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 I was going to take you back 45 yrs to the era of pre-supermarkets and high speed intercontinental travel, when there were seasonal fruits that were grown in your own backyard and treasured because there was only a certain time of the year when they would appear, so you really looked forward to their ripening and harvesting. ( This brought on by my seeing watermelons in the supermarket the other day.) The seasons have become blended, to a degree, and it's become common to see grapes harvested from Chile on New England store shelves in the middle of January. This is good, I suppose, this is progress, but something wonderful was lost in the process. Eager anticipation is now commonplace and a matter of fact way of life. There's no real point in planting potatoes when you can buy them ten pounds for a dollar... but by the gods I miss the harvest big honkin' bonfires when you would cook them in the ground or stick them on spits and eat them by the inch, placing them back in the fire for the next bit to cook. Do that now and you'll have the Fire Department invite themselves in to 'suggest' that the fire be extinguished, lest you be given a citation. (In my area at least.) And I've been on the other side, having to take one of the ancient ones aside and tell him, 'You can't do this thing anymore, Grandfather, those days are over....'while tears were forming in both our eyes, as he nodded his head. :::::: breathe ::::::::: When I was very small, we raised chickens, rabbits, ducks and two very large, supposedly very mean pigs. I was always told never to go near the pigpen, lest I become supper. Shortly after I was allowed to spend the day in the sideyard alone, the pigs were 'disappeared'. I should explain that my father was the neighborhood grocer/butcher (reported bootlegger, which I never believed until we dismantled the two 'stills' that were found in two separate hidden subcellars. ) I had always though he was some type of animal doctor too, because if he saw one of the chickens limping or something, he'd say, 'Babe, go out and get that red hen that's on the side, the one with the limp'..... so I would. I'd gently grab her and bring her to the small cage we had in the back yard by the door, sure that he would put some kind of chicken leg splint or chicken band-aid on. The fact the we had chicken for supper the following day never made the connection in my little head. I think I first began to suspect something was amiss when I blurted out that I had named all of the chickens and ducks and was met with, 'Thou shalt not Name the Animals...' The entire family found out it was sometimes difficult to eat something called 'Old Missus Kryshiuk with the bum wing', even if it was cooked to perfection. (what can I tell ya, chicken names are hard to come up with, so I named some after my neighbors) Ah well, dawn is approaching and the family is stirring. Memories of years gone by are retreating into their respective hiding spots to be locked away for another morning. Tales untold are wasted, I'm glad I got to share mine of how things were at one time and perhaps will never be again. Gather your memories today for your grandchildren to come.
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