The Dog Who Refuses To Die, aka Death Had To Reschedule...

That's what I have, folks. Elvis was diagnosed with Hemangiosarcoma and given 2-3 weeks to live back in April. The x-rays showed an enlarged liver, a HUGE spleen, and a tumor right under his tailbone. I brought him home, fed him whatever I could get him to eat, loved on him, and cried. But the crying upset Elvis. It worried him. I never really thought about dogs worrying about stuff other than who had their toy, or guarding their yard from marauding squirrels, but tears worried Elvis. He tried to comfort me, bless his heart.

The second trip to the vet 2 weeks later had the vet telling me to keep doing whatever we were doing, because Elvis looked better than he did the first time! Cooking a combo plate of quinoa, split peas, rice and potatoes in chicken stock kept him eating, as well as natural, low-processed canned foods. That Natural Pet in the refrigerator section of the pet stores and bigger grocery stores is wonderful!

The next visit had the vet concerned over his breathing. It was labored and sounded bad. X-rays showed the cancer had invaded his lungs so badly that you couldn't even see the heart! So the end was pretty much near. Again, I brought him home and just fed him what he would eat (he as a love for Orange Blossom muffins from Fred Meyers!), and loved on him. The vet suggested raw liver to get Elvis blood count up, but he refused raw. Loves it when I cook it, though. Silly dog!

Today, 3 weeks later, Elvis is still hanging tough. he is much, much thinner, and a little weaker, but his spirit is still strong. He is STILL ready to chase squirrels, and actually chased one down to the end of the driveway just this morning! He is STILL ready to play ball with us, and to chew on his horseball. He is NOT ready to die just yet.

I'm thinking that this year God, the universe, or whatever spirits you may believe in, is/are trying to teach us about time. And not to just lie back and give up when faced with adversity. Dogs take life one day at a time, each day as it comes. People should, too. Comfort the ones you can, and just be happy. Sounds like good advice.

Death Makes An Appointment

When one owns pets, they know the pet has a much shorter lifespan than humans. Some people only own one pet, and when it dies, they decide the pain just isn’t worth it. They feel they can’t go through it again, and eschew any other animals.

Then there are those of us who continue to get pets. Despite the pain and cost, the joy they bring is worth it. And with pets, there are choices to be made: what kind of pet, what kind of food, what kind of training.

Rub my belly? Elvis and his favorite rope toy.

I thought my dog, Elvis, had been gaining weight, so I changed his food. My last dog had died from cancer tumors throughout his body, so when we got Big E, I researched and read up on quality dog foods. I got the best we could afford. So I did a little more research and got him a different dry kibble. That's when he stopped eating. I thought he was just pouting, but when a couple of days turned into weeks, off to the vet we went.

Please note the bell on the door. We taught Elvis to ring it when he wanted out. He usually wanted out during our favorite tv shows. Who trained who?

He wasn’t fat, he had a couple of masses inside him and his liver was enlarged. And the first real clue we really had was when he had stopped eating. It just happened to coincide with the change in his food, so I just wrote it up to being stubborn. The x-rays told the real story. With his symptoms, which also included anemia, panting a lot, and slowing down a lot, the vet gave me a tentative diagnosis of hemangio sarcoma, a type of blood cancer. It’s in the blood vessels, so in reality it is throughout Big E’s body.

We were also given a time frame. Two, three weeks, maybe. Costly exploratory surgery & biopsy was an option where the prognosis was not just grim but very grim, or even costlier regular surgery to remove the masses. But the second surgery could only give him at best another month or two of life, and there was the risk of having to put him to sleep with even the biopsy.

Elvis testing out the wicker couch I repaired and painted for my mother-in-law's Yorkies.

So I brought him home. He knows he is dying. You can see it in his eyes. He knows. He has a different look on his face now. When I get on the floor to play with him, he leans against me and licks my face, no longer wanting to roughhouse. He wants to rest against me. And at night when we go to bed, he leaves his dog bed at the foot of our own and comes up along my side of the bed, lying down so I can lie on my stomach and pet him until I fall asleep. He’s never done that before, and now he’s doing it almost nightly, and of his own volition.

CAT bed? Are you sure, mom?

It's hard to imagine this clown of a dog having to suffer this kind of fate. This is my bud, my companion. On July 4th, while the other dog is cowering under the bed, Big E is sitting or lying on the ground next to me as I shoot photos of the fireworks. The booming explosions don't seem to phase him one bit. In fact, he appears to enjoy the show, turning his head as each color blooms in the dark sky above him.

Kiddie pool king!

He likes to goof around in a kiddie pool. We took him and Cocoa, the 3 legged Border Collie, to the river once. The 3 legged dog leaped right into the river, swimming pretty darn good with only one back leg! But Big E? With 4 intact limbs? Refused to go in any deeper than his chest after dunking his head when he stepped into the deep. But get him in the kiddie pool and he is in and out and in and out, splashing and throwing water everywhere with a goofy grin on his face. That dog is always smiling!

People have asked us what breed is Elvis. We know his mother was an Australian Shepherd, but the dad was never clear. Finally got a clue from one of the dog trainers. She feels dad was a Catahoula. If you look that breed up, there are so many photos that Elvis could have posed for! Many folks have said maybe cattle dog, but Elvis is too long in the body and legs for that. He has a little tail nub that tells his state of mind. It's really a little 2-3" flap that falls down over his back end. When he is happy, that nub is just a'jumpin'! Handy if you can't see the smile on his face.

Flying Frog Dog!

Our backyard is now divided into two sections; the dog’s yard, and the people’s yard. We used to have a huge fir tree right behind the house, but had to have it removed last year when it started to damage the house. I hated to do that, for it was our natural air conditioner, but it finally had to go. With it gone, the back yard really opened up so we could finally have a section that was dog and dog-poop free. I left the gate between them open the other day as I putzed around the people’s side, weeding. When I sat on the edge of the floating deck to take a break, Big E snuck through the gate and came to sit next to me, leaning against my legs and enjoying the sunlight and my hand gently stroking down his back. It was a quiet moment of love shared between two living beings.

Before cutting down....

...AFTER cutting down. Note his favorite toy, a horseball. Best when half-eaten.

Some days he doesn’t feel like eating, and that is worrisome to me. I mean, doesn’t food cure all? Depression, anxiety, etc. And chocolate is the ambrosia of curing food. Since it is poisonous to dogs, I eat his share. Yes, I know food doesn’t really cure cancer, but I want him comfortable, dang it. I’m pulling all the guns in my arsenal out on Big E. Rice cooked in chicken stock, canned food that actually looks yummy enough for ME to eat, liver cooked by my own two hands. Pedialyte in the drinking water. That one didn’t work so well, as evidently they can actually taste the flavorless stuff. Sigh.

Master of the "Pathetic Dog" look when wanting inside. Used with a 90% effective rate.

I took him by the groomer yesterday so she could say goodbye. She was wonderful with him, never afraid of his big growl and bark, knowing immediately a big chicken when she saw him. Yesterday she almost broke into tears. Almost. She paused, then told me she wasn’t going to cry until we left. Bless her. She also gave me a suggestion about getting Natural Balance food roll and feeding it to Big E. That really has done the trick with him! He ate a big 4” cut off the roll, and this morning ate regular canned stuff like he was starving. Can’t get him to eat the dry kibble, though at this point I don’t really care. I just want to spoil him rotten.

Doesn't he look like he knows a secret or two?

The newest cat in our family is a black female that I rescued last October, along with her 5 kittens. They stayed in my garage in a large dog run until the kittens were old enough to go to the Humane Society. I wanted to see if the mama was dog friendly, so I let Elvis into the garage and kept a VERY close eye on them in case mama was overly protective. What did she do? Walked right up to Elvis and head-butted him! Poor dog jumped like he'd felt a cattle prod!

After the kittens were adopted, we decided to keep mama, and renamed her Sake, after the Japanese drink. She is in LUV with Elvis, and Elvis just isn't sure how to handle that! He's not used to a cat actually liking him, wanting to hang with him. Heck, she even sleeps next to him when she can!

Elvis and Sake.

Last night, as I was sitting on the floor next to Elvis' bed and loving on him, Sake strolled up and lay down right up against his back. She just wants to be close to him. I don't know if she can sense what is happening with him, or if she really just wants to hang with him. I DO know it makes Big E just a tad nervous...

He knows he is dying. Just look into his eyes and you can see it. He looks worried when he looks at me, like he’s not sure he should be leaving me. I have my husband, and three cats, and Cocoa, but he knows I don’t like her much. We rescued her, and she repaid us by fighting with Big E every chance she could; big, nasty, bloody fights. At one point they were both going to doggie day care. Elvis even got an award for being a "social butterfly" with his doggie pals. But the good folks at the day care asked us not to bring Cocoa back. Seems she kept cutting Elvis out of the dog packs, not allowing him to play with his canine friends. So she has never been my favorite fur baby. Big E always tries to get her to play with him, but she ignores him. He never stops trying, however. He is a poster dog for the saying: Hope springs eternal. I do play with her and treat her, but Big E is my favorite.

Modeling the homemade pet car seat belt.

Sometime last year Elvis started howling when the phone rings. At first it was puzzling, then irritating, and now just something he does. Friends and family understand to wait a few seconds for the howling to die down when they call. It's actually quite funny to see. It started suddenly and we have no idea why. We've had the phone for two years, so for it to suddenly hurt his ears is a puzzle.

A rare serious expression.

I cry each night now. I don’t know which is worse: having a pet die quickly, or knowing a longer time frame. One minute I think that being given a time frame is horrible, having to watch him waste away, and the next minute I’m grateful for the chance to keep spoiling him.

Look, Ma! It snowed!

Today is the one week anniversary of when we learned of Big E’s death sentence. Yet life goes on. I’m making dinner for my hard working husband, taking care of the diabetic cat, playing with the other cats and dog. I’ve done laundry, washed dishes, gossiped with my neighbor over the backyard fence. Been online, played online games, sewed and crocheted. And in between I sit on the floor with Big E’s head in my lap.

On the old deck, happy-go-lucky.

My husband knows I’m a basket case when a loved one dies. Heck, I cry watching television shows! I'm just an emotional creature. He knows how I was when my dad died, and while my dad and I weren’t close, it was still very hard on me. My husband sees me now, and knows what I feel because he feels it, too. He promised me that I would die before him, just so I wouldn’t have to go through it with him. Think I’ll keep him.

He, too, loves Big E. But his grieving process is much different from mine. While I’m looking at puppies already, he’ll need time. When our first dog, Gizmo, passed, it took him six months before I could talk him into a pup. And that’s how I got Big E. I guess good things do come to those who wait. Whatever pup I get will not be a replacement for Big E. NOTHING can replace Big E. Just as Big E wasn’t a replacement for Gizmo. I just have the need for a dog. My world is complete, then.

Elvis says, "MY gardening glove!" I don't think we've yet found all the gloves he has stolen.

In a few weeks, or maybe just days, my little cosmo will come crashing down around me. Elvis will finally refuse to play ball. He will refuse any food, even my home cooking. Then we will make one last visit to the vet. My husband will help pick me up and start the healing process. And when Big E crosses the Rainbow Bridge, Gizmo and my old cat, Alley, will be there to greet him. I hope they show him how to visit me. They stopped in, just once, after they had passed. I know it was them, as no other animals in my house had those exact colors! So I know there is a Rainbow Bridge, and I’m certain there will be a crowd waiting for me when I get there!

A Child's Christmas Memory

The season is upon us now, and I think back on Christmas through the years. The best ones had my grandparents included. Each year they put up the silver tinsel tree and plugged in the electric color wheel that slowly changed the tree from silver to red, green, blue and yellow. Most of the ornaments were blue, and it just looked cool!

(Me and my favorite handwarmer at the Grandparents' farm.)

There was a heavy card nativity set that I just loved to play with. Grandma would let me set it up if I were careful, and I tried very hard to find just the perfect position for each animal and angel. There was always an Elf on the Shelf as well. I never knew it was an old tradition until just this year. They appear to be in vogue again, and I'm seeing Elf On The Shelf in the major bookstores. I guess everything old IS new again!

(Me in the hayfield. That's the old farmhouse in the back.)

Grandpa indulged all three of us kids, yet never had to lay a hand on us to punish us if we erred. All he had to do was look disappointed and sigh. Maybe shake his head. We would immediatly feel so bad that if he had actually whipped us we would have felt better! Grandma, on the other hand, was the disiplinarian. She actually gave me a knife once, and told me to go cut the maple switch for her to use on my behind!! Needless to say, all of us kids, once we experienced these two actions, did our level best not to experience them again!


Grandma and Grandpa usually slept upstairs in the attic during our visits. They had seperate beds, and I think it was so we kids could rotate sleeping with them. But there was this one very special Christmas Eve.....


As I was shaken awake by a gentle hand, my eyes opened to see my grandpa leaning over me, a quieting finger held to his lips. I crawled slowly at first from the warm bed, reluctant to leave the quilts behind. Then I remembered. It was Christmas Eve! We were going to sneak up on the barn animals and see if it were true that at midnight they bowed down to pay homage to the Christ child!

My feet wanted to dance, but the warning look from my grandpa, accompanied by an understanding smile, kept all dancing inside my body. We crept down the stairs, carefully skipping the sixth step that would have creaked and given us away to my grandma and my two younger brothers.

In the dark kitchen, grandpa helped tuck my pajama-clad legs into my boots, then zipped my coat against the cold Ohio winter night. He shrugged into his old barn jacket and smiled down at me as he slid my toboggan hat over my rumpled hair.

We unlocked the back door, freezing as the loud snick of the bolt rang through the air like a gunshot. We stared at each other, but didn’t hear anyone coming to investigate. Grandpa opened the door slowly and we stepped out into the dark.

A light snow was falling, the flakes drifting slowly past us, glittering in the soft illumination of the old security light in the corner of the farmyard. The snow crunched beneath our boots as we walked softly towards the barn, my small mittened hand clasping his work-roughened one.

Despite the crunch of the snow underfoot, I thought we were as good as spies, or even Indians.

When we got to the barn, grandpa slid a flashlight from his pocket to check his wristwatch before unhooking the barn door clasp. The hinges squeaked loudly in protest as he swung the door open, shining the light into each of the 3 stalls.

Two cows and a pony stared calmly back at us, one cow chewing her cud. None of them were concerned in the least at our intrusion. To my great disappointment, all three animals were standing on their feet, not kneeling in the straw. I heaved a sigh in disappointment, feeling my grandpa’s hand come to rest comfortingly on my shoulder.

We left the barn and headed back to the farmhouse, my disappointment making me drag my feet. The squeaking hinge had warned the barn animals we were there, and since they wouldn’t kneel if humans were present, or so the legend goes, they remained on their feet.

Grandpa stopped suddenly and swung me up into his arms in a big hug, then whispered in my ear, “We’ll catch them next Christmas!”

I hugged him back, suddenly happy. No one else would have gone with me at midnight to the barn! Not my dad, nor my mom. Not even grandma! I had the best grandpa in the whole wide world!

Yes, this really did happen. I can still feel the disappointment, so keenly sharp, when we opened the barn door only to see all the animals standing. It would have been so normal to at least see a cow lying down as she chewed her cud, but no. They were all standing, which was unusual for that time of night. ButI was just a child, and it never crossed my mind at that time.

Grandpa was generous to a fault. If a neighbor needed help, Grandpa was there. If his grandbabies needed or wanted something, he did his best to fill the need, or take care of the want. So when I wanted to see the animals kneel to celebrate the birth of Baby Jesus, the Grandfather part overrode the farmer part. I was indulged, even though it meant getting up in the middle of the night and going out into the cold for something that was just a story.>

A Lesson Learned The Hard Way

Today’s submission has no pictures because I. Screwed. Up.

Here’s the backstory.

Mom had mentioned years ago that she still had dad’s old slides in the basement. Boxes and boxes of slide carts and carousels and SLIDES. So I volunteered to go through them, organize them, and convert some of them. With her blessings, I had the slides shipped to my house, purchased a slide converter, and away I went.

It was a slow and tedious process, and in all the sorting, which tied up the dining room table for MONTHS with various piles and stacks and such, I would find groups of slides that there really was no point in keeping. So then I’d call mom and ask what she wanted me to do with them.

The slides of the Columbus City Zoo from 45 years ago really held no value to either one of us. Yes, I kept the shots that actually had family in them, but of the cages and habitats of the animals? Just taking up space. So I offered them to the zoo for their archives under mom and dad’s name. They jumped at the chance to get them, so I mailed them off. Never heard anything else from them.

There were slides of numerous Labor Day parades in our little town. Dad sure did like the antique cars. And pretty girls. Again, I called mom. Unless there was someone in the photos that we knew, no point in keeping them, either. So this time quite a few slides hit the trashcan. I was careful to scrutinize each and every slide. In a few I found one brother with the band, and another in the cub scouts, so of course those were saved. And some from the early 60’s that had our parents and grandparents in them. Mom was pregnant in some of them. She sure was cute! And me sitting with grandpa on the hood of a car.


Then there were the shots of an old man on a stage. In checking the notation on the side of the slide cart, I was able to figure out that this was the famous Eddie Rickenbacker, at a military ceremony at (then) Lockbourne AFB, OH. Cool! I called mom, who again had no real use for the slides, and suggested possibly donating them to the Air Force History archives. Good idea. So after a few emails, off they went. This was a few years ago, mind you. Never heard from them, either.

I recently returned home to visit family and friends, and just happened to mention to one of my brothers about the Rickenbacker slides, and what I’d done with them. He got a bit interested, and asked if I’d converted them and kept copies. When I said no, he said that was too bad. Our dad had worked on setting up the stage for that ceremony! It would have been nice to have kept the shots, just because dad had had a hand in history. Yeah, this is where I. Screwed. Up.

What, exactly was the screw-up? In not checking with EVERYONE in the family. Maybe my other brother would have been interested as well. Or maybe both brothers would have liked copies of the zoo so they could track the changes made over the years. Who knows? Maybe mom or dad had talked to the boys and given them information or told them stories that I never knew (like Eddie Rickenbacker). But now it’s too late for the zoo and Eddie.

I still have a few more slides to go through, but what took up boxes and boxes now reside in plastic slide-protector notebook sleeves in 2 big notebooks. In getting the slides shipped to me, getting the plastic protective sleeves, notebooks, slide viewers, slide converter, having prints made, and in making scrapbooks for both brothers and mom, I spent over $500 dollars. But the trip down memory lane? And some (possibly) very good blackmail shots? Totally, absolutely, priceless.

Memories

I’m working on a labor of love at the moment. I’ve been doing it off and on for about five years now. I’ve been scanning every old family photo I can lay my hands on, and even had my dad’s slides – all 50 years worth! – shipped to me. I invested in a slide converter, and got to work sorting out the chaff from the wheat.

My goal is to make a cd or 2 (or 3?) for each family member so they can have a history of the family in digital record. Maybe my niece might like to see the genes that are in her makeup: good country folk with determination and hard work in their blood. People who lived through good times and bad. People who lived, loved and laughed, no matter what. Or maybe for the rest of us to look back in fondness and love to the people who shaped us and guided us as we grew up.

In my dad’s slides I found whole projector trays full of shots from Air Force base air shows and ceremonies. One particular set caught my attention: an old man receiving an award. Checking my dad’s notes, I discovered that this was the celebrated flying ace of WWI Eddie Rickenbacker! Now, after decades of languishing in my mom’s basement, he was finally seeing the light of day once more. I contacted the AF historian and asked if they were interested in receiving these slides. After assuring them that I really had no place for them, they agreed to take them, and seemed quite happy to have them. I received no other thank you, but I hope Eddie is not once more condemned to a dark box in some basement.

There was also a BUNCH of shots taken at the Columbus Zoo over a 40 year period. Even after taking out any shots of family and relatives, I was left with quite a few shots of the zoo in general. I thought maybe the zoo historian would be interested in these shots, as they show how much the zoo has changed. Again, on initial contact they were very happy to hear from me and eager to receive the slides. Again, no other thanks, but I’m not so concerned as I am for Eddie.

In the middle of converting the slides I thought family might be interested in, of which there are two 3” binders full of slide sheets that hold 20 slides each, my slide converter died. Thank goodness for Walgreens! The hard part is after they’ve been converted; I had to check each shot and see if I could rid them of the strange colors, tones, scratches and weird “artifacts” left behind after decades of storage in a basement. I developed “Mouser’s Wrist” and “Right-Click Thumb” after hours and hours and hours of performing cleanup on the digital shots. Some just weren’t salvageable, but I discovered that when they were changed to black & white, it was almost magical: you could see clearer detail. Like this shot of the back pasture. The main color is red, not black, yet converted to b&w, what a difference.

The "before" where only the cows should be red...

...and the "after". The spring is to the left, next to the tree in the back.

Grandpa and I would sit in the back yard, right about where this shot was taken, and pick off groundhogs across the “crick” and up at the spring with his old rifle. Darned things had a passion for my sweet corn, and I didn’t want to share! I got real good at picking off groundhogs.

In dredging up these slides, I’ve also dredged up memories that have long lain dormant. If not for these old shots, these memories might easily have gone to the grave with me. Like the shot of my grandpa sitting on the floor to accommodate my toddler height as I washed his face with a warm washcloth. He had so much patience with all three of his grandkids! I remember trying to be real careful and not rub too hard, or get soap in his eyes.

Me combing my grandpa's hair before washing his face.

I think all three of us kids grew up worshipping grandpa. If we got caught doing something wrong, he could lay the biggest guilt trip on us just by shaking his head and looking sad. That hurt us worse than if he’d picked up a paddle or belt and spanked us! Now, grandma? She’d make us go out and cut our own switch to be used in the punishment! So we learned darned quick not to misbehave at their farm.

I’m also adding scans of old photos I found when last I visited my mom. She had had open-heart surgery and was home recuperating, so what better bedside activity (to keep her in bed!) than to dredge up her own memories of people and places for the unmarked photos she had in a big box under the bed. I could hear the smile and love in her voice as she regaled me with stories about her own beloved grandparents and other relatives. There are two photos in particular of my great-grandparents that really speak to me.

Great-grandma back at the WVA farm.

Great-grandpa still in OH, and his bicycle.

On my own grandparents farm was a small house set apart from the farmhouse. It was only a two room house with a back porch that was constantly sagging, and an outbuilding and outhouse reached by a wooden walkway, and a dirt basement. Mom tells me this was built just so grandma’s parents could move in from their West Virginia farm in their old age. But. This only lasted for three months, as they weren’t used to electricity, running water in the kitchen, or the modern luxury of a telephone. They moved back to their WVA farm, much to my grandma’s chagrin.

Great-grandma at the "new" stove. She never got used

to running water in the kitchen.

I have photographic proof that I actually met some of my great-grandparents, even if I have no memory of it. Unfortunately, I never met THIS g-grandma, my maternal grandmother's mother. She was the favorite of my mom's, and their memories will live on in passing down my Mom’s stories and memories. And in looking at these photos and slides, more stories come to light, more memories appear as if by magic from far corners of memory. There are all sorts of photos in that old box, and yet more in albums just recently discovered. Black and white shots, a few colored, shots of people we knew and people we have no clue about.

I’ve discovered the old saying about the oldest child having the most pictures taken, while the youngest child will be lucky to find one of just himself, or even one period. As with all things, the first is a novelty, and it goes downhill from there. Luckily, my family was a camera-toting family, and ALL of us kids appear in many of the photos!

As a kid I was usually annoyed, sometimes highly, with allthe picture taking by my mom and grandma. Constantly having to stop, pose and smile in the middle of an activity was rather irksome to a teen and pre-teen. Oh, and checking to make sure the sun was in your eyes to get the best shot. What fun. Yet now as I sort through and arrange all these paper-to-digital memories, I am happy. Memories captured by grandma’s old Brownie camera or the Polaroid, snapped by relatives both known and unknown and by virtual strangers bring back the feeling of carefree summers on the farm, visits to relatives in WVA.

That’s the main purpose of this blog, actually. To tell others about our family, to let them know about a time and people long gone, just as we ourselves will be to later generations.

Canning, Part II

I last wrote about canning Bread & Butter pickles, and it made me reminiscent of my childhood when my mom and grandmother canned tomatoes. I love homegrown, homemade canned tomatoes!! As I mentioned previously, as a teen I tended to find other things to do when it came to canning. Climbing trees, riding my pony, going down over the hill…anything to escape the steam bath that the kitchen became as canning commenced. And now I’m paying the price for skipping out.

I gave in and took the tomato canning class anyway, and was disappointed to discover it was only a lecture. The speaker was fairly knowledgeable, but she’d only been canning for a couple of years, and sometimes I just wasn’t sure of her answers to the questions that were asked. What I WAS sure about was that if my grandma was canning today, the FDA would probably shut her down!

The speaker did explain a few things that were brought to life by her sometimes sardonic tone and her examples of what to do and not do. This was much better than just reading it in the canning books. She was a smaller version of Alton Brown. At least I got my money’s worth for the class.

But honestly. My grandma would have looked at her and shook her head over some of the techniques that are now being insisted on by the Co-op, or the University Extension, the FDA, whomever. Most of the procedures are fine in modern kitchens, with long counters and lots of space, but a small farmhouse kitchen? You had to make do with what you had! Counters weren’t always as generous as they are nowadays, for all the scratch cooking that was done back then.

Jars and rings were washed by hand, then placed in large canners of boiling water to sterilize. Then they were placed in other canners of extremely hot but not boiling water, to wait their turn to be filled. The lids were place in hot water (not boiling, or it melted the sealing rings too much), ready to be placed on top of the newly filled jars. There was some sort of assembly line going with the two women in the kitchen, and us kids were sometimes drafted to carry finished jars out to the porch to put on a table set up there for the cool down.

(My grandparents, and the first motorized vehicle I learned to drive. Even driving the tractor, grandma was a lady!)

I can picture my grandma at the gas stove canning. She comes in clear as a bell, but I see her actions as if through a badly warped glass. She always wore a dress, with a full apron tied on. I think the only times I ever saw her in pants was during haying or the time she stood with my foundered pony in the cold creek water. Everything was done in a dress. Oh, and sensible, no nonsense shoes. By the end of the day her hair would be dripping, and you could probably squeeze a couple of cups of sweat from the dress and apron. But I’m willing to bet that you could never get sick from anything that was made in that kitchen. It was made with love and sweat, at temperatures more closely resembling the surface of the sun than mid-summer Ohio.

So now with my faulty memory augmented by my Ball canning books, I may be able to actually put up a batch or two of my beloved tomatoes, no matter what the form. Juice, whole, diced, you just can’t go wrong with tomatoes. Unless you add celery … ICK!!

Cukes and Tomatoes and Pickles, Oh My!

Holy smokes! Literally!! Where I live it’s been over 100 degrees F for the past WEEK! Of COURSE some of the cukes had to decide this was the perfect time to ripen. Sigh. So Monday, in 102-104* I was canning bread & butter pickles. Only got 13 pints (did I mention it’s a small garden?), but that’s 13 more than I had before! I did it in stages and early in the morning so I didn’t overtax the one and only window ac unit we have for the entire house. Poor thing has been running pretty much nonstop. I think last night was the first night in a while it was actually turned off. Also the first night in 3 that we were able to sleep in our own bed instead of on an air mattress on the floor in the living room in front of ye olde ac unit. But I digress.

This was my second time of canning pickles, and it turned out just as good as the first time a couple of years ago. But since we were on our last jars, I had to plant more to can for the next year or so. The cukes are ripening in intervals, thank goodness, because if I’d’ve had to can them all on Monday, I’d’ve died from heat exhaustion. I think the ac unit would have as well.

From this....

...and this...

To this! Yummy!

All this canning and the talk of canning takes me back a few years. Wish it took my memory of canning back as well! I’ve been wanting to can tomatoes, but I just cannot recall how to do it. I remember Grandma put up the best tomato juice for years, until she started adding celery salt & seed to it. Then she’d get mad when I refused to drink it. “I don’t understand. Tomato juice is your favorite! You’ve always drank it. Now drink it!” But I’d complain that it tasted funny, and I didn’t like it. To this day I hate celery salt, and I don’t care WHAT you use it in! I can see no good reason for it to be used on food, or even for its very existence.

I remember going out to the tomato patch with Grandpa to check the ripeness. When we made these little trips, Grandpa always had a salt shaker in his back pocket. We’d walk through the patch, picking a tomato here and there and “testing the taste”. I don’t know how there was ever enough tomatoes to can, whatwith all the testing trips we made!

Then came the picking. Grandpa showed me how to start at the far end of the patch first to make fewer and shorter trips as the picking progressed. We had bushel basket after bushel basket of tomatoes! I was in heaven! Then came the canning.

Right about here is where I, the perfect tomboy, usually found something ELSE to do besides work in an extremely hot kitchen in the middle of an Ohio summer! I didn’t mind the work of picking the fruit; I carried a salt shaker in my OWN back pocket to enjoy the benefits. But canning? I couldn’t clear out of the farmhouse fast enough! Mom and Grandma sweated (none of that “glowing” for working farmwives!) in the canning steambath for a couple of days until all the tomatoes were processed. They made a game for us kids of listening for the top to pop and counting them to make sure all the jars had sealed.

Once popped and cooled, the jars were carried down to the dugout basement and set on deep shelves carved into the cool darkness of the ground, where they could stay for years…or until we came to visit and I drank them! Man! There is absolutely nothing on this earth better than home canned tomato juice straight from the cool cellar! And the canned tomatoes? Spectacular to bite into and to use in stews and such!

But now that I’m an adult? I wish I’d stayed in the kitchen. I wish I’d learned these things. But since I can’t go back, I must go forward. I’ve read up on canning tomatoes. I’ve even purchased the Ball Blue Book for home canning. Clear photos and illustrations of such quality that even I should be able to do it. Do I risk it, or plunk down $20 for a canning class with the college extension? I’ve been unemployed since April of 2008, so I really have to watch my pennies. Since I have this canning book, and I’ve been in on various stages of the canning (when I COULDN’T escape *lol*), I’m hoping some of the process has sunk in. That, and the fact that I asked my neighbor to let me help when SHE does her tomato canning (she also uses celery salt *ick!*) this year, will be exactly what I need, and I can save my money for more important things….like jars!