Mushrooms are popping up now. The fun loving fellow that hangs a cap here brags about his finds. Not much to celebrate about, except the two thimble size trophies that I placed in the cold storage until more can be found.
Fact is we will have little time to hunt mushrooms this spring. The 'to do' list is long and overwhelming.
The section of containment along the south side the pasture needs to be mended.
The wrought iron fence along the north side of Restlawn cemetery borders my home place. The neighbors inside don't bother me, but the condition of the fence does. I appreciate that old landmark's stretch of ironworks. It has historical significance.
The, once, very sturdy, fencing has been in disrepair, due to age and neglect for some time now.
Deer and vandals play havoc on it.
Several spokes have been removed others are bent out of shape, leaving gapping holes. Honeysuckle vines entwine; some support certain sections others stress less problematic ones.
I am not complaining, rather; I am concerned about its future.
Other fencing surrounding the enclosure must be mended, as well, before I bring a gaggle of geese into the scenic picture.
More trees and limbs fell over the winter in other areas of the green pasture that must be removed before we mow.
I love pretty violets and the smell of wild green onions, the beauty of the tall mature persimmon trees, old poplar- and the songs of happy birds. A twig of sassafras is a good chew! A sprig or two of dogwoods is springtime must have too.
When I was a kid, Mother got excited about a chance to put greens on the table. With paring knife in hand, the little songbird whacked and packed in what some youngsters and city folks call weeds.
Our favorite cook tossed her taste tempting takes into a large chipped dishpan covered with mottled greenish enamel. Tender greens in abundance dandelion, wild lettuce, and mustard, garlic lambs tongue and more.
When she arrive back to our kitchen, a few fresh free-range hen's eggs were hard-boiled. They were an important part of the recipe. Thick sliced fresh side-pork was fried to a crisp -- a portion of grease set aside and waiting.
Her spring harvests always underwent several cold water baths and careful inspections, to eliminate the undesirables: grasses, dirt, bugs, and such. An extra look by the cook was always necessary, just to be sure that her eyes saw all there was to see. She didn't catch on, but my sister and I were looking them over too.
Mom grabbed up the aluminum kettle out of the bottom of her Hoosier cabinet and filled it about a third of capacity with water.
Then the country chef added a large amount of greens to the steaming pot.
She par-boiled the greens on the range 25 or 30 minutes.
Mother pushed our "spring tonic" down beneath the salty steam with a wooden potato masher and watched the pot until the unappetizing looking load shrank to not much more than a manageable, dull green pile of sterile and incredibly edible "weeds," good and enough to meet our needs.
Nothing could match the smell of hot greens.
The iron skillet that contained the drippings and short strips of crisp bacon was moved back to the front burner of the hard working coal range. The drained greens and sliced eggs were added to the hot skillet and its greasy contents, mixed and seasoned to taste, table ready.
Delicious, nutritious and, boy, that concoction sure could put a spring in a sluggish kid's step and a squeak or two in the soles of his or her shoes!
My brother Johnny wouldn't touch the tonic, because he hated eggs, but was rather fond of castor oil.
Friday, Paul and I paid our respects to the family of our dear friend, Mary Fern Stewart at the McHugh Mattox Funeral Home in Shelburn. She was a special friend to Paul's brother, Roy Sartor and family to us. She will be missed.
We stopped by our nephew, Jeff Sartor's home after visitation and purchased a female mini- dachshund (wiener dog) pup, one of a full-blooded litter born in January. Our instantaneous bond was meant to be.
I named the little black and tan puppy, Tootie Mae. Go ahead and laugh at that -- she and I don't mind.
However, I believe she is satisfied with my decision; the little black and tan angel answers to it, like I did when my uncle called mini- me "Toots" and Dad's best buddy called me "Tootles!"
After too much quiet time, I can't stop talking. The good thing about it is; now, no one can call me, "lonesome" any more.
Before I sign off, I want to mention that a very special lady that I have had the pleasure of knowing for over sixty years will celebrate her birthday soon. Florence Kaelber Jones will be 98 on April 27th.
If you wish to send her a card or a note, the address is Florence Jones, 327 East Tennessee St., Brazil, IN., 47834.
The family is planning a get-together later.
I can be reached at 446- 4852 or email me at email@example.com. Save your stamps for Florence's cards.