Reading and Writing and 'rithmetic

The newest member of my library writers' circle is named Vivian. She is the only nonfiction writer in the group. She was part of a book project that chronicled the history of a rural Missouri county's one-room schoolhouses. The book included the reminiscences of the students and teachers who attended and taught there.

One excerpt from the book sums up the pragmatism of country life:

To begin the day, the teacher rang the five-minute bell. In warm months, it signaled students to get a quick drink of water, visit the outhouse, and gather belongings left under trees. On extremely cold days, students were already inside thawing out from their walk to school.

Teachers expected students to be on time; they kept attendance and tardy records.

"One day we were just about to school when the bell rang. We didn't want to be late so we just went home." Joanne Pope Pearce, Salisbury 1936-1944

Oak Grove School, Adair County, Missouri, circa 1940.

Billy Part 2

When I was in 3rd grade at Adlai E. Stevenson elementary school in Chicago, I had a friend named Billy Weeks. Billy was older. He was in 6th grade and he was a patrol boy. Every day as we walked to school, there would be Billy in his bright orange belt standing on his corner. I don't know where he got them all from, but each morning he would have a new joke for us. I don't remember most of them because most of them were not memorable. But just a few have stuck with me over the years. So as not to be lost in the mist of time, I want to tell you one of Billy's jokes.

WARNING: The following paragraph contains scatological humor age appropriate for a ten year old boy in 1967.

There's this guy who has never been with a woman before and decides to hire a prostitute. She comes to his place and asks, "So what do you like?" Not sure what to say he asks what she would like. The hooker responds, "How about some 69?" He says ok. So they're going at it, but she gets some bad gas pains. All of a sudden she lets one fly. It's strong enough to knock a buzzard off a shitwagon and the guy starts gagging and choking, but slowly gets back into the 69. Now she really lets one rip. The poor dude is ready to pass out. The women gets a little self conscience and asks, "What do you think of 69?" He says, "Its awesome, but I don't think I can take 67 more of those!"

Therefore, the National Bird of America Is Going To Be . . .

Writing from France on January 26, 1784 to his daughter Sally in Philadelphia, Benjamin Franklin expressed his misgivings about the National Symbol of his new, beloved country. Please keep in mind that Franklin was referring to the wild turkey of his day and not the bloated, brain-dead, turkey of today.

For my own part I wish the Bald Eagle had not been chosen the Representative of our Country. He is a Bird of bad moral Character. He does not get his Living honestly. You may have seen him perched on some dead Tree near the River, where, too lazy to fish for himself, he watches the Labour of the Fishing Hawk; and when that diligent Bird has at length taken a Fish, and is bearing it to his Nest for the Support of his Mate and young Ones, the Bald Eagle pursues him and takes it from him.

With all this Injustice, he is never in good Case but like those among Men who live by Sharping & Robbing he is generally poor and often very lousy. Besides he is a rank Coward: The little King Bird not bigger than a Sparrow attacks him boldly and drives him out of the District. He is therefore by no means a proper Emblem for the brave and honest Cincinnati of America who have driven all the King birds from our Country.

For the Truth the Turkey is in Comparison a much more respectable Bird, and withal a true original Native of America... He is besides, though a little vain & silly, a Bird of Courage, and would not hesitate to attack a Grenadier of the British Guards who should presume to invade his Farm Yard with a red Coat on.

If Franklin had his way, as he did in much else, we would be serving eagle as the centerpiece of our Thanksgiving celebrations.

Mojo

When we were living in our apartment on Crab Apple Court in Naperville, and our boys were young and getting into trouble, our neighbor across the hall was a young, attractive Black woman with a boy about the same age as ours of her own. We were on friendly terms, and like all the kids on the block, her son was constantly in and out of our home. One day he walked into our apartment, plopped himself down on the loveseat, picked up the remote and started watching TV.

I looked at him and said, "Hey Jace, what's going on?"

He said, "Oh man, I broke my mom's vase and she's gonna kill me, so I gotta hide out here. You ain't gonna turn me in are you?"

What could I say? I listened for Rene to get home, slipped out the back door, and softly tapped on her door. When she answered, I said, "Hi Rene, I've got Jace over here. I think he broke something and he's afraid he's going to get it. You know we have a lot of holiday breakables, and it goes with the territory. What do you want me to do?"

She said, "I'll go around and knock on your front door and say I'm looking for Jace."

I went back in and busied myself in the kitchen, and a moment later there was a knock on my front door. Jace lowered himself down as I opened the door. Rene said, "I'm looking for Jace, has he been here? He's not in any trouble, but it's dinner time and I'm worried about him."

Jace sprung up and said, "I'm here ma."

"Hi honey," said Rene. "Thank Mr. Dunn."

"Thanks Mr. D," said Jace.

"See ya buddy," I said.

I told my wife about it when she got home and we pretty much forgot about it. A few weeks later, early on Thanksgiving morning, we were surprised by a knock on the door. We had the parade on and were drinking coffee, but we were still in our sleepwear. I looked out the fish hole and saw Rene standing there. I opened the door and Jace stood beside his mother.

"We brought you something for dessert," said Rene. "It's a sweet potato pie. We have it every Thanksgiving. The recipe's been handed down in my family for many generations."

I will not even attempt to describe how good it was. I subsequently asked for the recipe. Rene gladly gave it to me and I've tried to recreate the experience of that first bite. I've come close, but there's some subtle nuance that I've never been able to capture. Be that as it may, this is one helluva pie.

Steve's Southern Yankee Sweet Potato Pie

3 cups (4-5 large) sweet potatoes, roasted, peeled, and mashed
1/2 stick butter, melted
1/2 cup white sugar
1/4 cup light brown sugar, packed
1/2 cup cream
2 eggs
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1/4 teaspoon ground nutmeg
1/4 teaspoon ground ginger
1/4 teaspoon ground allspice
1/4 teaspoon ground cloves
1/4 teaspoon salt
1 Tablespoon bourbon
Refrigerated pie dough

Preheat oven to 375 degrees F. Place sweet potatoes in large mixing bowl. With electric hand-mixer on lowest setting, beat in melted butter. Mix in sugars. Add lightly beaten eggs, one at a time. Add cream. Add vanilla. Mix in spices and seasonings. Add whiskey. Mix. Pour into unbaked pie dough. Bake for fifty-five minutes, or until butterknife inserted in center comes out clean. Cool on wire rack. Serve at room temperature with whipped cream.

There's Nothing Stellar About "Interstellar"

Spoiler Alert: This review contains plot giveaways.

The movie "Interstellar" should have been called "Interstupor" because that's what the film put me in. The three hour project could have been cut in half without harm, the superfluous hour and a half, due to the preponderance of low-angle camera shots, spent mainly looking up Matthew McConaughey's nostrils.

McConaughey and co-star Anne Hathaway are no George Clooney and Sandra Bullock, and "Interstellar" is no "Gravity." The movie comes off like a wanna-be "2001: A Space Odyssey" for a new generation without ever hitting the mark. There is even a mobile AI with a sarcastic streak preprogrammed to a certain percentage of humor. I was not moved to tears as I was by Hal 9000, a much better actor.

The plot is set in a kind of post-apocalyptic landscape where dust storms are a way of life, and young people are forced to become farmers whether they want to or not because food production has replaced war as the country's top priority. McConaughey jacks a drone that just happens to be flying around guideless, then cannibalizes the parts for automated farm equipment.

In a totally unbelievable plot twist, some lines of sand on the floor of his daughter's bedroom leads McConaughey to a top-secret NASA installation and is instantly commandeered into piloting a one-way mission to Saturn and beyond.

Towards the end of this endless movie, Matt Damon gratuitously appears as a coldly calculating astronaut marooned on a barren planet and bent on murdering his rescue crew. Damon is not known for his emotive acting, and here he reaches his pinnacle in lifeless performances.

Much of the buzz surrounding the release has focused on the scientific conceptualizations of time-warps, multi-dimensions, spherical wormholes, and a giant black hole named Gargantuan. Coincidentally we had chicken with tarragon for dinner before we headed out, and I couldn't help thinking that Gargantuan Vs. Tarragon the Chicken from Outer Space, would have been a better movie.

Unfortunately, the movie was not shot in 3D because the director, Christopher Nolan, is not a fan of the format, I am a fan of the format, and 3D would have at least added some interest.

The hype also includes comments from such luminaries as Neil deGrasse Tyson who stated that the black hole special effects were the closest representation of an actual event horizon ever filmed, but when the movie eventually got to the climax, there was nothing I hadn't seen before.

I really tried to like this movie, but it just never sucked me in like light around a you know what. All in all, "Interstellar" was not worth the half a box of popcorn I left on the theater floor.

Turkey Day

Thanksgiving is three weeks from today. What are everyone's plans and menus?

We're totally breaking with tradition this year. We are serving roast turkey, stuffing, canned cranberry sauce, roasted root vegetables, and my famous sweet potato pie. We usually don't have turkey because it's an economical choice that we have throughout the year. In previous years we enjoyed moose roast (the juiciest, tenderest, and most delicious roast we've ever had); rabbit stew; venison meat loaf; a seafood buffet; duck (one of our perennial favorites); pumpkin soup and homemade bread; and pumpkin, onions and pork country ribs. This year we were actually thinking about doing a turkey chili and cornbread, but then I came up with the radical notion of opting for a classic American feast.

Much to the chagrin of my relatives and friends, we stay home for Thanksgiving. My wife loves being able to sleep in (she has to get up at 6:00 a.m. for work), we don't have to get out of our pajamas, we don't have to deal with traffic, and we can watch football all day long.

Norman Rockwell

Freedom From Want

Our Pez Prez

Recently, my sister posted that she was very excited to find Millard Fillmore Pez dispensers. As everyone knows, Millard Fillmore was our 13th president, and like our more illustrious 16th president, Fillmore was born in a log cabin and went on to establish himself in business, academia, and politics.

That being said, Fillmore consistently places in the bottom ten of historical rankings of US presidents. How then did Fillmore rise to the level of being honored with his own Pez dispenser? My brother and I must take full credit.

When Walt Disney World (yes, with my family, there is always a Disney connection) first opened in 1972, one of our favorite attractions was The Hall of Presidents. We noticed that during the roll call, people would clap for Washington, Lincoln, Kennedy, and even a smattering of applause for Nixon. In later years, to my disgust, this included Reagan and Bush! Correspondingly, the invariable gift shop that the theater exited into was full of merchandise bearing these famous and beloved presidents' likenesses.

But early on, when Fillmore's name was called, my brother and I would clap and cheer loudly much to the bafflement of the rest of the audience. We did this for several years, and lo and behold, when we walked through the souvenir shop, right next to the Father of our Country and the Illinois rail-splitter was the distinguished face of Millard Fillmore. Once we were able to stop laughing, I purchased a Millard Fillmore ashtray, which I still have to this day.

This exposure launched Fillmore's meteoric rise to fame, firmly placing him in the celestial lexicon of our most cherished and renowned statesmen.

You Want Fries With That?

Despite cold temps and brisk, gusty winds, we had 172 excited trick-or-treaters. Most had adapted their costumes to go over bulky winter clothing. Once again our outdoor display and giving out cans of pop were the hit of the town. The only odd occurrence was when a tiny child struggled up the front porch steps, a candy bag in one hand and a hotdog in the other.

I thought at first that the mother who accompanied her had given the girl dinner to eat as she trick-or-treated, but the mother said that someone down the block was giving out hotdogs as treats. These were full-size dogs in a bun WITH condiments! I though surely she was joking, but then when following groups of kids showed up also carrying and eating hotdogs, I was stunned.

My son thought this must be in response to our custom of giving out pop, but I wondered how in this day and age, parents would let their children have unwrapped food. My wife said that in a small town, with the permission of the parents who knew exactly where the homemade treats were coming from, made it alright.

Now I'm waiting for one of the houses between ours and the hotdog house to give out cole slaw next Halloween.