Pecan or Pecan

Most of my youth, and some of my adulthood, was spent on a small dairy farm.  At the time 316 acres seemed a giant of a place with fields, pastures, uncut woods, small streams (I still call them creeks), the barnyard and outbuildings and, of course, the old house we called home.  

In front... the front yard naturally, with a front porch and the living room which was a little hard to understand to me because it was reserved for visitors and Christmas.

on the west side back was the "Back door" which opened into the kitchen and was always the point of entry into the house.  For one thing it was closest to the driveway and more importantly to the dairy barn and every thing that happened.

 Directly across the driveway was three of the best things about living on a farm.

Two old pecan trees and one walnut tree forming a triangle  all of which were huge and possible planted in the late 1800's. They all three forked about 5 or 6 feet off the ground and were linked on two of the triangle sides with clothes line wire.

It was a magical place to play in when the sheets were hung on the line.  I could imagine myself anywhere my young mind could conceive.

Not every year, but, maybe every 3rd year the pecan trees would be loaded with nuts.  The walnut tree was sort of old fashioned and steadily provide black walnuts every year.  But the pecan trees were special.

 For one thing, well.. the every 3rd year thing, but mostly because of the fun of eating those wonderful nuts. And besides, the pecans were a lot easier to crack.

You see the walnuts would drop in their thick green husk which then turned black and would stain your skin clothes or anything else they came in contact with. So you either had to wait until that had decayed and then you could smack the nut with a hammer, or a rock if that was handy.  And then you better have a nail flattened on the end ( 8 penny nails were a perfect size.  While the pecan husks would open while on the tree and then drop those brown and black striped nuts which my mom and dad could crack easily in their hands and the meat would almost naturally fall out in two halves.  (better not use too much force though, or you'd crush the halves and would have to hunt and peck for the pieces.

It was a great time to be young and alive.

But, for all my 60 some odd years the controversy has raged.  Even before that and I'm sure even long into the future.

How do you pronounce the word Pecan?

I personally say pa Khan and others say Pee can.  

Each looks at the other as being backwoods or unlettered, perhaps putting on airs in an effort to be seen as superior to the other as if it were a matter of world shaking importance.  Perhaps ranking up there with whether to get a tattoo or not, maybe even as high as whether your drive a Ford or a Chevy.

Maybe it doesn't really matter.

Maybe it really only matters if you eat them in your brownies or your  scrumptious paKahn pie!  

  

 

Why do I feel so confused?

or

 Did I take my happy pills this morning?

Have you found yourself asking questions like these of late?  Does down seem up and up seem down to you?  WTH is going on here?  Why don't I trust politicians or the msm as much as I used to.  Do you find yourself asking people, "What would uncle Walter Cronkite do"?

 Weren't we getting along with the Russians just a little while ago?  Didn't we say we would wipe ISIS from the scene?  

Did I go to sleep 5 years ago and wake to find the world inside out?

Weren't we supposed to find that our health insurance premiums would go down $2500?  With a better benefit package and all at the same Dr. as before?

 Folks, I have deliberately tried to distance myself from the world a bit.  Sit back and let it go on it's merry way.  Listen to the social engineers and be happy with the new found peace and contentment in my life.

Perhaps you too might be feeling a bit light headed after reading headlines like these,

https://www.thesun.co.uk/news/1968311/america-plotting-to-allow-9000-isis-fighters-to-escape-terror-capital-mosul-so-they-can-attack-russian-troops-moscow-outrageously-claims/

 I don't know about you, but, I'm beginning to wonder if there is any sanity left, or, 

Maybe I need to talk to the doc about getting my dosage increased!

White House wants to add new racial category 

 

 I note with a bit of head shaking that the minions in Washington want to add a new racial category for people from the middle east and north Africa.  

As that big headed kid from the comic strip used to say, 

"Good Grief!" 

Here's a novel idea.

Instead of trying to separate us all into warring factions.  Why don't we just start to refer to all people around the world, without regard to skin tone, shape of eyes or ears, language, big or small, short or tall, as simply HUMAN !

Or maybe even as brother or sister?   

Check out their spurious reasoning here:

 http://www.usatoday.com/story/news/politics/2016/09/30/white-house-wants-add-new-racial-category-middle-eastern-people/91322064/

It seems a strange thing

A very curious and strange thing that I have been privileged to witness the death of quite a few people during my time.

The strange part is the fact that I do feel privileged as opposed to grief, or sadness.   Certainly not happy in any way, and some I would take great pleasure in being able to once again enjoy their company and conversation... even their love.  To once again see their smiles and hear their stories.

But, I mean to say that I am glad, even if only for a moment, to have been touched by their lives.  Whether it was for good or ill.

I think the first death I was aware of was a young boy in my 6th grade class, Berven Chipley.  He and his brother we playing in the woods.  Their activity was finding dead pine trees that were still standing and if they could they'd push against them until they started rocking back and forth and snapped off.  Unfortunately on the last one when it snapped instead of falling away from them it snapped off and fell toward them.  His brother escaped, but a pine limb pierced him through the liver and pinned him to the ground.  

He'd seemed a happy boy with family that loved him.  While I was not close to him, nor attended his funeral, I marveled at the outpouring of grief and love my classmates expressed.  

My first glimpse of mortality.

The next followed soon after when my maternal Grandfather passed from stomach Cancer.  From a tall hale man he'd withered down to a shell of his former self, to the point that my mother could pick him up and turn him in his bed.  My Grandmother had started taking in borders to pay the bills when he got sick and she kept that up until dying many years later at the age of 75.  And I saw love and nurturing, caring, yes and grief, but an enduring spirit that always stuck with me.

A great uncle who died of leukemia not long after I'd married.

Young student pilots engaged in forbidded helicopter antics during flight school in Mineral Wells, Texas

Comrades-in-Arms in Vietnam.  Some by enemy action, many during acts of heroism, a couple by suicide, and two by stupidity.

Some were very close and dear to me and many I only knew because we served together.  All touched me more than I would recognize or admit for long years after.

And there were the enemy.  Quite a few I'm sure by my actions.

I learned to respect them.

So many through the years, for it seems that as the years go faster so to do the number of deaths that impact you pile up faster and faster.  And each one leaves it's mark.

My father in an accident, totally unexpected.  Grandmother, Grandfather, aunts and uncles.  My Mother after a long long struggle.

And along the way there were the animals; dogs, cats, cows, horses, and of course the animals that provided food.

I'd never been afraid of making the hard choice and even committed a few in great anger that it was necessary.  Maybe because in some way I caused it, or contributed to it.

But, now I'm faced with the, not possibility, but the certainty that my old dog, Gracie Mae, that Dalmatian, fur shedding, one blue eye and one brown, almost 19 years of happiness and joy of having me as her human is literally on her (I want to say last legs) but, the front two work fine.  And she gives the first impression of being much younger, as she runs to see me, begs for touching and petting pushing herself up against me, just for the pleasure it gives her seemingly to have me around.

I'm faced with the choice of keeping her around until she one day can't or won't be able to get up, or paying some veterinarian that doesn't know her to give a final injection, or do it myself in a somewhat more brutal, but almost Viking send off.  Which thing I have done many times..

But this time.