Bittersville

Bittersville was- and still is, I suppose, seeing as the sprawl of suburbia from nearby York will likely never reach so far into the sticks -the name of a the place on the map- not a 'town' really, just a collection of houses and homes that once upon a time someone decided needed a name. A name like 'Bittersville'... -between Windsor and Craley PA. Adjacent to Martinsville- or just a stone's throw away, at any rate -it was one of the two places I referenced- the other being Martinsville -when I explained to people where my home was the last year of high school. And the year after. Actually, I had two residences because we shuttled back and forth between our place for the previous, mmm, twelve years and the 'new house', the house with the pool. Aaahhh, the pool. I never missed the too-hot-in-summer, too-cold-in-winter converted attic room which was mine(at last I didn't have to share a room with my younger brother so it was swell nonetheless)and I never missed the proximity of the road which led to the demise of one dear little black dog(Heidi)but the pool... that I really missed every so often.

But I digress. I'd get a lot of blank looks when I said I lived between Martinsville and Bittersville. Until I mentioned Windsor or Craley. Which were much larger metropolises(Or 'metropoli', whatever the plural of 'metropolis' may be)and then folks would nod knowingly, back on solid ground, geographically speaking.

But Bittersville has nothing to do with the name of this forum. That's another story entirely.

Situated in one or the other- Bittersville or Martinsville, I can't really remember which without Googling up a map and I'm disinclined to do so at the moment -was a little country store we knew as Hildebrand's after the name of the proprietor, Perry. He might just as well have called it 'Perry's' but I guess that might have seemed a bit, I dunno, self-aggrandizing. There might have been a sign proclaiming it 'Hildebrand's' but that I don't recall either. It didn't seem important then because we knew where it was, we knew what it was and we knew what they offered to the general public and passersby. Which was all manner of general goods, good both needful and inconsequential, things you couldn't live without- milk, bread,eggs and toilet paper -and things you didn't want to live without, especially if you were a youngster- trading cards, candy and soda.

Which brings me to my point: For some time I've bemoaned the absence in the modern world(nothing, I think, makes you sound or feel more like an old person than speaking the phrase 'modern world' and knowing it's a time and place you'd choose not to be given a reliable time machine and a suitcase full of money)of a good cream soda. Sure, there are plenty of options in the grocery stores, in the convenience stores that are called 'cream soda'. There are red ones and brown ones, clear ones and even browner ones. But try to find a yellow one. You can't. Or at least I haven't found one. What's the differnce, you ask? Well, admittedly it's the difference between a red apple or a yellow apple. They both still taste like an apple. But there's a shade, a sense, a nuance you get from yellow if you remember cream soda by Crass. Which was yellow. And which was more often than not the primary reason that as a youth I'd take up my portable cassette player, plug in Bad Company's Runnin' With The Pack and start walking, not running, the two miles from the home place in Bittersville to Hildebrand's store.

Crass cream soda had no bite, no edge, no sting behind your eyeballs or on your tongue. It was a purely soft drink and, as the name implied, creamy. It seemed more like a dairy product than a soda pop. It had no dynamic fizz or 'pop', in fact, a little, sure, but mostly it was just sweet, vanilla creaminess... mmmm... Some time ago something brought to my mind the thought of Crass cream soda and I began to make it a point to try out the various beverages labeled 'cream soda' when the opportunity arose, seeking one that perchance might rekindle that same smooth, yellow sensation that dwelt in the ethereal dreamland of my sense memory of long, long ago.

Naturally, nothing ever came close. There seemed a gamut from an 'earthen' root beer taste- why not just call it 'root beer', I'd wonder? -to a deathly sweetness that made even my sweet tooth recoil, squealing little toothy screams. So it was a boon, a swoon, a happy happenstance when, fresh from some medical errand at a local health campus, my spouse, her sister and I visited an adjacent roadside fruit-and-vegetable stand. Along with the fresh produce of the ground and the orchard, there were baked goods and snack items to be had and, what's this? A 'cream soda'? Reading Bottle Works Cream Soda. A light tan color. Hmmm, well, how about this, I sez to myself, it's worth a buck to test yet another so-called 'cream soda'. And, wow... it was good. Really, it was. Now, don't get me wrong, it wasn't a Crass Cream Soda. But it was pretty darn good. A little on the fizzy side but with a nice vanilla flavor, not bad, not bad at all. I'd be back for more, for sure.

Naturally, several subsequent visits found the supply lacking. So finally I determined to store up a supply for myself and asked the attendant if it were possible to order a six-pack or maybe two. 'Sure', she said took my name and number, promising to call when the stuff came in. Well, sad to say, that never materialized. Maybe the turnip truck turned over on the way from Reading Bottle Works. Maybe a breakdown in communications between vegetable helpers and another patron scooped up the supply, my supply. The details I do not know but the call never came.

So now I make my own. And may lightning strike me if I lie... it is... well, words fail. It is lightly sweet, it is so vanilla, it is sooo creamy. And not too fizzy. Yep, I'm my own cream soda maker and I like it. It's like recapturing a 'slice of life', as Mr. Klopp used to say, from days gone by. And putting it in a bottle with a drop or two of yellow food coloring. Naturally. Now I just need a copy of Runnin' With The Pack to complete the temporal transference. On cassette, of course. And a cassette player.

Since there's no way I can share something like that on the magic screen here is a picture of my newest sculpting effort. I originally made this head a few years ago and wasn't too happy with it so it languished in an egg carton since with lots of other castoffs. The other night I decided to give it another go and spent a few hours poking some new clay into place with this result, not finished yet but it's getting close. See if you know who it is. Meanwhile I'll say "Thanks for your attention!" and "Seeya next time!"

Mow, mow, mow, you goat!

So I'm mowing the grass the other day- with shoes on my feet, thank you. Or at least socks and sandals, I forget. No, it was socks and sandals, yeah. But that's okay because

(A) I've been cutting grass since I was eleven
(B) it's a flat yard for the most part, only a very slight incline in the back and
(C) the mower has an automatic shut-off when you release the pushbar and
(D) unlike my buddy, Don, who recently carved chunks from parts of two fingers reaching under a mower deck- He swears it wasn't running but I've never known a machine to rend flesh when it's not under power! -I never, but never put any part of myself under the mower. I likes my fingers too much and while my feet and toes give me fits of late I'm still partial to keeping them.

But I digress. So the mower is shredding pine cones right and left which are littering the ground, fallen from the row of coniferous boughs that reach above the tippy-top of the fence which borders the property. And it's a windy day, really blowing. I'd put out the trash can and picked it up at least three times in the course of the morning, bowled over by the gusty breeze, before finally wising up and putting it out of the wind instead of in its usual spot. But the trees apparently tried to revenge themselves by whipping a pine cone on the wind, missed me by that much... freaky.



I thought to myself, 'Wow. That could put a real hurt on if it nicked the side of one's noggin!'



The point is, I think often while mowing, 'A few goats and I wouldn't have to do this at all.' But we used to have goats when I lived at home. Mandy and Andy. I don't think we ever milked them, at least I never did. I guess they were the kind of goats who didn't put up with such nonsense. And they really didn't substitute for the lawn mower. They mostly just milled about the little area next to the garage where they were tethered and waited to be fed and have their heads scratched between their ears. They loved that. I sure can't remember what we fed them either. I'm sure, given the reputation of the species, they got leftovers and scraps from the table and the trash.

Here's a picture of my pal, Jimmy, making like he's riding one of them. Which is patently ridiculous due to his size compared to that of the goat. Which, of course, is why we posed the picture that way. He's wearing those big gray overalls so I'm sure it was taken when we were building my folks' log house just down the lane from the place where we kept the goats, right in the front yard, really. Whatta job that was, it's no small wonder that nobody got seriously injured putting up those beams. Straddling the unsecured walls while handing those monster chunks of wood over one's head, yow. I could never do it now and marvel that I did it then, my acrophobia was no less acute at that age than it is now.

Happily, lawn mowing doesn't generally involve any work on high. And looking ahead to the morrow- which is 'today' now, it's late -because the forecast is for rain starting on Tuesday, I'm thinking about what may be the last turn around my Mom's big mowing job, the one holdover from the days when my Dad and I went around with truck, trailer and tractor cutting yards for the fun of it. No, seriously, we got paid for it. But it was fun, I just didn't know it then. I had yet to slog through a succession of day jobs that I disliked even more than pushing a lawn mower and swinging a weed trimmer.

But the job is two hours of meditative bumping and turning, up and down, round and round. All tractoring, no trimming or handwork at all. Around the pine trees and shrubbery, the tennis court and along the rough, turned up edges of the adjacent farm field. Over and over the bumpus where the swimming pool used to be. More than once we were invited to have a dip when the job was done back in the day. I must have taken them up on it more than once but I have no pictures as proof. It's a coupla bucks on the side but mostly it's just a good time to think, in spite of the motor noise. It's so familiar, like an old pair of shoes, kinda automatic, and you can just drift off and reminisce and ruminate while weaving in and out, back and forth.

Anyway, I'll knock it out again tomorrow, talking to myself, singing out loud in spots, waving to the postman and UPS guys making their rounds. Thinking deep thoughts and wishing the grass would grow year 'round. Maybe I'll try to stretch it to two and a half hours...

Gnocchi

Pronounced 'knock-ee'. Or 'no-kee'? I'm not sure, but that's what the little doughy potato things are called that I added to the Turkey Bacon Club soup. A midget Italian relation to the Greek pierogie, you might say. Or you might just say, 'Whaaa...?'

Movies I watched during the last week:

Jack The Giant Killer, a heretofore unknown- to me, anyway -fantasy pic featuring some weird stop-motion creatures and special effects by Wah Chang, the effects genius who later devised communicators, phasers and tricorders for Star Trek. Not a great movie, nothing to rank with Harryhausen or Creature From The Black Lagoon... but diverting goofiness nonetheless.

The Terminal, The Family Stone and Atonement. My daughter sent these over for our amusement. I found elements of story and character to enjoy in each of them but was ultimately disappointed by the payoff- or lack thereof -in each of the three. I guess I'm always looking for the 'happy ending' or at least one that doesn't make you go 'Crud, that was really a bummer of an ending.' Tom Hanks doesn't get the girl, the mom dies and the young lovers you desperately want to see live happily ever after... don't.

Okay, if there are no horses, spaceships or strange creatures at least gimme a glimmer of hope for the characters when it's all over, fer cryin' out loud!

Birds now and then

Okay, so... where was I? Oh, boy, has it really been almost a year since I troubled myself to make an entry here...? Will it matter if I ever, never make another? At any rate, as I got busy complaining about my lot in life- and then writing about it -while checking into my MySpace page the other day I thought, 'Well, I really don't have much to complain about.' But I like to anyway. Why is that?

Today is the 'official' end of summer, I guess. Okay by me. I don't go much for heat anymore, gimme a breezy autumn and break out the sweats, I'm all for it. The only drawback is that if it gets too cold, too fast I won't be spending much time on the porch enjoying the random jangling and clinking of the wind chimes. Oh, and it's a butterfly in the stained glass, not a hummingbird as previously reported. Now, my folks used to get hummingbirds zipping up to the feeders on their porch, pretty little green jewels on the wing. And they were my favorite birds in the fourth grade when I gave an oral report on birds in general. Touched on several species but contrasting the extremes in size of the ostrich and the hummingbird was a high point. Or it would have been if I hadn't been so deathly afraid of standing and speaking in front of the class that I purposely left my 'visual aids'- a hummingbird egg and an ostrich egg, borrowed from the collection of Lancaster's North Museum -at my desk just so I could take a breath while walking back the aisle to retrieve them.

The teacher was not amused nor was she fooled by my acting, ha ha, as if it was an honest oversight. She dropped me a full letter grade for failing to muster up all the nerve in the world and make a proper showing of composure and stentorian bluster at the ripe old age of, what are you in fourth grade?, ten??? Hoo boy!

Which brings me to the 'now' bird subject: Turkey Bacon Club Soup. That's right. Now, I'm no connoisseur of delicatessen fare, not much of a sandwicher, in fact, beyond PB & J and the occasional slab of baloney on bread with some butter to lubricate its slide toward the stomach. I usually find the admixture of vegetable matter on bread somewhat off-putting if it's more than onion and lettuce. Tomato products? Can't get enough. But sliced tomatoes? Not a big fan, thank you. Anyway, I was nosing thru the fridge for something edible the other day when I noticed there was a pound of ground turkey and half a slab of sliced bacon waiting to be put to use. It occurred to me that I had half the makings of a turkey club sandwich... why not add the rest of those makings to a soup pot and make up a brothy relative of its piled-high deli namesake? It would have all the meaty goodness plus the warm broth factor plus no toothpicks to maybe swallow and perforate one's innards. Brilliant!

I don't do much food prep by 'recipes' and especially not soup. More often it's just a matter of what's handy and seems like it won't ruin everything that went in the pot beforehand. So, Turkey Bacon Club Soup contains:

Ground turkey
Bacon (of course!)
Chopped spinach
Peas
Corn
Whole baby carrots
Cauliflower
Onion (not too finely chopped, kinda chunky)
Tomatoes (little ones, halved)

...and a handful of those potato things... uhhh... They're basically little dough balls with a smidge of mashed potato in the middle... What are they called??? I forget. Not perogies, these are itty bitty...? Well, I can't think of what they are called... And it's all floating in a chicken broth stock with a handful of seasonings; salt, pepper, paprika, Italian seasoning, whatever you like. And there you have it.

And you thought I only made doll heads.