Last year, Bob and I had a great time talking to column readers at the Farm Show in Oshkosh. It is our advent of spring no matter the weather.
We are watching for signs of spring here on the farm. So far we’ve seen robins in the snow, along with distant turkeys, sandhill cranes and deer. It is good to see some survived the winter. Now I hope they can survive the spring which can be another starving time of the year.

Our next sign of spring should be Tuesday, March 25th. Hope to see you all at the show.

Susan

Dogs I have loved

By Susan Manzke

Our dog, Cocoa is very old. One day she can bark up a storm because the Schwan’s man knocked on the door. The same evening, she’ll have trouble walking up the stairs. Two years ago, Cocoa was so sick she couldn’t keep food down. Luckily tender loving care brought her through that crisis. These days, I’m not so sure she will make it through another crisis.

As I look at Cocoa today, I remember other dogs that have touched my life.

The first dog I remember was Rusty. From his name, you can imagine came from his color. He was of unknown origin. We never adopted Rusty. Instead, he adopted our little family when we moved out of Chicago. Our trailer was set up just down the street from my cousins in Lincoln Estates. (That’s part of Frankfort, Illinois.)

Rusty had first been a member of my Aunt Sophie’s menagerie. When Aunt Bea moved her brood in next door, Rusty moved over one house. Finally, when we arrived in the neighborhood, Rusty came to take care of us.

Karen, my sister, was only one and a half. She hung on Rusty, grabbing fur and flesh. The poor dog never flinched. When he had had enough, he would look up at my parents with his sad bloodshot eyes and beg for help. Of course, they always rescued Rusty from Karen.

When I was young, I thought Rusty would live forever. So what if he slept a lot more instead of playing with us kids. Nothing would ever take that lovable dog away, or so I thought.

The night Rusty passed on, Karen and I were watching the Wonderful World of Disney. –I don’t know why I remember that, except that it was a memorable evening. —The neighbor called to say that Rusty had been visiting when he just died.

Tears flowed freely that night and not only in our house. That old red dog had touched so many lives; even adults had the sniffles because of him.

Next came Laddie, a sickly Collie that my parents couldn’t afford.  I think the only reason that they bought Laddie was because he was half price. The breeders didn’t want to bother with him.

Mom took Laddie home and spoon-fed him warm milk. When he gained strength, Mom tucked his medicine inside balls of liver sausage and tossed it to him. He soon recovered from his ailments and became a great family pet. The only trouble with Laddie was his long fur coat. Somehow that silly dog always found his way into burr patch. He sure didn’t look like any purebred dog when he returned from a hike all messy and matted.

After Laddie came Barney. He was a Border Collie, mostly. Barney was my dog. I taught him a few little tricks. Barney could shake hands, but his best trick was something no other dog could do. Barney could climb trees, well he could climb one tree.

On our property were three silver maple trees. The middle one split in a fork about three feet off the ground. Often, I was up in that tree. One day, Barney followed me up into the maple. He kind of jumped up to the fork and along the limb towards me. After that, I could just tell him to climb the tree and he would…for love of me. I had the only tree climbing dog in the neighborhood.

But Barney could do more. He could smile. He would wrinkle his upper lip and show teeth. On another dog this might look wicked, but Barney’s demeanor said he was happy. He kind of chuckled when he smiled.

There were other dogs through the years. We had another dog named Rusty. She didn’t have the personality of the original Rusty though. Her best trick was having puppies.

Flinger was a Labrador who could pull sleds and wagons for hours. He never seemed to tire playing with us kids. Flinger wasn’t so much a dog as he was a four-legged kid.

Other dogs of my life included Buffy and Sam, two Saint Bernards. We also had two Boxers who were absolute boneheads.

As I wrote about all these past friends, Cocoa came to lie by my feet. She gets upset when Bob and I are in different rooms and tries to herd us together so she can relax and watch over her two charges at the same time.

Her muzzle has gotten very gray as of late and I can’t help but wonder how long we will have the privilege of her company. Too bad all these four-footed friends have short lives. It seems unfair. Then again, this way we are able to share our lives with so many diverse and beautiful pets.

(It was a difficult day when we finally had to say good-by to our friend.)

Farmhands

November 9, 1984

“Daddy’s home! Daddy’s home!” exclaimed Russell as he raced across the house to the backdoor.

Russell wasn’t excited because his dad was bringing him a toy or candy or any kind of treat. That was just Russell’s usual nightly greeting for his father.

“Hi, Daddy. Let me see your hands.” That was usual also. Lately, Russell has been very concerned about the condition of Bob’s hands.

“Any scratches today, Daddy? Let me see.”

Four-year-old Russell didn’t even give Bob the chance to clean the dirt and oil off his hard working hands before going over every bruised knuckle and scratched finger himself.

“How did you do that, Daddy? How did you get that big scratch?” Russell asked as he pointed to a newly formed mark.

Bob had to think back through his day for an answer that would satisfy Russell. White lies never worked.

“I got that working on the combine this morning. The pry bar slipped,” answered Daddy.

“Really! What was wrong with the combine?”

“A rock was picked up and jammed the cylinder.”

Russell seemed satisfied with the explanation and continued his hand examination of Bob’s left hand. “You’ve got a purple fingernail, Daddy. Did you get that today? Did you get the purple fingernail when the rock was in the combine? Huh? Huh?”

“No Russie. I did that this afternoon hitching the wagon up to the tractor.”

“I got one too, Daddy! Just like you. See.” Russell proudly held up his left hand and displayed his index finger. It was the same yucky purple color as his father’s.

“Russell, how in the world did that happen?”

“It got caught in the door when Rachel and I were playing.”

“You’ve got to be more careful, Russie. You could lose a finger that way.”

“You, too,” Russell said, and then added. “Aren’t you careful, Daddy?”

That question stumped Bob for a moment. He looked down at his own hands and shook his head. “I guess I haven’t always been careful. But from now on we’ll both be careful. Okay?”

Our little son looked serious as he nodded his head. “Okay, Daddy. We’ll both be careful.”

I’d like to say that from that day on father and son lived happily ever after without nick or cut. But that would be a fairytale. We live in the real world.

Some good did come of that conversation though. Both father and son were made to think about working habits. And somehow I think it was the father who learned the most from his little son.

?

Kind words from writer, Miranda Paul, about my writing and book, Words in My Pocket found at her blog:

http://mirandapaulbooks.blogspot.com/2011/08/mommy-monday-meet-susan-manzke.html

Thank you, Miranda. You are too kind.

Recently, I was involved in two potluck meals. — I love potlucks because you get to sample the greatest food around. For some people it’s a way of sharing a special family recipe that their mother and maybe even their grandmother made.

One potluck meal was with the Loomis Historic Society near Crivitz. I didn’t have to bring any food to that lunch. I was their guest speaker. My talk concerned saving family stories, but as I think of it, saving family recipes is pretty special, too. The food was great, the people friendly and I had a great time.

The other potluck was a supper at St. John the Baptist Catholic Church in Seymour. That evening the Christian Women had their Fall Get Together. Everyone brought a dish to pass, a canned or boxed item for our St. Vincent DePaul food pantry and an item to auction. The evening was a fund raiser for our local St. Vincent DePaul Society.

I came with fudge and two cans of peas. One can was the regular kind I would open for a meal. The second can was a bit larger. It was a gallon can of peas. Rebecca and Andy had given it to us after winning it in a brown bag grab bag for the Cerebral Palsy Center. Since I knew Bob would never, ever eat that much creamed peas, the best thing to do with it was to donate it for use at one of the upcoming holiday meals the St. Vincent DePaul Society would be putting on.

I invited myself to a seat at a table. The women welcomed me and we started a conversation that lasted through the meal.

When it came time to join the line snaking down the tables of potluck food, my stomach growled. Everything looked so great. I wanted to taste it all.

As planned, I started to take a spoonful of each offering. There were all kinds of hot dishes. I sampled meats and vegetables in all sorts of forms. Everyone proved to be extra special.

When I neared the end of the spread, I found something I had hoped to see. It was my favorite: Broccoli Salad. This salad is so special because I only get it at potluck suppers. I’ve never made it at home. Like President George H. W. Bush, Bob doesn’t like broccoli, even if it does have bacon and cheese sprinkled through the salad. So the only time I’ve had this tasty Broccoli Salad was at gatherings like this.

I took extra Broccoli Salad and went back to my table, happy. There the conversation wound its way around to the food. Quite a few of the ladies were widows and missed having certain hot dishes at home. “It’s just too much for one person,” said a woman. I mentioned my feelings about the Broccoli Salad and others agreed with me.

“I wonder what’s in it,” one woman said as she munched.

As we contemplated possible ingredients, our conversation was joined by others down the table. It turned out an old friend had brought the Broccoli Salad. “You’re going to have to share your recipe with me,” I said.

Jean rather sheepishly answered, “I can’t. I got it at the deli.”

We all laughed. Now all of us who won’t bother making a giant Broccoli Salad for ourselves knows where we can find it. That’s a good thing, too.

After our meal, the items brought for auction were taken out and one by one sold. The bidding was especially interesting when two friends were going back and forth, bidding for the same item. It made the evening fun and raised money for a good cause.

A third event didn’t have a potluck, but it did have wine. It was the annual Wine Tasting benefiting the Muehl Public Library. I was there to serve red wine, but after my shift was over, I went around to bid on items in the silent auction. We didn’t have anonymous numbers, so I added my name and bid on a donated wire-feed welder for Bob. — Mine was the only female name on that list.

Ever so often, I had to go back to check on the bidding. When out bid, I upped mine again. Near the end, I saw the one last man bidding against me head back to the table by the welder. Only minutes were left. I broke off a conversation I was having and hurried to bid one last time. Woo hoo! I won.

To tie everything up I’ll give you a recipe for Broccoli Salad I found on the Internet. Here it is:

Ingredients: 8 slices of bacon; 2 heads broccoli, chopped; 1 ½ cups sharp Cheddar cheese, shredded; ½ large red onion, chopped; ¼ cup red wine vinegar; 1/8 cup white sugar; 2 tsp. black pepper; 1 tsp. salt; 2/3 cup mayo; 1 tsp lemon juice.

Place bacon in skillet and brown. Drain and crumble. In large bowl, combine broccoli, cheese, bacon and onion. In small bowl, whisk together red wine vinegar, sugar, pepper, salt, mayo and lemon juice. Add to salad. Cover and refrigerate until ready to serve.

Of course, I won’t be making this. When I need some Broccoli Salad I’ll head to another potluck…or to a deli.