The Ootensiles

The Ootensiles are a Norwegian family living at the end of a long and narrow, winding gravel road. The farm is at the top of a high limestone bluff which overlooks the highway to Pittsburgh They share a house with a German Anabaptist family. The Germans are quiet and hard working. Their house is a sprawling two story complex of twenty rooms accommodating mother, father, an untold number of daughters and a son. On the first floor, the largest of these rooms is the kitchen. It's a large area with woodstove stove, sink, new birch cabinets and several offset rooms. The Ootensiles live in two smaller rooms off the larger kitchen.

They first came to live with the Germans after their farmhouse burned. A temporary placement over time became permanent. The big white clapboard house is a busy place in the summer. Vegetables are picked and canned daily for the long Pennsylvania winter. Bakery, especially pies, are made to sell to tourists at the end of the gravel driveway. On the guardrail at the opposite side of the highway, the Germans fix a sign that simply read nightcrawlers with an arrow pointing to Shady Lane. They sell the worms gathered after sunset to anglers who pass by their gravel road on their way to The River. In a good year, they sell a thousand dozen nightcrawlers. They raise chickens, geese and sell eggs. Horses provide pulling power and cows give them fresh,whole milk brimming with cream. In early summer, strawberries are their main crop. The gravel road is busy with people from all over driving up to buy quarts of sweet, red berries. Across from a small white building where eggs were kept cool, they set up a white canopy tent. On a six-foot long white plastic table flats of strawberries are displayed. To the side is a series of stepped shelves made of pine planks displaying jams, jellies and sweet pickles. You can get a good price on the homemade food if you promised to bring back the jar. Most forget to return the jar.

The Ootensiles took in Grandpa after Grandma died from from a kick in the head from a grumpy milk cow. Grandpa is a large, dairy farmer going on seventy years in age. There's Dad, not quite as big as Grandpa, Mom who's a bit taller than Dad who has a tendency to stoop and four kids. The boys-Rex, Ralph and Randolph-are a spittin’ image of Dad. Without the stoop, they are rounder-a bit pudgy some folks say. The youngest daughter is but a “wee bit”. While Mom, Helga as the Germans call her, is sturdy and tall, the little girl has delicate features and long, slender fingers. The boys are quiet like Dad. The little girl, Katrina, the youngest and somewhat fragile, is pampered most of her life. She is not allowed to roughhouse. As a result she is rather spoiled. Grandpa idles around the kitchen waiting for a moment to be put to use. Dad and Mom, always in some sort of hot water, are involved in food preparation with the German matriarch named Elsbeth. The boys are busiest at breakfast when oatmeal, porridge or dry cereal is served. They sit patiently at the table waiting for the Germans to come downstairs at 5 am. The little girl is kept apart from the boys because of her “condition”. She sits alone, staring at the ceiling wishing she were somewhere else. As a result she is cranky. The Norwegians termed it “foosy” in their language, which translated to fussy after you separated the accent from the word. The Germans called her verruckt.

it's hard tp compose with only your pointy finger, an extremely happy cat on you lap who will slide off if you don't

hold on to him and a puppy outside suspiciously quiet. more later.

Day two: Notes about the Ootenstiles.

Happy cat is outside hunting, Psycho puppy is running in large circles barking at a metal chair at the edge of the Brussels Sprouts which I used yesterday when picking yellow beans. I notice the Ootenstiles are living high on a hill which makes me wonder what they were smoking. "Dad stoops and four boys." What??? Didn't anyone proofread this claptrap. Grandpa came to live with the Ootenstiles after Granma died in the fire? Didn't the Norwegians move in with the Amish after their farmhouse caught on fire? Grandpa would have died in the fire too? Grandpa would have been living with his daughter or son-in-law before the fire if Grandma died in the fire. Why would only the German call Mom Helga if that were her true Norwegian name. Why would Norwegians use a Scottish nickname for the little girl? Dad and Mom in " some sort of hot water". What? Were they stealing quarters from the Germans? Did anyone look up "foosey" in a Norwegian dictionary? Did you catch the living conditions of the Ootenstiles? They live in two rooms off the kitchen. One would have to be for Dad and Mom who wouldn't want to be caught gettin' snakey by the children if they lived in the same room. But, the four boys share a room with the little girl who is kept separate because of her condition.

My life is broken into short bits of uninterrupted time. In the evening I rarely get to watch a movie without taking a puppy outside to pee, look for a wandering cat, checking to see why the dog is barking, checking to see why it's so quiet outside and throwing a cat or dog outside when rough housing inside causes one or both to yelp. I let the cat in, kick out the dog and in a matter of minutes hear a thump on the second floor. The cat comes downstairs with a dark brown lump of fur in his mouth. What the hay! A mouse upstairs? Upon closer examination it's a bat. Oh gee. Memories of a bedtime romp chasing a bat with a tennis racket while Dawn holds up a towel to capture the thing.

Now, early Tuesday, the dog's barking again. I see nothing on the drive or in the garden. We've already made friends with the chair. Her hackles are raised. She causes a dog from a mile away at Kettner's Cabins to start barking. The neighbor's dogs begin to bark. I bring her inside and find her on a side chair with tufts of stuffing at the sides of her snout. Will I ever get to finish this piece?

Bare With Me

I have four passions in life. They are ( not in order of importance) art ( art is life), organic farming, animals and writing. The sub list would include romantic movies with a happy ending, chocolate, pie, clean air, women of all shapes, sizes and colors, cooking, music especially indigenous music from all cultures, real Mexican food like huachinango and learning/teaching. I no longer have a life list that includes driving an 18 wheeler or flying an airplane, but I'll start my own school, God help me, and take back all the things that parochial, public and private school teachers stole from me. Yes, I'm fortunate to have attended all three, the longest of which was a co-ed private school in Milwaukee where I was able to rub shoulders with some of the snottiest individuals I've ever met. A few were good friends. One even became my wife. What a bunch of leakers, including the ex-wife.

This blog began at the suggestion of a friend and business consultant. Originally designed to draw attention to the business of art which I have been involved in many different aspects since 1988 when I quit teaching in the inner city and went on to start a sole proprietorship, then corporation and now a hobby business existing solely on-line.

I got sidetracked. I consider myself a word-smith. I shape ideas and images with words. My goal is to describe anything/anyone in such clear language that the reader would see my words as a painting. I've accomplished that a few times in the past and occasionally to a few who've followed Seven Roads To Home in the past year. The writing took over. Then organic gardening/farming took over.

Our place covers almost five acres. Previous owners converted most of the five acres into lawn, mature landscaping, forty foot pine trees and a neglected field. The weed infested overgrown horse pasture is at present 11 separate plots. At one time there were 19 gardens: asparagus, herb, mini pumpkin, squash, peony/wildflower and an extended list of unusual vegetables such as okra and edamame. Then I met an Amish family.

Their influence led me to specialize on crops I could can, freeze and dehydrate. The economy in recent years helped with that decision. Living better on less became my mantra.

I realized today I have drifted away from the original focus of the blog. That's OK though, because I've had the privilege of associating with interesting people around the globe. Today I surfed Blogger. I discovered artists out there. My creative urges of late have been in culinary arts. I need to rekindle my intuitive artist side.

My wife is a talented artist. In the near twenty years I've known her, she has painted and crafted her way through a web of projects. She's painted bottle gourds to look like gnomes, made rawhide drums decorated with snakeskin, designed tribal jewelry from organic decorative elements like coral, claw and bone. She's taught dance, scored #4 in the nation in a kick boxing tournament, survived a 19 year tour of duty at the USPS and now works with the elderly as a certified care giver, activities director and gopher.

My daughter is a talented photographer graduating from the Chicago Art Institute. The youngest daughter survives by taking a daily beating as a customer service rep for a large department store. You'd never know she taught in Japan for several years and has innate art skills in painting and ceramics. No.2 son works as an urban environment specialist assisting tourists. He's a talented writer with a truck load of real life experiences he may draw on some day. No.1 son can tell people he injected mosquitoes in research projects, directed the food service operation for a major university, is so valued as a knowledgeable server in a top rated restaurant that he won impressive monetary awards, one of which I was able to enjoy- a night at a five star hotel including a gourmet breakfast. Thanks to the banking system and the previous administration he holds several jobs to make ends meet.

I'll be taking more time with the art side of life and infusing this blog with, I hope, inspiration and creative chaos. The writing will continue. Thanks for your interest.

Contrast

Sniff. Sniff. Usually a two part exercise.

I walk past the closet in the office which is stuffed with winter coats. Out of habit, I leave the door open. The chimney runs through this closet. In winter, the wall gets hot to the touch from the wood stove running continuously. The plaster on the south side of the closet is cracked. My leather coat hangs at a safe distance from the wall so it too doesn't dry out and crack.

It is so humid of late, I can smell the coats in the closet. It rained in the afternoon yesterday. This morning, dew drips from the trees giving the appearance of rain overnight. There's the faint odor of tomatoes permeating the house. Pureed tomatoes are simmering in the twelve quart stainless steel pot on the LP gas stove.

The early morning routine goes without a hitch. The cat comes upstairs, snuggles next to my face and licks my nose. I look at the clock. It's 5:30. Then I roll over. The Pooch retreats to the foot of the bed for safety. He could be crushed if I roll over onto him. At 6:15 he reminds me, again, that it is time to get up.

Mandy is out cold in her doghouse. Usually she stands in the entrance of the dog house waiting for me to slip on rubber, calf-length muck boots. When I step out into the breezeway, she lifts her head. "Oh, it's you, " her eyes tell me. "Come on you lazy lump," I say. "It's time to get up." She falls out of the dog house, stretches and jumps on my knee for a morning hug. I open the gate and she follows me to the driveway.

The Pooch, for safety reasons, goes out the deck door for a head start on the dog. He's already digging in the soft dirt of the old potato garden. When Mandy spots the cat, she makes a beeline for him. Constant threats of annihilation, have made an impression on the dog. She now makes a quick nose connection with the Pooch, smells his butt and walks away. Previous to now, she would have bowled him over as she runs at the cat full speed. One can see the border collie traits as she runs side by side with the cat, nudging him toward a destination. Her puppy inexperience includes nips and jumps on his back.

Back inside I open a can of Country Blend Pate canned cat food. I lay a small dab into a bowl and put it on the floor for Mandy. On a clear glass saucer I give the Pooch the select bits of the canned food including the gravy. I put the plate on a terry cloth rag I used to dry the cat when he came in last evening. He was soaking wet from the rain in the afternoon. The cat looks at the food, sniffs and buries it using the towel to cover most of the plate. The dog looks at the white ceramic bowl with blue trim and walks away in disgust. I'd like to video the scene and send it to the makers of the cat food.

I purchase a Boston Butt pork roast on sale on a trip to town. I pull it out of the frig, slice off a generous hunk and cut it into small pieces. I nuke Mandy's plate for 12 seconds 'cause she likes cooked meat. The Pooch is still into raw meat of any kind. The cat jumps up on the console table by the kitchen window and nibbles at the pork. Mandy gobbles her plate full of nicely warmed raw pork. The drill ends with the Pooch leaving via the deck door for the morning hunt. Mandy stays inside to consume a bowl of raw milk, string cheese, the rest of the cat's breakfast and remnants from my breakfast of waffles and eggs. More and more the line between cat and dog begins to blur. I catch the cat licking the dog in unmentionable areas. Mandy is unusually still. I photograph the dog sleeping in the same favorite snooze position of the cat. Last evening both are side by side eating dry cat food at the west wall of the kitchen. Mandy likes the Plus Care dry cat food. The Pooch prefers the Active Blend. I'm happy that the bag of Plus Care is dwindling. It would have gotten old and stale without Mandy's help.

09/09/09

On the waning side of the full moon(or is it waxing?) weird things happen. Not the weird of ghosts appearing in the hallway at night or the dog talking. I suppose one would more correctly say different.

The pick up has been having problems. I've taken it to the repair shop several times. The bills are mounting. Each time it appears to perform, or in this case, start without difficulty at first. Then, at odd times it chugs, shakes and coughs. Dawn walks across the tiled floor of the retirement home. She doesn't notice a pool of water because of the usual shiny reflection of the tiled surface. A resident's shower leaks on the 2nd floor. It flows from the sub floor to the opening of a light fixture on the first floor and floods a 4X4 foot area. Dawn takes a header. She files a report. This morning she's sleeping in. Perhaps she'll get an extra hour to heal her aching back.

Mandy's sharp yips draw me from the keyboard to the back door. The cat is sitting on the roof of her doghouse looking smug. Mandy has a piece of brown fur in her mouth that originally was a catnip toy for the Pooch. She looks as if she has a furry, brown clown nose. Out of frustration she's dragged one of two blankets from the doghouse. If she can't torture the cat, she'll take it out on the blanket.

The opening shot of the garden is a good example of life here in September. We're fogged in until the sun rises over the hills to the east. Any person with half a brain would work outside in the cool morning. Slathered with mosquito repellent, early morning garden work is a pleasant, quiet meditation. I don't get to the tomato harvest until the height of the heat of the day. I have an excuse. I didn't think there were any ripe tomatoes left in the garden. On a mid-morning walkabout in the garden, I utter that famous garden curse, Cheeses K. Rice. My Amish friends have a customer who wants bushels of tomatoes. Although organic, my tomatoes are a motley mix of Italian paste, Early 4th of July, Big Boys and Flavor Kings with lots of sun scald and other damage. The Delicious tomatoes are a version of Beefsteak and are the size of softballs. I pick a bushel. The price I sell them barely covers my time in picking and washing.

After performing tasks related to the kitchen remodel, I toss Mandy on the front seat of the truck for a drive across the ridge top. We make a stop at the Kwik Stop for a soda and gas. Mandy reaches over the glass of the partially lowered truck window sniffing fumes and people. She'll put her head in my lap and close her eyes once we get back on the highway. Pulling onto School Road she notices the change in speed and the cover of trees overhead. She jumps on my lap to look out the window. She knows were close to her friend Buddy's house.

It's late in the afternoon. The heat of the day has everyone out on the veranda sewing or just resting from a hard day's work. The Amish have their wood stove going all the time. It's warmer inside the kitchen, but it's a friendly heat that I no longer notice. As I approach the porch, I misunderstand what the Matriarch is saying. "What, the puppy you just gave away to a relative? " I ask. She repeats. "Mandy's friend is gone." Gone? For the past few days Buddy has been wandering further and further away from the farm. They decide to tie him up this evening to cure him of wandering ways. Further explanation. Gone as in dead.

Titus looks for Buddy in the foggy pre-dawn. He's off wandering again. At first light they see a car stop near the end of their road on the busy U.S. highway. The car owner gets out to check for damage to the car and drives off. Buddy is lying on the gravel apron, mortally injured. Later someone drags him into the weeds in the ditch beside the highway.

I offer to throw him in the back of the truck and bury him near the river on our place. Titus comes over and leans on the side of the truck bed. "You got a pitcher of Buddy, right?" He says he'll try to get another furry brown lump from the same person that sold him Buddy. I tell him I'll print out a picture and bring it over Thursday.

Dog gone it. He was my friend too!

Labor Day Tasty Bits

Last Saturday the Pup and I drive down the road for doughnuts. We exit the U.S. highway to a short gravel road across from the Amish farm where I traded a tackle box, a fishing rod, two additional reels and a fish net for the Blue Heeler/Border Collie puppy. The doughnut maker is the wife of the Patriarch's brother. There's a sign on the highway Donuts with an arrow and another on their driveway: Fresh Donuts Today. There are two front doors. The one to the kitchen has a sign that says Open. I imagine there are English out there deathly afraid of being kidnapped and beaten by the Amish, hence the encouraging signs. I turn in the circular drive trying to avoid baby chicks running all over the front yard. I knock. "Come in, " is the response. The kitchen table is loaded with cinnamon buns in aluminum pans, huge loaves of bread in plastic wrappers and canned goods in glass jars. Sitting on a bench at the back wall is Enis, my carpenter.

I've been trying to get in contact with Enis for weeks. I want him to partition a space in the pole shed currently used for storage. Framed and insulated, it will be my winter workshop. Ted and Fred, the riding mowers, the tiller, push mower, string trimmer, chain saws and other mechanical implements can safely spend the winter in an insulated garage away from mice who love to chew wires and build nests in air filters in the metal shed we use for tool storage.

"Hey Enis," I exclaim. "I didn't expect you to be here." Enis tells me he waiting to put up some hay. We discuss the project and Enis says he'll call me at the end of the week. He seems reserved so I take ten doughnuts the size of tractor tires and head for home.

I'm contemplating a return to wood carving. If I make furniture it will be exclusively for sale at the Amish auction. In past lives I made unusual furniture out of recycled materials. Living in the Southwest with the Hispanic influences there, the triple and quadruple wash colors on my furniture were popular. In staid Norwegian country, they are oddities. I'll make furniture for the masses and carve for my own amusement. The photograph at the top is one example. If you look closely at Chubby Nun, she has a spider web in her halo. It's my finger poke at my upbringing and 4 years in a Catholic elementary school. Raised in a foster home, I wasn't baptized in the faith. I was told I'd spend eternity in purgatory- a scary thing for an eight year old.

I surf blogger again. For the past 12 weeks I've been so busy with farming and food prep for the winter, I've had little time for the computer, blogs and e-mail. A comment in one blog I follow about connecting up with other bloggers has me curious. I go to her site and check some of her followers. The 42 people who have signed up at her blog have some interesting material. One has 928 followers. I scroll to some of the older posts and find an amusing tale about a stray cat, putting a sign on the road advertising the stray: "Strange Pussy Found" with a photo and clever composition that makes me envious. I decide I'll keep posting stories of life here in the Driftless Region. For reasons of their own, not all of those who follow my blog are posted as followers. I suppose if I put some effort into it, I could attract more people. With additional coverage, however, I'd have to put up with cranky people, folks who don't understand the culture here, people with an agenda to push and possibly a crazie or two.

I enjoy the crazies. Over the years I've met a few who I classified as friends of sorts. Mo for example would bring me fireplace parts to my retail store, cassette tapes of African chanting called Tigrina and up until he was diagnosed with some mental disorder that necessitated lithium treatments, I found him to be extremely educated and intellectual.

It's too quiet out there. I've been focused on the computer. No sharp yips from the puppy indicating frustration with the cat's antics. The cat loves to torment the dog sitting above the dog on a step or porch railing, teasing her and swiping at Mandy's nose with his sharp claws. Mandy will get a few bites in before the cat rolls over on his back in a defensive posture. I've seen this tactic previously when The Pooch(the cat) got into a fight with a roving feral cat. The feral cat and Pucci rolled over and over in a writhing lump of fur until the black and white stray ran off, leaping over the snowbanks like a porpoise in the ocean. Life with the Pup is a test for me. ADD(attention deficit disorder) in the works. Watching a DVD movie in the evening is rarely without interruption. I walk to the deck, hoping that the computer doesn't crash or shut down and check on the animals.

Aw shucks. The cat and dog are both lying on a piece of carpet I put in front of the deck door. The cat is licking the dog's face. It's a quiet moment too precious to ignore. I know I'll never get a photograph of the event. The two don't sit still long enough for me to run for the camera, so I call Dawn.

More composition at the computer. Spell checking my writing, I hear the dog barking. This is not a yip. It's a warning bark. Walking out in the warm morning sunshine, Mandy is in full bark mode with her hackles raised. She's barking at the tree at the edge of the house. The cat comes out of hiding from under the deck to investigate. I ask the Pooch (the cat), " What's going on here?" He saunters over to Mandy who now is lying on the sand of an incomplete patio. The cat lies next to the dog and extends a paw to Mandy. Ah shucks, they may really be friends after all the bickering, tussling, biting and posturing.

Drywalling a Doghouse

Dear Ella,
Earlier this morning blogger was so slow I bolted and decided to e-mail you instead of adding a new post. My e-mail included the subject material, some basic info. and an attachment with the ff. story which I hope will transpose from Microsoft Word. My e-mail to you was rejected. When I looked up the reason and went to your PPS, it told me that for security reasons I was blocked. There were quite a few other e-mails similarly blocked. As I told Del in my follow-up phone call, your spam protection is probably keeping me from e-mailing you. Recent e-mails, if you recall, have been to me with a reply to you. Talk to Del tonight. Here goes nuthin'.
R____________

If you work backwards, it was a perfectly good idea. Mid-afternoon. I’d driven Mandy around the area. The purpose was two-fold. One, I need to drive the truck frequently to pinpoint the problem with the ignition. Second, I’d like to get Mandy comfortable with driving, possibly long distances. This is a systematic process since she also needs to be leash trained. Many domestic pets are lost while traveling.

In my mind, the garden doesn’t exist. At least, not for now. I look at the slant-roofed doghouse and notice there’s a gap at the inside back between the roof and back wall. Cold icy winter winds will make the house a refrigerator. I’ve several pieces of two-inch Styrofoam insulation. I put a folded up sheet on the ground for my tender knees and crawl inside to measure. The doghouse is large enough to accommodate the dog and myself. Mandy does her part by slobbering on my ears, nose printing my glasses. Lately she’s become very attached to me, sleeping on my lap when we’re traveling.

I saw the two pieces of insulation to fit exactly. Bi-focals never seem to measure things correctly. The Styrofoam fits tightly. So tight, that I have to push on it to stay against the back wall. I remeasure for sheetrock. The sheet rock will hold the insulation in place. I’m screwing the sheetrock in place as Dawn drives up. The cat is sitting on the truck gate. This is unusual because of his distaste for machinery of any kind. It’s a safe haven from Mandy.

Mandy greets Dawn, wagging her tail furiously. Dawn admonishes the dog for jumping up. I count sixteen marks on my arms from Mandy’s claws and teeth. The combination of puppy claws and teeth and the blood pressure medication that makes my skin paper-thin remind me that approaching cold weather-long sleeve shirts will literally save my hide.

All the material for Mandy’s abode has been recycled. Most of the house is 3/4ths inch plywood. With shingles and two 4X4’s for a foundation the thing is getting so heavy, I can barely move it back to the evening position in front of the garage door. I’m aware that it may be an anachronism if softhearted Bob keeps Mandy inside in cold weather. Right now, she’s a pee-bomb. She can go off at any time, anywhere.

On our travels yesterday, we visited my webmaster who lives in a 100+ year old house on a road named for the original owners. He’s remolded it nicely, I see driving up. There’s a new front porch and the siding over the old log walls was removed. The technique of plastering would date this house. In visiting Old World Wisconsin with my classes, I learned that Norwegians of different periods had their own techniques for filling in the gaps between logs. A log cabin building workshop I attend in the 80’s for example, taught me that some pioneers used a scribe to mark the lower and upper log so that the contours of both fit like spoons in a drawer. Alan comes out when we’re greeted by three loud dogs in the yard. I get out, holding Mandy back. “Stay there girl,” I tell her. She’s a mouthful for the golden lab nosing inside the cab of my truck.

I can hear Mandy barking from the truck as Al and I chat. The visit ends abruptly when a car pulls up. I find Mandy cowering on the floor below my steering wheel. I do the “I could have had a V-8, slap to the forehead. Mandy’s never seen another dog outside of Buddy her pal and Mandy Sr. her Mom. To give Mandy credit, she doesn’t mess my seats. I notice marks on the carpet on the floor where she peed out of fear.

As we pull off, in a wide circle around the front yard it appears the car is full of Jehovah’s Witnesses. Poor Al.

What Happened to Summer?

September two. Fog and frost in the area. Temper-atures in the low sixties inside the house. The garden has gone to seed. The last of the tomato crop went into 11 quarts of seasoned sauce. Weeds taller than me, moles furiously digging tunnels everywhere, hummingbirds down to a few hardy souls sipping at the feeders, pumpkins large and orange behind the house, sunset before 8 pm, box elders dropping leaves, carpeting the driveway.

Click on the photo for a really large view!