Clothespins

The line strung between posts 

doesn't sag dangerously close 

to the ground anymore.

The heavy wet wrinkled washing

wrung out by the wringer doesn't

flap or snap. Clothespins put crimps

in sheet corners and made companions 

of shoulder seams and Levi legs. Rules

were followed for correct 

ways of hanging and attaching.

 Jessie (Jesus) Viviana Victoria 

Cota de Jose brought her 

pins inside with every basket of 

crunchy ritual. Noel didn't know 

the rules or follow laundry protocol

when she ate the crotches, the all 

important part, out of grandma's

underwear. How do you punish

a donkey who only leaves elastic

hanging lonely on the line with 

a wooden clothespin? Hot 

steam melts wrinkles flat 

and sends donkeys to the 

farthest back forty. 

This is my grandmother's clothespin bag. I think a couple of the clothespins might have been her mother's. The Pacific Northwest is too quirky rain wise for hanging clothes. Unfortunately. 

I played under her flapping sheets for hours using dropped magnolia pods for people. 

Learning Prepositions

aboard, about, above, across, after, against, along, amid, among, anti, around, as, at, before, behind, below, beneath, beside, besides, between, beyond, but, by, concerning, considering, despite, down, during, except, excepting, excluding, following, for, from, in, inside, into, like, minus, near, of, off, on, onto, opposite, outside, over, per, plus, regarding, round, save, since, than, through, to, toward, towards, under, underneath, unlike, until, up, upon, versus, via, with, within, without

How did other children learn their prepositions without the benefit of Mrs. Orr's legendary arms? 

She was a few years from retiring when I was in fourth grade. It was obvious the shine had worn off teaching. She seemed tired the entire year, except when we learned prepositions. 

Frozen in the 1920's, her jersey dresses looked like costumes off the set of Cannery Row. Belted with short sleeves. Classy, but outdated. 

She became animated during this rote memory work. We were embarrassed, but had to stand and repeat them together, while doing the hand motion for that word. 

Her arms had an indecent enthusiasm for the task. They escaped the confines of their sleeves upon any hint of a prepositional list. 


As she wrote the list on the chalkboard - and while she energetically did the hand motions - the underneath, fleshy part of her arms flew about. They flapped like worn out, leathery elephant ears trying to fly. No amount of hydration or lotion could have brought them back to life. 


It formed an unforgettable trauma bond. 

My worst fear has come about. I'm glad I don't have to write on a chalkboard. I'm also grateful for long sleeves, and try diligently to stay hydrated. And moisturized. Perhaps it's not too late to find a preventative exercise? 


Weight and gravity, can they be defied? It's too late. It is. But maybe I can use them to fly. 

Silver Bits and Buttons

Bit Templates for bridles - One is called the 'Santa Barbara'. 

Grandpa sat on a stool in a dusty workshop 

with one lonely lamp. It had a sorry light. I 

would pull my smaller stool as close as 

possible to watch him work. He didn't laugh

when I played with the dust sparkles, lazily 

floating on the current of the open door. He

engraved silver bits, buttons, and buckles 

for belts. The scent of oil-rubbed leather 

mingles in my mind with his graceful 

hands braiding reins in the round with

six strands. I still see the whip in the jaws of 

the stitching horse to keep it firm and taut. The 

knots he created with leather were choreographed 

pieces of art. Heavy waxed thread through a

leather needle followed the hole punched with

the awl. Sometimes, when a tool dropped, I found

it for him. Tooled leather designs came from 

his tap and die set. Intent as any tattoo artist, the

impressions marked the leather, silver, and me - 

forever. 

There is a lovely fold in the timeline of my life -

a pocket shaped sort of fold. It holds Glenwood time, 

which is entirely different than regular time. 

Bulging heavy with memories, I reach in and

grab a handful.  

Spring and Easter

Craig took me on a tulip field treasure hunt this morning. Rows of tulips in field after field. Red. Pink. Yellow. Purple. Coral. Rainbow fields.

There were clusters of people packed into the farms that charged for parking. Bulging lots with long lines of people trying to 'get in'. We were a bit confused. There were lovely fields all over, bursting with the same color. Free to enjoy. No crowds. Quiet gift.

We needed to stop at the grocery store. Again, there were lines and lines of parents with children crammed in a corner, on the cement parking lot, pretending it was an Easter Egg hunt. I pitied the experience they were having. It was a one dimensional, synthetic caricature of the organic thing. Trading the simple and real, for this commercial, free, industry produced fake. It was chaotic, children were crying. Parents were upset and frustrated.

I felt so sad for them. There might be some of you horrified to think of Easter including pagan symbols of bunnies, eggs, candy, etc. This isn't my point. Loving spring and celebrating resurrection day ~ both are worth taking note of for me. They go together like berry pie and ice cream. :)

We were extremely poor growing up ~ as far as cash flow goes. In the art of living and celebrating though, I'm realizing how rich we were. Mom created a lovely Easter breakfast 'from scratch'. Her best white tablecloth was starched. China and crystal used. Daffodils graced the table. The food offered was a simple, tasty transference of love.

We met to eat together after an early sunrise service. We watched the sunrise, heard a good word, sang a couple songs. Enjoyed nature's crisp new morning in soft whispers of wonder, before gathering around the heavy, crowded table. This table was loud with laughter and lively talk.

The men in the family took great care hiding the eggs we had dyed the night before. Finding them after breakfast made us wriggle in anticipation. They were hidden up in tree branches, down under bushes, and in the grass. Complex spots for the older ones, simpler ones for the younger.

Egg salad sandwiches with colorful veins of accidental color were what we ate most the next week. We only had rainbow sandwiches once a year.

We were never confused about the "Real" meaning of Easter. It didn't detract from the glorious good news. It framed it. Wrapped it with family, memories, play, celebration, and color ~ all in a natural setting.

Relax. Enjoy making a rainbow memory ~ one your children will be able to hold and touch many times over.

Sad isn't Bad

We learned the old songs from mom, who learned them from her mom, who learned them from her mom. Old scottish/irish melodies handed down from the appalachian tradition. They were mostly heartbreaking, tear inducing tragedies of love lost, loss, and tragic accidents. Heart breaking lyrics. Smarmy sentimentality. Throat chokers. Here are my favorites. If you want the complete lyrics, ask.

Every night after being tucked in, I asked mom to sing 'Old Shep'. She didn't want to because it made me cry. I persuaded her each time, knowing I would cry. The song is about a young boy who has a dog. As he grows up, the dog grows old and blind. He takes him to the vet, who kindly suggests that he puts the dog out of his misery. As he aims the gun at Shep's head, Shep looks at him with such love, he couldn't do it. Cliche? Oh well, it still constricts my throat, even now.

Another one was called "The Baggage Coach Ahead".  It is about young father unable to quiet his new baby, who is disturbing all the passengers in the car.  Several people start becoming grouchy at the inconvenience of not being able to sleep. A kind woman goes to the young helpless father and asks why he doesn't take the baby to its mother. He puts his head down in agony as he replies, "I wish I could, but she's dead in the baggage coach ahead."

"Miner's Child" was about a young motherless girl who begged her daddy not to go to the mines one morning, because she had dreamed of a disaster. She describes mothers, wives and children crying at the mouth of the shaft. Her pleading and tears don't keep him safe. Her premonition comes true. She is left an orphan.

"Purple Heart" told the story of a little boy tugging on a soldier's sleeve to ask if he'd seen his daddy... over there?  The soldier's eyes grew misty as he realized it was his best buddy - lost in action. A brave lad who had saved his life.

My favorite was "Old Limpy". It was about a bachelor rancher who went out in a blizzard to save a calf from dying, only to catch pneumonia and die from exposure himself. The calf surely lived?

I wonder if these songs gave us permission to feel sad indirectly?

Growing up, we sat around most weekend evenings singing and playing music. Piano, guitars, and harmonica. I would find a corner to curl up in, going to sleep with the thrumming hum of stories set to music.

Maybe this is why feeling sad doesn't feel bad.

Paper Dolls

This is a collection of paper doll costumes from my mom and a few from her mother.  They have pieces missing; some are torn. A few are taped together.  The times I was allowed to get them out to play with, were epic memories.  Only mom knew which broken head went to what body, and which doll the clothes went on. Grandma would draw clothes and cut out pretty models from Sear's catalogues to add to the menagerie. Those did not survive.

The paper is velvety soft from age and use. They are getting fragile - acid free didn't exist yet.  I don't get them out to look at very much, but when I do, the texture of the memories come back.  I imagined

how the cloth felt and what sound it would make as it swished around the elegant and shapely legs of one wearing it. Starched cotton, slick silk, elegant fur, shiny satin ~ all had distinct sensory input far  beyond the mere one dimensional printed paper.

As a simple country girl, the elegance and grandeur of the clothes fascinated me.  This was a different world than mine. Trying to imagine where these costumes were worn was as impossible as wondering what happened after a kiss.

Was the lace possibly from Belgium or France?  Handmade needle lace from an old woman by the light of a candle.  The velvet trim seemed softer than the fur on my kitten's belly.

It was enticing to wonder what underclothes might be worn underneath all these layers. What accessories would match?  Jewelry? Hair styles. The coats with muffs still attached were special treasures. A girl with her delicate hands in a muff would certainly have a beaux, or several. It was the highest pinnacle of sophisticated romance.

Imagination is still free.  Memories last forever. Playing can't be replaced with anything else.

More Paper Dolls

Horse Days

Naming my blog "Almost Paradisical" was easy. My childhood was just that.......almost, but not quite paradisical. At least in Glenwood. Writing down memories, (mostly the good ones) while knowing there are also catastrophic events that string them all together invisibly is an interesting undertaking. My siblings have totally different memories which don't match mine. Mom could make hundreds of corrections. But these are my memories, this is how I remember them. The bad ones don't stand out in three dimensional clarity as well as the good ones. There are a few, but if I write them down, they will be real................so I continue as before, traveling back to Glenwood where Almost Paradisical got it's name and I became.

Noel was first and almost horse. She was a donkey and so cute she was ugly. It was a game to see how long someone could stay on her as she darted underneath low hanging branches to scrape the bareback rider off - deliberately. She later was bred to a regular horse and had Lily, a henny, jenny or mule, however you call the mixture. Lily always looked awkward, but she was mine and I loved her. Noel's hee haw was loud and long enough to wake the dead.

Horses are graded. Sold at sales for chicken or dog food. Sold privately through word of mouth or expensive advertising. Ahab, our little horse with a big heart was rescued from almost becoming dog food by neither method. Mom discovered him at the mangy looking feed store whose owner was predatory, abusive and an all around nasty person. Somehow, she persuaded him to give Ahab up, cheaply. She did have a dazzling smile and for a while, that guy would watch for her yellow scout to come down the only road to town and try to stop her by coming out onto the road waving. She was kind hearted and innocent, the first few times, then started gunning for him, aiming to maim him if he stopped her one more time. He terrified me!

Ahab was spunky, never realizing how puny he was. He turned out to be quite handsome after he was nursed back to health and vitality, but stayed small. Grandpa custom made a bridle for him, braiding the reins artistically round, like a cord, then attaching them to a handmade silver bit that would be soft and fit his injured mouth. Ahab responded to the love and care and trained alongside mom, who was just being introduced to the world of horses.

Mom wore a leather split skirt with double rows of long delicate fringe around each leg. It had probably been Annie Oakley's, Dale Evans' or Sacajawea's at one time, although she says she found it in a saddle shop, new. Perfect fit for her. She saddle soaped it often, along with the saddles to keep it supple and soft, wearing it every day during riding lessons. The thinner, longer and thicker the fringe is on any leather item, the more skilled the artisan who made it and the higher the price. This split skirt had the thickest, longest, thin cut fringe I've ever seen. The generous fringe would lift gracefully, showing her bare calves and sometimes slapped gently against the side of her horse. She looked so exotic and beautiful to my admiring eyes.

Riding happened in the morning. Chores after that. When I think of horses, it seems like they were ALOT of work for a little bit of fun? Feeding, medicating, mucking stalls, fixing fences, grooming, taking good care of the tack, and exercising them was never ending. Lunging was a strange way to exercise them, but it really made a change over time. Mom or grandpa would stand and go round and round in the same spot while the horse had to obey commands in a circle from the length of a long tether. By the end of a session, an indention would mark where the human had dizzily drilled down with their feet in the dirt in the riding ring, which was soft, deep and as fine as flour. It seemed like all it was wanting was some eggs and milk to make a big batch of biscuits. I can vividly recall the silky feel of it sifting through my fingers.

The catholic nuns had a retreat center down below us, which at one time was the town of Glenwood. Once, a few of the younger ones came up to visit and were invited to ride. Ahab was terrified of the long flowing habit and veil streaming out behind them, his eyes rolled desperately back in his head trying to keep track of where the wind was blowing it. He was so relieved when they dismounted!

Mom upgraded to a large palomino named Chain, who was skittish when anyone touched her head. It took patience and love for her to finally let mom bridle her. Grandpa thought someone had beaten her over the head. Anyone who would beat or mistreat a horse was the lowest criminal on earth in his opinion. We allowed him this opinion and agreed with him, as he was the original horse whisperer. His skill was remarkable. Horses almost begged to obey him.

He had a big black and white pinto named Wea, short I think for Sacajewea, who would effortlessly obey him without any outward visible signs from him. They worked as one, gracefully complimenting each other. It's a big deal now to do a rein less routine in a horse show. Grandpa did it without an audience. He trained a horse effortlessly and oh so gently.

What is Worldly?

For 35 years I endured life feeling as conspicuous as an Amish girl. The first 19 years in a small Weslyan Holiness church. The clothes weren't quite as severe or plain however, and I was always grateful that we didn't have to wear any kind of head covering; white, black or hankie variety. Whew! I think as much as I hated the rules, it was familiar and the only thing I knew. We didn't have a concept or awareness of our insides being the important thing. We truly felt like looking strange was a silent evangelistic tool. No one was drawn to us, our church or God by this, however.

A plain watch was acceptable in the church I grew up in. Wedding rings were not. Nylons had to be worn at all times from puberty on. Uncovered legs might insight lust in men. Naked legs labeled a girl as a Jezebel. Sleeves couldn't be above the elbow, hemlines below the knee. Mini skirts were in, so while mom measured our dresses we would scrunch our knees, hitch our shoulders; anything to make the hemline shorter. Dresses that became too short needed the hem taken down, which left a faded mark in the fabric. Braid or trim sewed over the top of this line was supposed to hide it, but just drew attention to it. Hair wasn't supposed to be cut. Make-up and jewelry and pants made you a backslider. Rock 'n roll caused pregnancy. Smoking, drinking, drugs, and cussing were unmentionable. Using slang could raise disapproving eyebrows. The first and only time I heard my mom say 'darn', the earth shook! Slang was almost as serious as cussing.

Getting left behind to endure the tribulation made us terrified to come into the house with nobody home, thinking it had already happened. Alter calls week after week were a cruel joke. The young people went up over and over again to 'get saved', which was a grueling process. The more snot, tears, and length of time on your knees, the more hope everyone had that it would work this time. After you 'got saved', soon after you had to 'get sanctified'. Getting sanctified meant that the root of sin would be forever taken out and you would be pure, live pure, live a sinless life. The pure sinless older people would sit in pious, sanctimonious pride while us young people went down that long isle over and over again week after week. It didn't seem to work for us as well and we were too honest to pretend. It was agony. It was fertile ground to live a double life in order to survive and be accepted. So many gave up on God, instead of the falseness of man made religion.

One Irish women evangelist who came for 'revival meetings', made her dresses out of dark thick wool, used the same pattern for all two of them and wouldn't use buttons. She was afraid of attracting men. As young as I was, it made no sense, because she was as homely as an inbred horse! She made it clear that all of us should follow her example. No one did - we were different enough already! God would have had to send us a personal letter, with a stamp on it through the mail, letting us know first.

TV, bowling, sports, movies, glee club, etc were banned. Dancing wasn't done. I remember asking my maternal grandmother to dance with grandpa. It would have been wonderful to watch them. Before she became zealously religious, they were champion couples' roller skaters and dancers. She piously refused to indulge in such worldly behavior to amuse us. I can only imagine how graceful they were. Inside me, there is a dancer - for when music of almost any kind comes on I feel the rhythm in the air and want to move. It makes me break out in a cold sweat and want to faint as I begin............

I spent hours taking the ends of my hair and flipping them over my forehead to make them look like bangs. Bobby pins, barrettes and beads tied to a loop of string would be fastened on my ears to imagine how earrings would look and feel. In secret of course!

Baby sitting for my older sisters and their worldly friends was so fun. They had left home and didn't follow the rules which meant that their dressers were full of make-up and fancy clothes. They had a TV, which allowed me unrestricted hours of programming, watching everything possible without discernment. The children I was supposed to be taking care of were completely neglected I'm afraid. The mascara, blush and lipstick disappearing so fast was probably a great mystery. Scrubbing it off before they returned, without any telltale signs, was tricky.

Once in a while during a revival, Brother Johnson would run laps around the church by stepping on the backs of the pews. We held our breath, waiting for a misstep which never happened. He called it 'gettin' blessed'. One older women would wave her hankie and wail and wail and WAIL. Gettin' blessed had all sorts of strange manifestations. It was interesting and entertaining all at the same time. Our little church didn't do the falling, get pushed or 'slain in the spirit' thing. Neither did they believe in speaking in tongues. Healing was huge though! Even though I believe strongly in supernatural intervention and know God does choose to heal, it doesn't resemble in any way the manipulative drama and disappointment of those healing services. It was sickening, like some of the circus- like, snake- oil acts now days.

One pastor's wife had 4 little girls all in a row. She was frazzled, miserable, looked abused and wretchedly endured her extremely obese life. She would grab 2 girls with each hand, almost yanking their shoulders out of the socket and drag them around making them obey her every command. Their names were always used in sequence from the oldest to youngest. CARRIE, RACHAEL, LARINA, RHODA.........harp, harp, harping with a fierce frown. They'll never have a torn rotator cuff, from the callouses and scar tissue in their shoulders!

The Gaither's were just going public at this time. Old fashioned hymns were the norm before the Gaither's changed all that with rousing choruses. They were refreshing. I'll never forget a small concert we went to. It was the first time I remember a crowd spontaneously getting to it's feet during a song, without any cue. When they got to the chorus of 'The King is Coming" every one stood respectfully, giving silent obeisance and honor. It gave me goosebumps and caused me to look down the isle towards the back door expectantly waiting for him to burst through.

Life is ironic. I can buy all the make-up I want, but very seldom wear any. Any jewelry I have is plain sterling silver and never changed. I had my hair short for a long time, now am letting it grow out a bit. We have a TV, which doesn't interest me in the least other than using the DVD player for movies. There were times when my emotions and wretchedness caused me to be harsh and abusive with my children. They have forgiven me. I have so much compassion for people who are driven into hiding and living a double life ~ hoping desperately for them to live in complete freedom someday. When I feel overcome or 'get blessed' - I'm alone with my Maker, it's quiet, private and intimate. And someday......... someday I'm gonna dance with complete wild abandon like the juicy, succulent woman I am!

Never once since I boycotted pantyhose has any man turned into a savage beast over my naked legs! Darn. Shoot. Dang. Blast it. Bummer. Hang it all.

Don't even start to raise that eyebrow, sister.

Indian Royalty, Mexican Maids

Grandpa Jose used to tell stories for as long as anyone would listen. I loved to listen! One of my favorites was when he lived in a lonely prairie cabin on the Rosebud Ranch in Montana. He was a ranch hand, wrangler and cowboy poet. A real one...... chaps, spurs, branding, cutting, round-ups and a greasy hat. He would shiver at the memory of those cold, lonely winters. He never was warm again, ever!

I don't know what tribe of Indians were in that area, but he made friends with the chief and his sons. They brought him a cat, to keep the mice down. He HATED cats, but endured it as the cure for not only mice control, but company. The sons savagely taught him a better, more efficient way to wade through the castration process each spring. When all the hundreds of calves were rounded up, they would wade into the pile, bite the sack - tearing the testicles away with their teeth, quickly creating steers out of what would have become bulls. My imagination went wild picturing the bloody mess. My gag reflex always kicked in.

There was a bit of romance, but it had some loose ends. Along with the sons who became close friends, the chief had a daughter whose name was Klatawa, which means, something- going-fast-makes-a-noise. She was graceful, ran like the wind, was a legendary local beauty and I think gave the young, lanky, arrogant, bold, golden Spaniard a run for his money! His eyes always twinkled when he spoke of her. The chief had already sort of adopted him as son, so being son in law was just a step away. But he moved south to the sunshine and warmth. I always thought of it as a love story without an ending. A question mark instead of a period.

He moved to Monterey to work at the splendid Del Monte hotel, training horses and their riders. Elite, wealthy people who had all the outer accouterments to make them look like equestrians, but they didn't know anything about their horse or how to ride. Sometimes it would be the children of such.

One of the first things he did was to remove the cherub fountain in the riding ring. He didn't want the children violated when they saw the water squirting out of the chubby innocent's thimble sized genitalia.

The women were perfumed Potifer's wives mostly, lined up, signed up and clawing at each other to have lessons from him. To have his undivided attention disguised with something as innocuous as riding lessons was the prize. They were lonely and bored. He loved teaching the children. Even when they were spoiled rotten, he somehow imbued, influenced and injected them with a more noble outlook.

Grandma was a shy, poor, Mexican housekeeping maid at the Del Monte. They both had simple room and board on the lovely grounds. The young people who worked there had wonderful picnics, dances in the magnificent dance hall after hours, ate together and walked to Lover's Point on their days off. It was quite the adventure and good opportunity for her. She wasn't beautiful, but had long, thick black hair, great legs, large bosom and black, unreadable eyes.

When he payed a little attention to her, she withdrew. With all the woman throwing themselves at him, this must have been confusing and tantalizing? The first time he asked her for a walk, he brought her chocolates, which she despised. He ate every one of them before the night was over. The rest of the story is their story and we don't know for sure all the details of their whirlwind courtship. Her mother threatened her with the words, "It will NEVER work".

They were like salt and pepper! He - intellectual, refined, wealthy upbringing, blond curls, blue eyes, well read, well traveled. Her - abandoned by her father causing her mother to work menial jobs to survive and provide, spanish speaking, shy, unexposed and naive.

They married quickly. Her diamond solitaire was hawked to pay for a stay in the sanitarium when he had polio. She faithfully massaged and worked his muscles, both of them determined that he would not be crippled. He was her adventure, but she ended up funding most of them by hard work in the Levi Strauss factory where she worked and retired.

At the end of his colorful life, she was still making him cocoa and tenderly rubbing his head with the hand that had only her wedding band. The engagement ring never returned to her finger. They lived through the stock market crash, through his infidelities, through bitterness, broken dreams and beyond.

I have her wedding band. It forever symbolizes staying. I have some of his silver work, engraved by him. His buttons and bridle bit templates are a prized possessions, symbols of a call to a creative life. I have a picture of their ancient hands clasped together, his gnarled, hers silky with perfect nails. Beautiful hands.

I have hundreds of memories flooding me and their hands are the predominant, common denominator that prompts most the feelings that go with them. These will have to wait, I'm going to have to swim up to get air in the avalanche of memories that just piled on top of me.

Craig's Accident

In the month of June, when Craig was 19, his first job after college was plumbing in Jamestown, ND. He was living cheaply with his brother and wife. With his first paycheck he exuberantly went out and bought a brand new Yamaha 550 street bike.

Monday morning he rode to work wearing a helmet. A fellow employee who also rode his motorcycle to work, assured Craig that just riding around town, they didn't need a helmet. The next morning he went to work without his helmet or his wallet. As he was going back home to Lyle's for lunch, a lady pulled out from a side street onto the main two-lane he was on with another car. She waited for the car to go past but didn't see Craig, which caused him to T-bone her van at about 30 mph. He went through the large side window panel catching his face on the right edge, filleting it wide open from the top of his forehead to underneath his chin. He fell back out onto the ground unconscious, his eye completely popped out of it's socket.

At the intersection was a gas station, where there just happened to be an ambulance filling up with gas. At that same intersection there just happened to be a nurse walking across that particular road going to home for lunch. She came over, tried to clean and flap his face back on, put his eye back in, staunching the blood as best she could with limited means. The ambulance came rushing over, transporting him to the hospital which was within one mile of the accident.

They started surgery immediately sewing his face back together. He actually had a tear in his eyeball that needed sewn along with his severed flesh. One of the later challenges was getting his eyelid to work properly, to blink naturally. It would take three more reconstructive surgeries to get it as normal as possible. Interestingly, the doctors told his parents that the way his face caught the window frame, it was likely that he would have broken his neck or been completely decapitated if he would have been wearing his open faced helmet. His knee was a mess also, but his face, eye and brain is what they worried most about. (Funny, his face scar is hardly noticeable any longer, his eye has vision and is only a minor inconvenience once in a while during allergy season and he can never weld, which is sad-he's good at it! But his knee hurts like crazy, the damage is irreparable.)

The doctors had no idea who they were saving. Since he didn't have his licence/tabs, registration or wallet, when the police tried to figure out who he was, it took 4 hours to trace him through the serial number. It was only then, four hours later at 4:30 that his folks got the call. They lived 60 miles away. They were told that their son was in a motorcycle accident, in serious condition, still breathing but no guarantees he would live. By the time they got to the hospital, they told them the news that he was coming around but would more than likely be a vegetable all his life. It must have been a long two weeks waiting for him to wake up.

Once he came out of his coma, the doctors told them there was nothing more they could do, just take him home, let him live his normal life, put him to work on the farm and wait to see how it all turned out.

He had long term memory but couldn't remember anything short term. Hence, after noon lunch he would confusedly ask his dad what to do. Gordon would have to take him to the right field and get him started again on the tractor where he instinctively and mindlessly finished his day.

His poor mild-mannered mother had a hard time adjusting to her now not so mild-mannered son. If meals were not on the table at exactly the proper time, Craig would get belligerent and even curse at her. Unfamiliar behavior upsetting the entire family.

By the fall, his memory and abilities were starting to return; he could remember a couple of weeks worth. All his brothers and cousins were preparing to go back to college. For some reason, Craig wanted to give all his cassette tapes away. He had at least 250 in his collection. This was a windfall for all the cousins and younger brothers. Someone had the brilliant idea to make it fair and auction them off. He's still wondering if Todd has his favorite England Dan and John Ford Coley that he bought for a nickel?

In October he was able to drive himself to Jamestown for the first reconstructive surgery on his eyelid. They used a lot of Valium and only a local anesthetic. They told him he couldn't drive, so Lyle came to check him out of the hospital. As they walked out of the hospital, he convinced Lyle that he felt great, everything was alright and he could drive himself home, allowing Lyle to go back to work. Thirty miles along the way home there is a little town of Courtney. As he crossed the rough railroad tracks he was jolted into a different zone somehow. Not knowing where he was, and seeing an open bar, he asked to use their phone. He called his mom at home and told her he didn't know where he was but he would be sleeping in his car and promptly hung up. He saw a pop machine, bought a Mountain Dew, felt great again, jumped in his car and took off letting his instincts lead him home. As he approached the driveway, his parents were just leaving, as his mom had to go to find dad, tearing him away from field work first. They had no idea where he could be, just headed towards Jamestown, hoping.

It had to have been a terrible experience for his parents, wondering about the future. Gordon treated Craig as if he was functioning normally, even though on the inside he was probably worried sick and watched out for him without making it obvious.

He kept making progress, with two more surgeries throughout the winter. He worked at home on the farm the next summer and was able to go back to college that next fall. Launched............

Two summers ago, Craig's dad had cataract surgery and the now-not-so-young doctor was his surgeon 28 years later. Also, last year while visiting a Jamestown nursing home, through some coincidental conversations, Craig was able to meet and thank the now-not-so-young nurse, who essentially saved not only his eye, but his life.

Craig is the same age right now that Gordon was when he received the call. Tess and Brita are around the same age Craig was at the time. We are only beginning to comprehend the agony they must have suffered on his behalf and pray that we will never have to know what it was like for them as they put down the phone to take that long drive to the hospital.

I'm so grateful his life was spared! We all would have been robbed of being loved big, as only he can do.

Sweet Summertime

Living in a neat and tidy trailer court in San Jose, my birthplace, was a hot spot to live in summer. Baking hot. No air conditioning, but mom would make homemade popsicles and occasionally we could buy a cold treat from the ice cream truck enticing us.

Mom gave me the green Bauer pitcher which always had a continual supply of iced tea in it. She bought it when I was born and used it for at least 30 years before passing it on.

One summer dad got a wild hair and decided that mom and the 2 older girls needed to hire out picking prunes. If dad said it, we did it! I was too young to work, but remember how miserable we all were. Watching them climb up and down the ladders, picking, filling, dumping over and over all day long in the scorching, unrelenting sun was almost as bad as doing it. Coolers, ice packs and water bottles weren't around then, or we just didn't have any because we were too poor. I don't know if they stuck it out for the entire harvest or not, but we all whined and complained, possibly silently, but loudly in our heads! If I see one of those big purple prunes in the produce section of a store I feel itchy, hot and thirsty and feel so sorry for the pickers.

When we moved to Glenwood, my little friend Julie would arrive to play with frozen strawberries in the little rectangle can. They were a treat that I had never experienced before. We would head to the hammock slung between the acacia trees, swing, sweat and eat the dripping sugared mess with our fingers. Sublime.

Blue belly lizards were out in force during the summer. It seemed like what they mostly did was sunbathe on rocks. Catching them was an exacting sport for they would lose their tail if you caught them by it. I think most of the lizards around our place had stubs, as we never tired of trying to capture them, hoping to turn them into pets.

When we had chickens, my older sister Marsha showed me how to go out into the coop at night with a worm tied on string. All the chickens would be roosting quietly until we flipped on the light, tempting them to see and swallow the worm then lead them around while they gagged. Why this cruel thing was entertaining, I'll never know.

When we lived in Glenwood, most of the day we spent roaming the hills. Some of every day was spent in the creek frog hunting and catching crawdads. They were hard to catch trophies.

Salting banana slugs in the summer was a sick, perverse pleasure. We hated them!

Grandpa Jose had a summertime problem. He puttered outside during the summer, fixing fences, exercising the horses, etc. When it was hot, he would get this film of white spittle around the corners of his mouth. I would be so distracted by it and could hardly keep from wiping it off. When it got too bad, I would remind him he needed to 'get' it. He would take his sweat streaked panama hat's brim and swipe it away, relieving my mind.

He also had a sheepskin coat that he always had close by, summer or winter. He was like a lizard, loved the heat and kept his woolen underwear on all year long under his clothes. When we would go somewhere in our topless yellow International Scout, oftentimes coming home in the evening the fog would roll in, changing the heat to coolness. He would take off his warm coat and wrap me up, tucking me down all cozy beside him.

Grandma used a wringer washer. The clothes got hung out on the line to dry. In the summer the towels would dry stiff as boards with baked in wrinkles, a crunchy feel and a cooked in fragrance. They were hard to fold and about scraped your tender skin right off. I have never since then used such thirsty towels as those!

Grandpa's job was to keep the water tower filled. It was wooden, high above the house and stored hundreds of gallons of water. He would turn the pump for the well on, pumping water into the tower which would then be gravity fed when needed. Invariably he would forget it was on and the house, porch and yard would flood, wasting our most prized commodity! Grandma would be furious at the waste and the extra work the mess made. When it happened in the summer, it could be disastrous, as the well could run dry and we would be without until it refilled.

Summer made the poison oak bushes deadly. In our ramblings, we knew to stay away from it and the stinging nettles, but it was impossible to be completely free of it. Someone usually had an itchy rash somewhere. Mom was the one who suffered most. If it was on our clothes, she would get it from handling them and she was highly allergic to it. Grandpa, who never ever

got it, convinced her to take some poison oak oil, a little every day to build up an immunity to it. She trustingly did just that and got an almost deadly case of poison oak, inside and out. She was in agony, eyes swollen shut and itchy running blisters all over her body. Where was the Benedryl then? Calamine lotion was the only remedy available to her. She was miserable for a long time.

When we moved to Idaho, dad needed us as field hands. My sisters had to go out early in the morning to irrigate the fields, then go back out to shut the water down in the evening. Marsha and mom milked Dolly our cow. All of us helped bottle feed the calves. We had a huge mean sow that wanted to kill dad anytime he was close. He could climb the fence in a wink to escape her wrath. Then he would get a board and clobber her. Is that why she hated him? We had all the meat, milk, cream and eggs we could use.

One of the best things during the farm days was finding kitties hidden in the haystacks. One time we were traumatized by a batch that somehow were full of maggots, being eaten from the inside out. Dad had to put them down. I cried and cried and had nightmares for days.

We helped plant by sitting on the bean seeder making sure the containers kept filled. I drove the big truck for dad when he was haying. I couldn't reach the clutch, brake or accelerator without standing up. The steering wheel was as big as a hula hoop. He would put it in the lowest gear for me then I would steer it down the rows of bales while he effortlessly used his hay hooks to grab a bale and throw it on the low trailer. They had to be stacked in an herringbone design in order to stay steady as the rows grew high.

Craig has a memory of being so small driving a big field truck that while Miles steered, he managed the gas pedal sitting on the floor! Uncle Cliff needed help, but it took two of them to accomplish it. They were scared spitless! :)

During potato harvest we would stand on the digger and throw off rocks, dirt clods or rotten potatoes as they came up on the belts. Sometimes we would put a potato on this certain spot on the engine. It would be perfectly baked by lunch. After a hot 12 hour day we would head off to the hot springs to clean up and get refreshed.

Southern Idaho is watered by irrigation that comes from the Snake River. Canals carrying all the water weave in and out through all the farms. The water wasn't clean, but it was cool! We swam and tubed the canals as often as possible. We should have taken a shower afterwards, but never even considered it. Some friends of ours had the best and widest main canal running through their property. Rapids, a little island and a great picnic area and launch place made it our favorite. They had a daughter with cerebral palsy named Karleena. She was the life of the party even though it was torture for her to speak and her spasms were uncontrollable. She wanted to do everything we did, so when we swam in the canal or tubed, her wheelchair would be tied onto a tube and we'd push her off. How she managed to not tip over is still a mystery, never to be solved. She would thrash and squeal delightedly until someone caught her.

During the summer we also spent hours and hours riding our bikes. Miles upon miles. The roads were laid out in square mile grids. When we had explored the Northeast corner as far as we could, we'd start the Northwest, etc. One of our favorite haunts was the bird farm. These people raised exotic birds, pheasants and such and they didn't mind people coming to admire through the wire. We would take a simple lunch and have a look see, then have a picnic under the shade before heading back home.

In highschool, the way most of us made extra money during the summer was picking worms. It took sheer determination to do it. We all had these long metal rods with wooden handles linked together with extension cords about 3 feet apart, which needed plugged in to electricity. The 'high rollers', or serious pickers who literally made a living from it, had little generators that gave them freedom to pick anywhere. We would go out at night with flashlights, stick our prods in the ground and wait for the nightcrawlers to come skittling up from the ground in shock! When they were about half way out, you'd grab them, hoping they wouldn't break in half. It felt disgusting and was backbreaking. We did it because in about 2 hours we could make about 50 to 60 dollars. We'd take them the next morning to a guy who bought them. They needed to be alive and properly stored over night, i.e. healthy. I dreaded the picking, but loved the money he gave us before putting them in the fridge. Cartons and cartons of worms in refrigerators. He shipped them all over for fishermen to buy.

When we moved into town, most afternoons included a chocolate coke from the drive in, while most evenings were spent on someone's porch drinking iced tea, talking and listening to music and just lingering.

Hard work, play hard, rest easy. Summertime was sweet.

Uncle Tom

Uncle Tom wasted enough charisma to kill him early. He died in a car 'accident' in Mexico about 28 years ago or so. We never really knew how it happened and getting his body home was a challenge for his siblings, indebted forever from the kindness of helpful strangers.

My earliest memory is of him calling mom telling her over and over again how much he loved her and his family and all of us. It took a long time. Mom in her innocence, unaware of his drunken state kept cajoling, assuring him and trying to comfort him. He was driving through California and wanted to come visit, but needed clear directions for his fuzzy thinking. We lived in a very small cabin in the mountains. Our place was in the hills off the beaten track with a long dirt driveway and very few amenities. We had something in common with the driveway - dirt. As in dirt poor. However, Glenwood never gets defined in my mind as being the place where we were poor. As far as memories go, this is where the rich ones get mined.

Uncle Tom came roaring up the driveway in a billowing cloud of dust. When it cleared, a beautiful very long shiny (was it bright yellow?) car with very large wings appeared. When the hugs were over, he couldn't wait to take us for a spin. He was proud of his wheels, as mom and her siblings grew up without ever owning a car. Having a car was amazing, having a spiffy new one beyond any one's imagination.

Here was this dashing, handsome and charming uncle intriguing us, wooing us and inviting us into his life......and car! With all of us packed inside, breathing ecstatically, the windows started to fog up. I was squished in between some adults in the front seat. It was easy to reach the window from the lap I was sitting on and wanting to be helpful, used my little hand to clear the moisture away from the inside. Not only did I want a view, but thought everyone else would like it, so very thoroughly started working my way to his side. Tom definitely didn't like it! He harshly told me to never do that again, letting me know it was marking and messing up the window. The way he spoke I thought the damage was permanent - the window forever scarred. The rest of the ride was torture, lacking joy, for I was unable to notice anything - holding back tears. It is the first time I remember feeling ashamed.

The next afternoon, perhaps in penance, he asked me to take him hiking up my hill. I packed us a little lunch and a jar of water. A lunch made by a 5 or 6 year old isn't gourmet at best, but after trudging through hot grass uphill all the way, it was dilapidated. I didn't know then, but seeing the lunch I offered him now, in my adult mind's eye, I cringe, then laugh. The peanut butter and jam sandwiches were pressed almost flat with jam oozing out the sides. The water very warm which made the familiar rotten egg smell that our water had even worse. Tom ate the sandwich like it was a fine delicacy, then offered me (and my probably grimy mouth and sweaty hands) a drink first. This was also my first experience of true chivalry. I recognized it and revelled in feeling like a princess. I believed him when he said it was the best lunch he'd ever had.

Tom had a smile that could melt your mad. He was generous and hospitable. His sensuality never crossed the line when I was a child or teenager. He was a little dangerous, but always exciting to be around. I loved staying with him and which ever wife he was with at the time. He lived extravagantly, loved passionately, dreamed big and shared it.

But the last time I was with him alive, he and his best friend alcohol both crossed over. Hurt, but no lasting harm was done. I forgave him....here's why. If it wasn't so sad, it could be chaotically funny.

I think I was around 20, living in Anchorage. He was with a new woman, again. I was visiting a friend in Spokane, where he lived. He invited me over for dinner, where we planned a trip, as he needed my help to drive a pickup he was selling to his brother to Idaho. Since I was heading there next, it worked for both of us. We were both heading 'home'.

We started out each in our own vehicle a couple of days later. A liquor store was our first stop; I stayed in the car while Tom went in, returning with a brown paper bag under each arm. Growing up very unworldly, naive and somewhat unexposed to alcohol, I didn't know to worry. By the time we crossed the Columbia his truck was weaving all over both lanes. As I followed him, it was terrible to watch in horror as the truck went up on 2 wheels, the other 2 riding the concrete divider. Must have jolted him, as he pulled into a rest stop, climbed in back under the shell and fell asleep for hours. I couldn't wake him. We still had half the trip ahead of us and home sounded wonderful! And the rest stop was hot and boring.

Enter Michael.....possibly a hitchhiking hippy angel. Michael was the only man I had ever seen with hair as long as mine-down to our butts. He was friendly, without crowding me. As soon as he casually mentioned that he was heading our way, I impulsively asked him if he would come with me as I was sort of afraid. He agreed, we woke Tom, stuck him behind the wheel (in his drunken stupor?) and headed for home. About 10 miles along, Tom pulled into the median, stopped confusedly, then slowly started getting ready to get on the freeway in the opposite direction. His window was open, so I pulled over and started honking and hollering at him to please stop. Miraculously he did, parallel to the freeway, his driver's side to the ditch. As I ran over and opened the door, he spilled out all over me and the hot crunchy grass growing in the gravel. I sat and cried not knowing what to do - then remembered Michael.

Giving a hitchhiker a ride (for courage) was one thing. Trusting him to drive a valuable truck was quite another. He cheerfully agreed to help me get Tom in the passenger seat of my truck and drive the other one as far as we needed him, assuring me he was already heading that direction.

This is where Tom crossed the line. He was only partly passed out laying his head against my thigh for a pillow. Once in a while he would thrash around and try to grab the wheel from me, yelling and cursing. I slapped him on the head, then petted his head trying to sooth him and calm him down. About an hour from home he started getting roving hands along my legs. I had a skirt on, so keeping it down while trying to stay on the road and slapping his hands away was quite traumatic. I was in tears and completely exhausted when we pulled up safely. Mom and grandma and the other brothers greeted us, then hauled Tom home to sleep it off.

The house we lived in at the time had a 5 foot long deep and wide old claw foot tub. No shower. The first thing mom did after being introduced to Michael was offer to run him a hot bath. Guess she thought he needed it - I hadn't noticed - gratefulness colored him clean. She fed us, made up a bed for Michael on the couch, then watched intently as he showed her how to plait my hair with 6 strands. It was a work of art. We then practiced on his amazing tresses.

The next day, Tom asked me with tears in his eyes and chagrin in his voice if he had done anything bad to hurt me. I couldn't answer, but saw his shame. It was a different kind than mine had been so many years before.

I remembered in a flash those squashed peanut butter and jam sandwiches and all the fun he had provided over the years. Struggling to find words, I could only hug him. Silently, without any words I said, "I'm OK, we made it home safe.......that wasn't really you".

I hope he heard. It was the last time I saw him, as his casket remained closed.

Summer Rituals

Grandpa Carrico was angry most, but not all of the time. He read towering stacks of books from the library weekly. This effectively kept him from engaging, connecting or being affectionate as he looked upon us as annoying intruders most days. Keeping quiet and not disturbing him was the unspoken rule.

Even so, there were a couple of fascinating aspects of his personality that are good memories. He allowed me to observe silently two of his most revered rituals: Rolling a smoke and eating a tomato. I must have known he was bestowing a gift by allowing me this. No word was spoken between us during either of these long, slow, methodical, never varying rituals.

Grandma hated his smoking. Smoking wasn't a correct religious behavior. He had to smoke outside, which for health reasons was kindness to his family. He died of emphysema, miserably and tortuously drowning, unable to take a last restful breath. His last hours were panic stricken like he was being held under water.

But even though his smoking ritual caused a horrifying death, the ritual itself was refined, delicate and artistic in a way. He had a pouch full of loose, wonderful smelling tobacco and onionskin-thin smoking papers. With one hand he would pinch the precise amount of tobacco onto the square paper in his other hand. He had the amount perfect every time, never adding or taking any away. He would manipulate it evenly into a small sausage shape the length of the paper, somehow getting it to hold still and keep it's shape while he rolled it up, snugging and keeping the tension in the paper. Licking along the end he would finish wrapping and sealing it. Then he would tap it gently on end. I always wanted to ask him what made it stick. I'll never know, because my silence was the golden ticket to having the privilege of watching the next time.

When summer ripened the tomatoes, I would hope against hope to catch him eating one. He never offered me my own, nor did he offer me a bite. He acted as if I was invisible while I perched on the chair with my chin on my arms and eyes wide. It was a treat to watch; each time I thought the tomato was very fortunate to be chosen and given such honor and patronage.

He would get 2 saucers, one for the tomato and one to eat the tomato. A fork, serrated knife, sugar bowl with spoon and the jar of mayonnaise was ceremoniously arranged in front of him. He wasn't a praying man or a thankful man, but he would always quietly pause for this invisible rhythm only he felt before picking up the tomato. It was a grand, perfectly ripe one, pretty enough to paint, hand picked on purpose for the occasion. Since I wasn't there all the time, I often wondered how often he indulged. Every day, once a day? Once a week? More than once a day?

First, he would slice off the top and bottom, neatly discarding them to keep the vignette he had created pure. Then slowly he would take a not-to-thin, not-to-thick slice and lay it on his saucer. It would get frosted with mayonnaise, then evenly sprinkled with sugar. Using his knife and fork he would delicately cut it like a tender steak and slowly savor every bite, pause, then do exactly the same with the next slice. Like rolling a smoke, the ritual never varied.

I don't remember grandpa ever acting happy, smiling or enjoying anything. Yet when he did these two things it did seem like he was experiencing pleasure, some how, some way. I sure enjoyed it and knew instinctively that he was silently inviting me inside to enjoy it with him.

When our tomatoes get ripe, I might try to re-capture his pleasure, somehow try to encapsulate summer, pause and really see it, ingest it slowly, invent my own rituals to remember and enjoy the essence. Ripe tomatoes mean summer.....

Some Summers

Summertime memories have a soft glow and play like movies; stopping, rewinding, fast forwarding and pausing. Here are some still shots:

Gathered around under the rose arbor eating cold, crisp watermelon sprinkled with salt. Juice dripping down our arms and chins. Spittin' seeds. Swallowing a few. Swattin' flies.

Marsha, Ron, Terry and Dan wanted to catch a hawk. Someone thought of up the brilliant idea of smearing ketchup all over me and having me stand real still on the hill, in 100 degree heat. A 5 year old used as 'bait'. I trusted them - unbelievable! The hawk was supposed to think it was blood? Thankfully, for me it was a smart hawk and knew the difference. I still have my eyes and my flesh wasn't torn off in hunks. Although, I think that would have been easier than the torture of hiking around the rest of the afternoon in the golden, dry grass in the hills. The heat made the ketchup itchy and so sticky. It was the one day that we didn't play in the water. Whining was not aloud. If I get dementia, it harks back to enduring that day.

The hills in back of our house started out green, but by mid summer had turned golden. The long grass was slick like straw. We would save cardboard boxes, pick the perfect size, wax the bottom thickly with a candle or paraffin then head to the top and slide down. A good run, one worth the long hike up, was one where it ended at the very bottom. You had to hang on dearly to the sides of the box to stay with it/on it. Makes me thirsty remembering. And itchy. And smiley with the memory of the wind in my hair.

Grandma's neighbor in Felton loved birds. Chickadees especially. He would stand out in the yard in the morning and evening with his hand out and call, 'chickadee, chickadee, chickadee'. When I spent the night with her, I would race over to his house and watch for as long as possible. He offered to let me try it. It took a few days for them to get used to me, but the day they finally fed out of my hand when I called them was heart bursting. I barely breathed, wanting it to last and last forever. It tickled my hand.

When mom made cookies, or a cake we would get to lick the batter from the bowl. It was good, but she was too thorough scraping out every last bit of it. Grandma always left a generous amount, sort of accidentally, for us to enjoy.

Fires at the beach roasting hot dogs and marshmallows were frequent and anticipated every weekend. We would sing, make sand castles, get sand in places we didn't know we had places and beg to stay just a little bit longer. Packing up, riding home, falling asleep and somehow making it to bed, probably a sandy sheeted bed......bliss.

Ever since I can remember, I have dreamt of flying. The hill where we slid down on boxes was also a flying launch. At least I tried. And tried. And tried. Grandma had a few umbrellas stashed away for a rainy day. I'm not sure if I asked, or snuck out with them, but this idea was original. I climbed up the hill, clicked open the umbrella, then started running as fast as possible. I would almost get the feeling of 'lift' just when the stupid thing would turn inside out. It happened over and over again. Wonder how many umbrellas I ruined? Could it be that this is why I LOVE to para glide? When the kite fills, snaps and lifts you - being air born is such a rush! My first time, the one word blasting in my head was, "FINALLY"!

Mom's dog Vali died. It was a terrible thing, she was part of the family. Grandpa and Dad were supposed to bury her up under the oaks on top the hill where the Indian burial grounds were. They promised mom. It must have been a daunting task carrying her, so they negotiated and decided to stop and dig right outside the corral, out of site of the house window. Little did they know I would tattle on them. Poor dad had to dig that dog up and rebury her properly for mom. He was not happy - she was.

Dad built a fort for us out in the pasture. It was made of logs and looked exactly like a frontier fort. It was quite high and open underneath for the horses to use for shelter. The ladder going up was a long log with notches cut out. Only humans could navigate it we were told, so many a summer night we slept up under the stars, feeling safely adventurous. Dad was quite a woodsman, and I think he poured all of his creativity into making it for us. Whatever he made was rough hewn, but solid like a rock.

Our donkey Noel once ate the crotches out of Grandma's underwear hanging on the line. Everyone thought it was hilarious, except Grandma. The look on her face and the steam coming out her ears as she surveyed the clothespins clasped on the shredded remains - memorable. I still have her red checkered bag full of those same clothespins.

We had a big hand crank ice cream maker. The flywheel itself was cast iron art. Mom would soak the oak bucket part the night before to swell the wood tight. It was always an 'event' to have homemade ice cream. For as much work as it was, it's hard to believe we had it so often in the summer. Mom would freeze milk cartons full of water the night before. When the canister was full, the crank assembled and rock salt ready, dad would peel the cartons open and fill a gunny sack with the blocks of ice. He would use a mallet to pound the pieces into crushed ice. Layering ice and salt, ice and salt around the canister was serious business, getting it just right to freeze the cream properly. Here's the best part. Picture a strawberry festival where a girl is picked to be 'princess'. When the cream started getting stiff and the cranking harder and harder to do, dad picked me to sit on the towel on top to steady the bucket. I always felt like royalty sitting on a throne. Seeing dad sweat and his muscles rippling and looking forward to the treat that 'we' were making........the memory is sweeter than the ice cream. If there was a young man around dad would often hand off the cranking almost as a right of passage, initiation into manhood. Sometimes I would be dethroned for a big bottomed girl who could keep it steady with her weight. Whoever could manhandle that flywheel crank by the end was invited to partake of the prize. The prize was the ice cream covered paddle that had to come out before the canister was repacked with fresh salt and ice to 'cure' for an hour. It was a guy thing. Women were excluded from this male bonding. Everyone seemed happy with it. Could that ice cream have been as good as I remember? I think so. There was love cranked in.