We Made It Through The Summer Without Any Hornet Stings

    Here I am underneath the giant hornet’s nest that hung on the edge of our carport roof.  The hornets were busy all summer building it.  The nest hung in a rather unfortunate place because we were constantly walking back and forth under it.  Despite the possible danger, I didn’t want to destroy it, because if they didn’t bother us, I didn’t want to bother them.  It all worked out fine.  They tolerated us and didn’t cause any trouble.

    The hornets are now gone.   Male hornets develop from infertile eggs, laid by workers in the nest.  The males mate with the new queens that hatch.  In the fall the the queens leave the nest and burrow in the forest floor litter.  Only the new queens survive the winter.  They produce eggs, feed the larvae, who then emerge in the spring to build a new nest.  

    A friend told me that if you leave the old nest up, the hornets will avoid building a new nest close by, so I guess that’s what I’ll do.

Take a look at my paintings:  davidmarchant2.ca

 

Starting to Lose Religion

             The photo shows the “New” church building that replaced the traditional old “country” church that we attended in my early days.

        As the congregation grew the historical old Salem church building (yesterday’s blog) became too small.  Money was raised to build a much more spacious church building with a larger sanctuary and “Social Hall” for all of its activities.  Sadly, that old traditional looking brick country church building where I had spent so much of my childhood, was demolished.  While the new church building was much nicer and much more spacious, it never really provided the intimate feeling of the old one.  It could have been that I was just getting older and I was starting to see things more maturely.

        Religion was not just the realm of church, it was also part of my family life.  While my parents were religious, nothing could compare with the religious fervor of my grandmother.  She was constantly giving us kids moral stories and scaring us into being holy.  We all hated her constant moralizing when we were just trying to have some childhood fun.  

        At Christmas when our family would gather at my grandparents house to give and open presents, Grandma always insisted that we patiently sit through the long Bible verses telling of the nativity.  She made us kids take turn reading the Bible passages aloud, while our minds were entirely focused on opening our presents.  Proselytizing to us kids at Christmas, certainly didn’t make any of us more religious.

        I will always remember my surprise when I was in my teens, visiting with my grandparents, when my religious grandmother started criticizing my grandfather for something he had done.  Shockingly, he told her not to give him a lecture.  

        She countered by replying, “It’s not everyday that you can get a free lecture.”

        Grandpa rebutted, saying,  “Yes it is, It’s every day.”  

        That is exactly the feeling that we kids had the whole time we were growing up.

        In Grandma’s defense, I did learn an awful lot about Christianity from her during my childhood and youth.  I often used that knowledge of the Bible later in my life as an atheist, to discourage the Jehovah Witnesses that came to our door.

        In the summer during the middle grades, we always attended “Bible” camp which took place, surprisingly, in Santa Claus, Indiana.  It was something we always looked forward to.  It was a whole week of swimming in the lake, making crafts, and sleeping in dorms with my friends and the kids from other places, who we soon got to know.  There were good meals, followed by the singing of songs in the cafeteria, and of course the obligatory religious lessons.

        I was quite surprised during one of those lessons, when the minister who taught it, told the group that we Methodists, unlike some other denominations, didn’t believe that everything that was in the Bible was factual.  He explained that a lot of the things written there were stories told by the Hebrews, or written to make a point, and those things were not to be taken as something that had actually happened.

        While I was shocked to hear such frankness from a minister, at that young age I was already starting to have doubts about some of the things in the Bible, although I believed in the underlying morals it presented.  I always appreciated that minister’s candor.  It give me permission to think for myself, without being considered a “sinner.”

You can take a look at my paintings:  davidmarchant2.ca

             The photo shows the old Salem Methodist Church in Evansville, Indiana.   It was built in 1846.  I am sure some of those people are my ancestors.  The photo was taken in the 1920’s.

        My family was very church-centric.  It was the organization that provided most of our social activities.  We were members of Salem Methodist Church.  I was always thankful that the church was not a “fire and brimstone” type church, but instead our domination of Methodists a taught a very liberal type of Christianity, things like; “Be kind to everyone,” “Do good works,” and “Help those that are not a fortunate as you.”  I took those moral values with me for the rest of my life, even though I lost all religious dogma that was taught.

        During the first years that I can remember, the church building was an old brick, traditional-looking country church, whose sides where lined with vertical, arching stain-glass windows and its roof featured a steeple pointing toward heaven.  

        It was fairly small with an interior featuring rows of hard wooden pews, separated by an aisle that ran down the center of the church.  There was a pulpit for the minister on one side of the alter, and an organ off to the other side.   Just behind the pulpit,  I remember a wooden sign, where each Sunday the number of attendees from the previous Sunday was posted.

        Attached and behind the 100 year old church building was an addition that consisted of a basement with a darkish hallway that led to the handful of rooms that were used for Sunday School.  We kids always attended Sunday School where we were taught Bible Stories, and life lessons. 

        One memory I have of a Sunday School Class happened when I was in the forth grade.  Dennis, one of my friends, came in with his face all swollen and pink.  I asked him what had happened and he explained that someone had told him that if you ate a poison ivy leaf, it would prevent you from ever suffering the terrible itching of the plant for the rest of his life.

        He tried the “Cure” and his face was the result.

        On the main floor above the Sunday School rooms was a large open “social hall” with a stage at the end, and one the side was a kitchen.  The hall was where big gatherings would be held.

        It was in the social hall, where the “Family Night Suppers” (potluck dinners) and weekday kindergarten classes took place.  We always looked forward to those Family Night dinners, because of the delicious variety, and sometimes “exotic” types of food, that we never got at home.  It was at the family night dinners that I first got my first taste of shrimp and also pecan pie.  The varied dishes of food that people brought were laid out on the tables that ran down the center of the hall, with the dining tables along each side.

        The Family Night Suppers also gave us kids a chance to chase each other around through the hall, weaving through the tables, up the stairs, across the stage, and down the kindergarten “slide” that had been pushed to the side.

        Each Sunday, once our Sunday School lessons had ended, we had to go to the sanctuary where we had to sit quietly and resist squirming on the hard oak pews, while we endured the regular church service.  My mom and uncle were in the church choir, whose songs and hymns did animate the service a bit.

        The minister knew all of us kids were bored out of our skulls, so after the hymns, the announcements, and musical presentation by the choir, we kids were invited to walk up to the front of the church and stand at the alter, while the minister gave us the “Children’s Sermon,” a short talk with a moral.  Then we walked back to join our families on the hard pews.

        With the circulation of our legs somewhat restored from the walk, it was time to numb our brains through the adult sermon.   After the singing of the last hymn ended, we were free to go outside and again talk to our friends.

        Periodically, there was an escape from the church service provided for us kids.  A church group of elderly women that belonged to the WCTU (Women’s Christian Temperance Union) once a month, put on a program for us kids.  Not only did their programs allow us kids to escape from the boring Sunday sermons, but also enticed us with Kool-Aid and cookies, so we were always happy to attend.

        Once there, our little minds were pummeled with anti-alcohol, anti-tobacco, and sometimes, anti-drug propaganda and endless examples of people who destroyed their lives and the lives of their families through addictive drink.  The propaganda they espoused certainly scared the bejesus out of my little brain, and made me a teetotaler for the rest of my life.  

View my paintings:  davidmarchant2.ca

Our Dangerous Playground; My Grandparents' Farm

      The out buildings at my grandparent’s farm also provided a wide a varied playground for our adventurous play.  We built “forts” in the barn by moving bales of straw or the stacks of bushel baskets around, we walked across the high, hand-hewn, beams from one section of the barn to the other with our arms spread out on each side for balance.

    We climbed around on the “mountain” made of ears of “horse corn” in the corn crib.  We made “highways” and dug holes in the dirt for our trucks in the empty “beds” of the greenhouse.

    While my grandfather’s farm was the most exciting place for us to play, it was unfortunately, sometimes dangerous.  One day Dan and I decided to make an “elevator” on our favorite climbing tree; a Maple in front of my grandparent’s house.  We had had found a small square piece of wood that we could use for the floor of our elevator, we had scrounged a rope from the greenhouse shed, which we attached to our floor, then swung the rest of the rope over a limb.  

    It all seemed good, until we tried it out, then when one of us stood on the floor, and tried to pull down on the rope dangling from the limb, thinking that would lift our elevator, we discovered that the muscles on our small arms were useless in our attempt to lift us or our elevator off of the ground.

    We came up with a brilliant solution however;  if we could add a heavy weight to the free end of the rope as a counterbalance, that would probably help us pull ourselves upward.  We knew of the perfect heavy counterbalance.  It was a solid iron ball with a very short chain attached that had been used to hobble horses, preventing them from wandering away.  The iron ball was a bit larger than a softball, and very weighty.

    After a search in the well house, where old rarely used items were kept, we found ball and struggled to carry it over to the Maple tree.  We tied it so it dangled from the end of the rope and then I took my place on the floor of the elevator, reached high on the rope and began to pull.  Unfortunately, the elevator still didn’t work.  More unfortunately, my pulling on the rope caused the heavy iron ball to swing, smashing into my face.

      It not only busted my lip, but more seriously, broke a big section off of my permanent front tooth.   (My other front tooth had already been similarly chipped when playing “Blind Man’s Bluff.”  I was blindfolded, seeking my playmates when my mouth ran into the trunk of the family’s parked car.)

    One September, on the afternoon of the first day of school beginning the fourth grade, which was actually only a half day of school, Neal, my neighborhood friend and I had assumed the dramatic roles of pirates and where chasing each other through the various levels of the barn.  In my attempt to escape, I jumped onto the wooden ladder that led to the upper level of the barn where the bushel baskets were stacked.  

    In my rush to quickly scramble up the ladder, about halfway up, my hand missed grabbing the side of the ladder, and down I tumbled to the floor.  As I fell, I stretched out my left hand to break the fall, however it was not my fall that was broken when I slammed into the floor, it was my left forearm.  I had broken one bone and fractured the other.

      While these injuries slowed me down for a while, they didn’t dampen my enthusiasm for hard and energetic play at the farm.  

Take a look at my paintings:  davidmarchant2.ca

Those Memorable Sunday Dinners At My Grandparent's House

      This is the Thanksgiving long weekend in Canada.  Not only am I thankful for the delicious meals I am getting now, but also all of the mouthwatering fare I have enjoyed throughout my life.  Below is an example of Sunday dinners  I got as a child at my Grandparent’s house.  They were gastronomic treats featuring many of the fresh homegrown foods that they produced on their farm. 

    My young eyes couldn’t help but dart around all of the various dishes of food, arranged on the large round oak table that Grandma Schmidt had laid out for us.  I was hungry and eager to begin the meal, so I waited impatiently for Uncle Bill to take his place around at the table with the rest of us, so Grandma could give a nod to Grandpa indicating it was time for him to say the prayer.

    As he began his monotone presentation, I jeopardized my place in heaven by opening my eyes during the prayer, furtively glancing up from  my bowed head, to look at the patterned china plate, piled high with pieces of fried chicken.  Its smell had set me salivating, from the time I had slid into my chair at the table.

    Once Grandpa got done with the same prayer he said at every meal, the adults at the table began to pick up the steaming plates and bowls of food to circulate them around the perimeter of the table.  

    “Do you want some mashed potatoes, David?” 

    “Yes, please.”  

    Grandma Schmidt ran a tight ship, so we kids had to be quick with our “Please” and “Thank you’s” when we were in her presence.

    “What piece of chicken do you want?” asked my mother.  

    “Could I have a drumstick?” knowing full well that those special parts were always saved for us kids.  

    “Thank you.” I repeated again, as the crispy brown skinned chicken leg was placed on my plate besides the mound of fluffy white mashed potatoes.”

    “Gravy?”

    “Yes, please.”  

    I took my spoon and made a quick concave indentation into my mashed potatoes; a pond to hold the thick white “milk” gravy, with a few flakes of black pepper floating on its surface.  I loved milk gravy, and it could always be depended upon whenever Grandma fried up one of the unfortunate members of her chicken flock.

    “How about some corn, David?”  

    “Please.”  I loved corn too.  Months earlier it would have been served as corn on the cob, but this corn had been cut from the cob, frozen, and now fried in butter and salt.  I scooped up as much as I could get with the large spoon and piled it on my plate next to the overflowing milk gravy that coated my mashed potatoes.

    Next to come around were the the butter beans, a type of lima bean, which my grandparents always grew on their garden.  The broad flat pale green-colored beans swam in a white creamy sauce.  I noticed that my plate was quickly running out of useable space. 

    “How about some “Tommys?” (My uncle’s slang for tomatoes)  

    In the plate were several layers of large, fresh, juicy red tomatoes, thickly sliced and glistening, showing off their small yellowish oval seeds.  They were some of the Burpee Big Boy variety that I helped pick in Grandpa’s field.  Grandpa Schmidt made his living growing tomatoes and lettuce in his large commercial greenhouses, but this being later in the summer, the “hothouse” tomatoes were finished, and I worked picking these field tomatoes in the hot August sun as my summer job.

    The tomatoes filled the small space remaining on my plate.  I glanced around to make sure everyone’s plate was full, then realizing that this was the case, I assumed had permission to finally began forking up the delicious home-grown bounty from my grandparents farm that lay before me.

    When I needed to quench my thirst from all the solid food I was shoveling into my mouth, I reached for the tall glass of milk that sat besides my plate.  It was unpasteurized milk from Lilly, my Grandpa’s milk cow. 

    “Ugh,” I thought as I took the first gulp, “warm milk.” 

    The milk had been poured from Grandma’s blue crockery pitcher into glasses for us kids some time earlier when the table was set, so it was now room temperature, and to make things worse, during that time, a quarter inch of yellowish cream had now risen to the top.  I was not a big fan of either warm milk or cream, and so to make it palatable, I took my spoon and stirred up the milk so that the cream disappear from my view, before I drank it.  

    Thirst quenched, I picked up my fork and continued to enlarge the empty spots on my plate.

    At Grandma’s, it was understood that all the food one had put onto their plates had to be eaten.  When everyone’s plate was clean, Grandma would acknowledge the fact and exclaimed that clean plates meant “a sunny day tomorrow”.  

        The photo above was taken long before I was born, but it does show how my grandparent’s house looked.

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My Early Memories Of My Grandfather's Farm

      Ours was a close-knit extended sort of family, as one of my grandparents owned a farm and greenhouse just one house away, and my other grandparents, a math professor and his wife, lived a mile down the road in the opposite direction.  My aunt, uncle, and two cousins lived next door.  It was a very stable and idyllic situation to grow up in.

    It was the Schmidt side of the family that owned the farm, and thus provided us with fresh vegetable produce, eggs, and milk and whose farm provided a diverse and favorite playground for us kids.   Their farm was a working farm with both crops in the fields and greenhouses, and livestock like cows, pigs, a mule, and chickens in the pens and pastures.  There were always a lot of interesting activities for us kids to see and participate in.  

    The menagerie of farm animals were a wonderful diversion by themselves.  We kids would be given exciting chores like feeding the chickens; which was fun, until one of the roosters started attacking my sister, whenever she went into the chicken yard.  

    Lily, the cow, provided the farm with milk (unpasteurized) for my grandparents and some of her bounty was always shared with our family.  As a youngster it was often my job to walk up to the farm and carry the glass quart or gallon jars of the milk, with the yellow cream floating on the top, back to our house before supper.   Even now, I still have a scar on the base of my right ring finger from a glass cut I received when I tripped on the path, falling, breaking the jar, and cutting the finger on a shard of glass, while carrying one of those quart milk bottles home.   

    As a young child I was never keen about drinking milk and I especially hated having to drink glasses of warm milk from the farm with its quarter inch layer of cream floating on the top.  When I complained about the cream, Mom would always just stir my glass of milk with a spoon so that the cream disappeared, eliminating the argument I made about drinking it.

    After eating meals at my grandparents, one of us kids were often given the task of carrying the slops (left over garbage) out to the pigpen, where we would dump the chunky, repulsive looking liquid mixture into the feeding trough, and then watch with fascination as the grunting porkers made pigs of themselves, slurping it down.

View my paintings:  davidmarchant2.ca

Nick's Aurora Photos

     Like many people in North America, last night the Robson Valley was witness to an Aurora.  I knew there was a big possibility of auroras happening last night, but I was in the living room watching TV when I got a text from Ingrid, telling me one was going on.  Ingrid and I often discuss auroras while driving home from out jam.

    Once alerted, I jumped into action.  I grabbed my camera, a flashlight, put on a jacket, and headed out to the pasture to see what was happening in the sky.  We have so many trees around our place and are tucked in beside the mountain, that we never get to see a whole lot of sky.  I could make out a pinkish glow and some faint streaks.

    I texted Nick Ennis, my neighbor to tell him about the aurora, but he was way ahead of me and texted back a really spectacular shot of one over his house (photo above.)

    Inspired by Nick’s photo, I fumbled and groped in the darkness with my camcorder and phone, and tried to take shots, but what I could see of the sky, was nothing very spectacular, and the photos I took where basically just black voids.  It was a complete wipeout, but at least Nick got some spectacular shots.

   

 View my paintings:  davidmarchant2.ca