, but that was 66 years ago.

Dal Wolf. 

Cap and Trade

I have just figured out “cap and trade.”

Let’s say the federal government limits the number of times you can flush your toilet to two times per day and charges you 10 cents per flush in taxes. Let’s call it a “flush tax.”

You happen to not need two flushes per day because the government has limited your ability to generate income and you are starving to death. You will be glad to sell your extra flush back to the government and accept 5 cents as a tax rebate. That way you can survive just a bit longer.

Your one flush then actually then costs you 15 cents. Let’s call it a “hidden” tax.

The government then takes your extra flush and turns it over to a Wall Street trader who deals in “flush tax” trading. The trader then finds someone that is “overproducing” and desperately needs extra flushes because he consumes so much to maintain a high level of productivity. He must buy extra flushes.

The cost for extra flushes is set by the government at $1 each. The overproducer has three choices: pay the extra “flush tax” for the required flushes and raise prices, go out of business or move his production to a place that has no “flush tax.”

The Wall Street trader collects a 5 percent fee per “flush tax” traded or 5 cents. The 95 cents that remains is considered an “investment” by the government and is taxed at 100 percent. This investment is doled out in the form of “bailouts” for worthy (?) causes.

There. Explained.

Obamacomics

Let’s say that a baker produces bread for $1 per loaf.

Each loaf has 20 slices of bread.

The baker raises the price of the loaf to $2 and then promises that next year he will freeze the price of one slice of that loaf of bread, but the price of the other 19 slices of the loaf may well go up.

I call this Obamacomics.

Coal

SOME PEOPLE were fortunate to have their coal delivered to their coal bin in the basement.  NOT the Wolf household.  We did not have a basement so the coal was delivered and placed in a huge pile behind the house.  It was my job to bring in two 5 gallon buckets of coal each night to fire the pot bellied stove in the living room and the coal range in the kitchen.

One year my dad got a huge price reduction of $2.00 ($14 Instead of the normal $16) per ton, on 5 tons of coal.  The problem was that it was basket ball sized coal instead of the regular baseball sized chunks.  I was issued a hatchet and told to break the coal down before I brought it in the house.  That was bad enough but when the coal pile was covered with snow or ice it got to be difficult.  It didn’t take me too long to figure out that I would be better off to split the coal when the weather was nice.  My brother did not have to help because he never got the buckets full enough to last out the night.

Then there was the job of disposing of the ashes.  I had to clean out either stove once or twice a week and spread the ashes on the garden.  That made the ground easier to spade BY ME in the spring when I spaded the garden.  My brother could not spade a straight row so he lucked out on that job too.

The farmer that I worked for used to burn wood.  Not only did we cut the wood but I was given the job of throwing the wood through the “coal door” in the side of the house.  Sometimes I would miss the window and take a shingle off the house.  Needless to say, this was frowned upon.

In 1984 I installed a wood burning stove in our basement.  It was sort of fun to cut the wood, haul it to the house, carry it to the basement and load the stove.  I got smart enough to cut pieces just small enough for Connie to carry down the stairs to fire the furnace.  I don’t think she ever caught on.

Ah yes, the good old days.

Dal

My first job

Just after completing my junior year of high school in 1955, a buddy and I decided to get a job in a commercial refrigeration plant. (It was his idea)  The problem was, both of us were still only 16 years old and you had to be 18 to work in a manufacturing facility.  No sweat, we would both just lie about our ages.

When I made my application they asked me for my social security number.  I told them that I had left it home.  They said that I must bring it in before I started work.  That afternoon I went to Ft. Wayne and got the card.

My buddy was assigned to “pallet construction” on the third floor.  Every unit had its own pallet that the refrigerator was built and shipped on. It was a pretty easy job.  I was assigned to work on the main assembly line at the “final finish area”.  I don’t know if I looked smart enough or dumb enough to do the job.  My “mentor” on the job was Joe.  Joe was an experienced fellow with several years on the job.  It would be gracious to call him a “southern gentleman”.  Joe explained that keeping track of your job credits was a tough thing to do.  All the operations were listed on a large tablet about the size of a sears sale catalogue that went along with each unit.  The operator had to mark his clock number by each operation on the tablet.  Joe graciously volunteered to mark off the operations that I performed so that I would not have to spend my time doing that task.  I was very grateful for his kind offer.

Weekly performance records were posted on the bulletin board each Tuesday.  Since the work was incentive work, the operators were paid for any percentage above 100% as a bonus.  I consistently made less than 100%, usually in the 70 to 80 % range.  Joe cruised along at 125% every week.  The foreman, Bill Winebrenner, (I still remember his name) gave me hell each week for not making rate.  Then one week Joe was either sick or on vacation and I had to work alone.  Magically my performance shot up to 110%.  I was very pleased as was Winebrenner.

It took me over 30 years to figure out that the “southern gentleman” was cheating me and claiming credit for work that I performed.

The job did teach me that I never wanted to work on an assembly line again.  It was this experience that prompted me to apply for the G.E. Apprentice toolmaker program and later to attend Purdue University.  My God that was a terrible job.

Dal

toilet paper problem

Toilet Tissue

A good friend of mine alerted me to the fact that the width of toilet tissue has, in the recent past, been drastically narrowed.  Yes, I know, I have too much time on my hands, but it is cold (57 degrees) here so what better things do I have to do except annoy everyone.   I verified this upsetting news by inspecting my own tissue holder.  I can unequivocally state that either the width of the roll has shrunk or the tissue holder has grown in width.  I think the former is the most natural choice.

Those of you that have watched Modern Marvels know how the tissue is manufactured.  For those of you, who have been so unfortunate as to have missed this important process, let me expound.  The wood pulp that is used is first made into slurry.  It is then fed through two giant rollers, the water is squeezed out and the tissue is then dried and rolled onto huge spools.  These spools are then transported to a large slitter that uses very sharp opposing circular knives to slice the tissue into the desired width.  It is very simple to adjust the width of the knives by using a different width spacer.  So far, so good but beware what is next.

In the motor industry giant 10,000 pounds of rolled steel was, in the past, slit in the above described manner to produce thin strips of coiled steel that could later be punched in rotor and stator punchings to produce laminated cores.  Hold on for a minute and I will get to the point.

Somewhere along the line some genius figured out that if you advanced adjoining strips of strip steel by one half punching you could “nest” the laminations and save about 20% in material.   To do so required what is, in the industry, called a “zig-zag” die. This die was then put into place and the slitter eliminated.  OK, where is this going?

Beware, Beware.  What is coming next is toilet tissue produced in the above manner.  The result will be small round pieces of tissue joined together by a small scrap bridge of tissue, or tissue stored in a box much like Kleenex (Reg. tm) is today.  Regardless, you can expect to pay more for less.    Have I bored you sufficiently?

Dal

TSA Problems

TSA Problems

The TSA could solve all its problems in manpower and public dissatisfaction by simply installing the procedure followed by the US army in the late 1950’s .   In this procedure there were about 50  new recruits ushered into a room and told to remove all our clothes with the exception of our shoes.  We were then lined up into two rows facing each other.  An Army doctor then proceeded down the line inspecting the men from the front for any abnormalities.

  After he was finished, we were told to turn around, bend over, and “spread em”.  The doctor then again proceeded down the line looking for God knows what, hidden explosives probably.  As I was bent over, I observed the fellow across from me, displayed in all his glory.  I laughed so hard that I fell on my head because my center of gravity had been altered.

  Think how fast and thorough this procedure would be.  Travelers could be examined in a very short time with everyone being treated in the same manner.  One of the side benefits would be that AMTRAC  travel would increase dramatically thus bailing out this non money government facility.

  After the inspection was complete, the travelers would then don their clothes, and proceed through another line, remove their shoes, and have a second inspection of their feet.   They would then be allowed to board the plane.  Just think no radiation, no groping and best of all,  no embarrassment.