For All the George's, Bambi Dads, & 'More for You' I've loved before..

Here B & I are doing the My Fitness Pal, well most of the time I am.  I haven’t logged in for a couple of days to be honest.  There’s no excuse, but to find an excuse.  The dog hasn’t eaten my homework.  My sister hasn’t ripped up my phone.  I haven’t lost it because I was walking up hill both ways, both home and then back to work, with flip flops (it would be a bigger fib if I said barefooted).  I haven’t got a sprained texting finger, or anything of the sort…I just plain haven’t done it.  It hurting no one but myself.  Today I will reinvent my super powers of logging in, and take hold of this fitness craze that I’d like to be wrapped in.  Really, I don’t know why I haven’t-because I even did crunches.  I felt something in my abdomen area, they might be muscles that have been lost and were thankful that I thought to look for them again?  I did the elliptical and paid attention to my intake of food.  I just haven’t logged it all in.  I just cleared my throat and felt those old abdomen reminders again.  Deal, I will log in today.

Speaking of food, I thought of how we ate as children.  It is quite the picture in my mind to remember how we ate.  The 70’s and 80’s were a transitioning period in the culture of America, and food.  There were Fry-Daddy’s, Shake n Bake, TV Dinners, Hamburger Helper,  Hostess anything, Pringles, New Sizzlean, Parkay, Velveeta, Idaho Potato Sticks, Tab & Mr. Pibb, Freshen-Up Gum, and don’t forget about “Hey! Kool-Aid!”.  We were kids who grew up in the transition of our mothers going into the work force, and our generation was becoming latch-key kids.  B & I were fortunate enough that for a long while our Mother was home with us, and I went home to she and my sister after school.  But, as times changed, we too were a part of the transition in a Women’s Lib world.  Such controversy, still does exist in today’s society with opinions of the need of socialization of our children outside of the home, to the misnomer  of wealth on the basis of a stay at home mother vs. a mother who ‘works’ outside of the home.  I would venture to guess that the majority of families where the mother stays at home have figured the finances down to a science, allowing them the ability to stay home with their babies.  There are some women who want to return to work due to the fulfillment that they receive at their position in the outside work world or the education they hold to bring them there, and that is what makes them a better mother.  What an idea, accepting all of the different forms of mothering and not passing judgment on another for their choices, as we do not walk in another’s shoes.  When it comes to the age old saying of ‘Always eat dinner together as a family,” that is a tradition that I still stand by, from when I was allowed the opportunity to be a ‘stay at home Mom’, to that of today, as a ‘working Mother’.  (Please Note:  My belief is that all Mothers are working mothers-period.)   Around the dinner table these days we experience the differences in ways of cooking, style, health consciousness,  to swiftness.  We pack our days and nights with activities, boy scouts, softball, awards, FFA, conferences, IEP’s, and the works.  Yet try to be as close to 100% at the dinner table together.  As a child, we had the same tradition, but the food was very different.  I think to no fault of my Mother’s cooking abilities, it feels that most all was fried.  It was fried steak, chicken, potatoes, you name it-it could be fried.  We did eat a lot of BBQ, also.  But, most remarkably in my memory was that of the freezer and the meats that were wrapped in white butcher paper.  Yes, we lived off the land as much as possible, in a civilized way. 

If you recall I spent as much time at my Grandparents and would ride the bus ‘out’ there and make my candy run down the private drive to each house (each homeowner was retired or near retirement & home), reporting how my school day was and sit straight up, and hands folded in my lap to then be asked, “Would you like a piece of candy?”  “ME? Oh! Sure! Thank you.”  When in reality, my sweet report of the school day was simply my ploy to get a sweet!  On some of these after school, or weekend adventures to my Grandparents I would be introduced to an array of animals, mostly I speak of cattle.  I would be happy to climb carefully on the barbed wire fencing to climb up and see them out in the pasture.  I would figure out a good name for them, and skip down the road to collect my sweets.  Later on to sit and eat dinner with my Grandparents and, discuss the new addition to the pasture.  During that discussion, I’d let him know of the perfect name I had chosen, and hoped he’d pick the name I said rather than one of my cousins… “I think that George is so cute, I like his brownish red and white spots.”  My Grandpa would with a stern voice, simply reply “Don’t name ‘em.’ I was a kid and every pet needed a name.  Time would pass, and carrots and sweet grass would be fed to ‘George’ whenever I got the chance.  ‘George’ would know all of my problems, which boys I had a crush on, and if my cousins were mean and didn’t share I’d tell ‘George’, he’d always listen and look so intent.  Over and over my innocence over-ruled Grandpa’s wisdom, and my perpetual experiences of loss.  As over the dinner table, the meal would be served and my Grandpa would ask how I liked my burger?  It was good, he cooked differently than my Mom.  I don’t know what it was but, it was different.  He would then say, “How’s George taste?”  I thought I would DIE!  I would cry…to this day I don’t know why I’m not a vegetarian.  But, the meat in white butcher paper experiences didn’t stop at the George’s in my life…the rural town we grew up in , there are a lot of hunters and fishermen.  Fishing was a main industry ‘back in the days of or town’s history.’  We experienced it all, and at face value.  When it was hunting season, I would practically beg to go with my Grandpa.  Most of the time, the travel was silent.  There was an occasional AM radio station on, until we got to our destination on the back roads.  It was there, that I had to keep an eye out for a buck.  I was very keen when ‘road hunting’, I could see better than my Grandpa, and could always point them out, in the distance AND count how many points.  His successes were partly from a little girl who would have done anything to go on those quiet trips.  I loved the jerky!  But, one time we weren’t ‘road hunting’ we were on foot, we walked, and hiked, and traveled some distance…and came around a corner where we had been tracking prints, and there was a huge buck.  There was a bluff on the other side of the buck, and if you don’t know-deer are the best hikers and can pretty much go anywhere in steep ravines, and hillsides…But, for some reason this guy either thought he was a bad ass or didn’t think that he could descend the bluff to get away.  Pokey, Grandpa’s other side kick in hunting was barking and growling at this buck that was a bazillion times bigger than the dog…and the buck reared up and did this cartoonish rendition of what I imagine Bambi’s Dad would have done when in a pickle with a human….and then started to bolt towards us.  I froze!  My Grandpa was ahead of me and got into position and aimed right at Bambi’s Dad…and KABOOM!  I watched for the first time, the first step to my jerky I loved so much.  I burst into tears and fell to the ground.  My Grandpa thought I had gotten hurt by something…and I had.  I hadn’t really seen this before, I knew that he killed them…but, really didn’t think past the racks and racks of racks (antlers) that were on display in his garage…I was sobbing, and he said something to the effect that I was a baby and had to be strong, and he couldn’t carry me and the buck back on the hike to the truck.  He tagged it, Pokey and he were just so happy.  I’m sure when I reflect now, that the story he told to the fellas was that of the buck challenging him and running towards him…rather than having to shoot it and have to try to climb down or up to drag Bambi’s Dad out of the brush getting ticks and poison oak…this one delivered himself to him.  I bet he left out the fact that I was a wreck, and that I continued to sob the entire way back to the truck.  I’m also certain that it was around an hour to the truck…we were deep in the thicket!  Grandpa slung the deer over his shoulder and packed it, I was to follow.  At first I looked eye to eye, as the lifeless body was dangling over my Grandpas shoulder.  For a moment, I thought how strong he must be to carry the heavy buck…then that thought quickly left my mind, as his BIG BROWN eyes stared right back into MY BIG BROWN TEARY EYES, he never blinked.  I tried to squeeze the vision from my mind, but had to follow, and keep up with my Grandpa…Be tough.  Be strong. No crying. Don’t be a baby.  I don’t think I like jerky anymore, I thought.  I never really did like venison anyhow.  Now, I really don’t like it.  I survived and was silent the rest of the way home.  He dropped me off, and told my Mom what happened in an elated version, with the part about me crying.  My Mom asked me if I was okay…I was, I was home.  I don’t know how long I had nightmares; it feels like it was forever.  But, I don’t think it was.  Because the next time my Grandpa called to see if I wanted to go, I went.  I never had that type of experience again, there was nearly never a year he went without using all of his tags.  I would pray at night that he wouldn’t get one, but then point them out to him anyhow.  I think it’s funny how we just keep on keeping on with what we experience. 

Fishing as I mentioned was another childhood experience, and one that I cherish to this day.  Also a quiet experience, that left a lovely impression on my memory.  I love and loved the cold waters of the rivers, the lakes, and the ocean.  I loved the challenge of getting the fish to bite…mastering the cast and being more patient than my cousins…and we always had a competition.  It was whoever caught the most fish, the biggest fish, and first fish.  Whoever got the most out of these three categories won.  We didn’t win anything, just were the winner until the next fishing trip!  For my birthday I would get new tackle, tackle box, fishing license, and then get to go fishing with my Grandpa.  It became a tradition.  I loved that he was predictable that way.  I caught my first Steelhead with him, many Rainbow, a few Brown’s, Red Tail Perch off of the beach, Cod, Rock Fish, and one’s I don’t even remember the names of…We went surf fishing, night fishing, and loved every single experience.  Admittedly so, I don’t like to eat anything from the water, because we ate a lot of it when I was a kid.  I didn’t like the taste or texture of it then, and unfortunately still don’t like it today.  I’ve always thought that, this means more salmon for you, more abalone for you, more fish-n-chips etc.  Doesn’t it?  I’m dabbling in it these days, and it’s still a difficult thing to get over…

There was a ranch we would go to that was a family members named Auntie Em, and they raised sheep.  I also liked going there as a child.  There was always something interesting and rustic going on, that didn’t happen in town.  Sheep look so sweet.  But, when in the pen with them, they were always so scared and would herd together…the baby lambs that didn’t take to their mother would be in the laundry room, and we could bottle feed them.  I loved that.  I loved going there because Auntie Em  ALWAYS had sugar cereal, like Frosted Flakes-Tony Tiger kind, we didn’t have that at home.  She also had a piano, and I wanted to learn to play and one of her grandchildren would always plop down and play, it was so beautiful sounding.  I would dream of learning to play some day.  We spent most of the time outdoors there and I saw a lot there, I watched the men when they’d sheer, or castrate the sheep.  The sheep would scream, and I’d cover my ears, but it was still too loud.  So, I’d run back across the road to go into the laundry room with the babies, or out to the pen with the Billy goats and sheep already sheered.  They looked so naked, and I didn’t understand why they had to do that!  It was so awful! I didn’t know what the castration was and knew enough when it was slaughter to leave and go to the furthest place I was allowed to go in the fields.   I quickly recognized the smell of the meat and would nearly refuse to eat it, for as long as I could at the dinner table-because of the vision I would get.  But, it was a way of life, it’s what we did, it’s what we had.  Each time, I returned and experienced the good with the bad…and cherish the good to this day.

I think food is interesting.  I think we don’t really pay attention to what we put into our mouths.  There was a time when preservatives weren’t the big deal that they are today.  There was a time when hormones weren’t used to the capacity and the reasoning behind their use in today’s standards… My Fitness Pal is a start to reminding myself to pay attention.

The garden was a HUGE part of my childhood.  My Grandparents had an absolutely beautiful garden.  They had corn, pumpkins, tomatoes, kohlrabi, cabbage, beets, radish,   peas, swiss chard, and variations of anything and everything.  They had fruit trees and canned, made jelly, made preserves, dried fruits and nuts…made soap…truly lived off of their land.  I wish we could do that.  I wish my children had been able to have these experiences.  I wish that I could today go to the freezer in the garage, and get meat wrapped in white butcher paper, or have a piece of jerky.  I’ll still share the foods from the water, like salmon, abalone, crab or any other slimy, yucky fishy item…and still stand behind the ‘more for you’ theory.  I’d like to think that the preparation I’d use with my Foreman Grill, or BBQ, or steamed, or baked might help me like Bambi’s Dad, or George…then again, I think I’ll take it the way I get it…I don’t know what their names are, or if they were bad ass before their demise. 

No trades, no take backs, I love the experiences above…and even though many of you know I’m a cry baby anyhow…now you know I’ve also cried over my dinner plate’s content.  Don’t even get me started on chicken!  I really would like to know how they raise those chickens boneless, skinless these days. (Insert wink!)

Love Deeply, Live out Loud & Live your Dash,

T

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