Ahoy, Avast, and Arrrrgh

The Old Man has a history with boats.  Through the years I've owned a couple and ridden on many more. There have been good days, bad days, and a lot of in-between days, floating around on little ponds and big oceans. Some practical wisdom says the only thing better than owning a boat is having a good friend who owns one.  I've come to agree.

July and August in our town are generally still and hot.  Lawns browned out and gave rise to the little atolls of green known as grasshopper weeds.  Kids loved them.  The Battalion would have contests to see who could shoot the heads of these weeds the furthest.  Girls liked to make necklaces out of them, and wore them proudly for a couple of days.  Cicadas screamed and mourning doves moaned with the twilight.  Even the dust seemed too hot and lazy to fly around with any degree of friskiness.

My dad did not have a lot of experience with boats.  He knew a lot about mules and plows, but his nautical savvy would barely overfill a thimble.  Give him a rowboat to fish from and he was at the upper levels of his naval skill set.  We would visit The Lake, a county park about 10 miles outside of town, at every opportunity.  There, they rented rowboats for, as I recall, 50 cents for a half day.  You could then row around to your heart's content and fish the "deeps".  Even as a kid, I always wondered why fishermen on the banks tried to throw their line out as far as possible, and those in boats tried to get theirs as close to the bank as they could. Speaks to a fundamental human characteristic, I suppose.

At any rate, Dad decided to save all those half-dollars and build his own boat.  He contracted with a co-worker to put the USS Neversail together.  While the "Shade-tree Boatyard" was working it's magic, Dad figured to name me his first mate, and decided I needed rowing lessons.  He taught me how to put the oars in the oarlocks and demonstrated the basics of rowing, turning, and docking.  One of the things that would drive Dad crazy was what he called, "catching crabs".  This is when you have lifted your oars out of the water to return to the start position, and let one of them slip down into the water on that return stroke.  He said that scared the fish, but I mostly think the resulting splash ticked him off since it flew directly into the captain's lap.

He had me "practice" all over that lake.  It's really not that big, but to a little guy with big blisters, it might as well have been the Indian Ocean.  Dad was usually busy "practicing" his fishing during these coaching sessions. I ran across a couple of pictures of The Lake. They don't do it justice, and a lot of changes have been made, but you get the idea.

So now, as they say, the scene is set.  Coming up next time, the "arrrrgh" portion of the story.

The Old Farmer

The Old Man has been taking advantage of the more temperate weather for the last couple of days.  I've been cleaning out my collard bed.  About the only thing I can grow in my shady area with any degree of success is a fair crop of collard greens.  I have a raised bed that has returned a respectable result, however, as yet, I've discovered no need to call in either migrant workers or a fleet of trucks to haul the harvest to market.  I'll be planting in a few days and nursing the "babies" with the hopes that they achieve a decent size so the frost/freeze can "nip" them.  After that, their sweetness is increased exponentially and, prepared properly, they may as well have been cooked in sugar water mixed with Karo syrup.  Collards are a long-standing tradition as a vital part of our New Year's Day "good luck" meal.

You know from a couple of my previous posts, that I hardly qualify as a farmer.  At best, my thumb is far around  the color wheel from "green".  But, while I worked, my thoughts kept going back to the man with the greenest thumb I've known, my dad.  He could coax a crop of butterbeans from an asphalt parking lot, I'm convinced.

These talents must skip generations.  While all of my efforts pale, our eldest daughter and her husband have raised a most prolific garden this summer. Blessed by adequate rain and moderate temperatures, output has been pretty incredible.  Miss Martha and I recently spent an entire Saturday afternoon on their front porch, in rocking chairs, stringing beans.  One of the nicer days of the year, I might add.  It hearkened back to the simpler times of my childhood.  She has now been trained and fully certified in the fine art of freezing and canning.  Quarts of green beans line her shelves and her freezer is bursting at the seams with corn.  My pride runs deep.

Dad was a farmer at heart.  Raised in rural south side Virginia, his family grew most all of what they ate.  He learned his skills early....it was a matter of survival during the times of the Great Depression.  Those skills transmigrated into a life-long habit of growing our food every summer.
While taking a break from my efforts, I poked around and ran across these pictures of Dad in his element.  I submit them as proof that generation skipping is a valid concept.

So, Dad, I hope that from wherever you now garden, you can shoot me a blessing on my collard crop.  New Year's Day is not too far around the corner and I want to be ready.