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 |   Tales from real life |
| Well, if they're not true, they oughta be! |
| The list goes ever on . . . Elements of Destruction by Anne T. Madder Barbershop Snippets by Hank O'Hare Notes at the Window by Sara Nader Kiss the Moon by Myra B. Hynde Creating a Lush Landscape by Leif E. Busch Home Canning by Mason Jarre The Official Officiants Handbook by Marion Mann The Monkey's Uncle by Harry Gibbons The Big Book of Landfill by D. Bree Pyle Touch of Shock by A. Tesla-Coyle Proper Portraiture Display by Wally Hooks Coping With Diarrhea by Louis Bowles See also: "The Bottom Shelf?"  See also: "Yet More Books I'd Like to See" |
My sister sent a pretty picture of her Montana snowdrifts today. I'm happy to miss out on them, and also the 30 below temperatures! (Minus 30's in Celsius, also.) The snowdrifts bring back childhood memories from when my dad delivered the mail on our rural route. He took the 'neither rain nor snow' slogan seriously and almost never missed a day in his 20-year career. One winter morning, we woke to 4-foot drifts and no school bus. Dad said no problem, we could just ride into town with him. We tried to get out of it, but Mom said go. So, we bundled up to brave the icy trek to school instead of relaxing with comics and hot cocoa. A mile of unplowed, uphill gravel road separated us from the highway. Some stretches were swept bare by the frigid wind, but there were also some deep drifts. Dad got up to ramming speed and busted through a couple of the smaller drifts, but he was stymied by a 4-footer about a quarter mile short of the pavement. There was far too much snow to shovel, so he had to turn back. But that didn't mean giving up. The roads in the area are laid out in a grid along section lines, so dad tried again a mile further west. That road is more level, except for one steep hill. Dad took a run at it, but it was too slick, and the car slid sideways against the snow piled up at the edge of the road. This time we were really stuck. Or were we? Dad told us kids to get out and push, but sideways, not forward. We all pushed on the front fender of the car to spin it around. The road was pure ice, dad wiggled the steering wheel, and the front tires slowly slid in a 180-degree arc. We went another mile west, dad found an open roadway, and we finally made it onto plowed pavement. From there it was a relatively easy trip to school and on to the post office. We found that school was canceled and the kids from town had been sent home. It was too late to do us any good, however, we had to wait for dad to come back in the afternoon. A few other kids were in a similar predicament, so we all had a day-long study hall in the Junior High building. A dozen bored students of various ages and one annoyed teacher who had to babysit made for a long day. At least the trip home was downhill. Author's note: ▼ |
I sometimes wonder about the mental process that led our ancestors to brew beer. It may not be rocket science, but it is somewhat complicated. Beer production starts with soaking barley and allowing it to germinate. Then the malt is mashed and steeped to release the starches and sugars. Hops and spices are added to enhance the flavor and the wort is boiled. Then yeast is added, and fermentation can begin. The process takes three weeks or more depending on the type of beer. Then the finished brew must be bottled and aged for a month or more to smooth the final product. It's difficult for me to imagine the centuries of trial and error that culminated in modern brewing. Wine, on the other hand, is almost inevitable. Once you've squeezed out some fruit juice, it merely takes a couple of weeks of lazy inattention to achieve fermentation. I bought a gallon jug of pure apple cider last fall and set it out on the deck (because the fridge was full). Our deck is on the shady north side of the house, so the outside temperatures were cool. I enjoyed a glass of fresh apple cider every day for a week or so. Then the appeal faded, and I forgot about the jug for a few days. There was still about a quart of cider when I finally got back to it, and I heard a noticeable 'whoosh' of released pressure when I removed the cap. I knew very well what had happened and decided to try a sip of the now 'hard' cider. It wasn't half bad, slightly fizzy, tangy on the tongue, and definitely alcoholic. Unlike the recipe for beer, this kind of serendipitous discovery is easy to understand. The cider incident reminded me of making balloon wine when I was in high school. I don't remember where I came across the idea, but it was dead simple, so I had to give it a try. All it takes is a couple of cans of grape juice concentrate, water, sugar, yeast, a glass jar with a narrow neck, and a party balloon. The grape juice can be red, white, or even rosΓ© (if you use a can of each). The resulting liquid will almost fill a gallon jug and adding an extra cup of sugar ensures that the little yeasties are well motivated to excrete alcohol. I didn't know any better, so I snuck a pinch of baker's yeast from my mom's spice cabinet. The wine probably tastes better with real brewer's yeast, but it's alcohol either way. The balloon is kept deflated while being stretched over the neck of the jug and then the 'wine vat' is hidden in the back of your closet where mom won't find it. The balloon magically rises and expands as fermentation gets underway. Three weeks later, the balloon will sag a bit to signal that the ordinary grape juice has miraculously become fine wine. There'll be a surprising amount of sediment on the bottom, and yeast poop is not tasty at all, so that needs to be separated out. We had a milk strainer (and a milk cow), so I used one of those paper filters and a funnel to carefully decant my wine into another clean jug. It's recommended that the wine age for three to six months before drinking. I didn't have the patience to wait for six months (or even one month), so my friends and I drank it 'raw'. And that's the way I remember it going down. |
Q: Where does a six-foot ten former pro basketball player sit? A: Anywhere he wants to! I was working at the Allen-Bradley sales office in Bellevue, Washington when I met Tom Black. He had a brief career in the NBA, playing for the Seattle Supersonics during the 1970-71 season. Tom passed away in 2017. I didn't know him well, but I'll always remember his oversized presence. Now owned by Rockwell Automation, Allen-Bradley is an industrial company that began making electrical components in 1903. Their products include switches, relays, and factory automation equipment. I worked there from 1984 to 1986 as a product applications engineer. In 1985, Allen-Bradley purchased a small company that made barcode scanners. I've forgotten the name of that company, but their Seattle area sales rep, Tom Black, was part of the deal. Of course, corporate didn't bother to tell us. We were a small office at the time, with only a half dozen employees, and our receptionist was at lunch when Tom showed up. He was carrying a cardboard box of sales brochures and desk supplies. I was closest to the front door, so I greeted this imposing figure with more than a little curiosity as to what he might be selling. "Hello, can I help you?" "Yeah," he smiled, setting the box down and offering a hand the size of a catcher's mitt. "I'm Tom Black and I work here. Where should I put my things?" I looked him straight in the sternum and said, "um, okay, sure." I led him back to an empty desk where he explained the situation while moving his things in. We laughed about the lack of communication from above and our office manager repeated my slack-jawed performance when he noticed the tall, dark stranger in town. Corporate hadn't informed him, either. I enjoyed Tom's company around the office, and I always marveled at his sheer size. We had cubicle furniture with five-foot high walls, just about eye level for me. One day, I saw Tom collating copies on the top of his cubicle shelf. What was eye-level for me was a handy work surface for him. Another time, we were enjoying a beer after hours and commiserating about receding hairlines and expanding waistlines. We each had our own sad tale about being out of shape. Tom joined in with his own unique take. "Yeah, it's tough alright," he agreed. "When I got out of pro ball, I swore I'd never let myself get over three hundred pounds. But damn it, here I am." |
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