"July 5, 1993: Nancy took me to Norfolk in p.m. She left for Lincoln a little after 5:00. Nancy and Greta picked peas in a.m.
July 6, 1993: Canned two quarts of beet pickles.
July 8, 1993: Almost two inches of rain last night."
I can't think about beet pickles (yum!) without thinking of poor Dale having to leave the house when Grandma was canning them. The smell drove him straight up a tree. I like beets and beet pickles, but I must admit the cooking smell is a bit odd. More so I would imagine if you don't care for them. That's another memory and something that has obviously stuck with me -- we weren't allowed to say we hated a food or even that we didn't like it; had to say we didn't care for it. How nice and gentle. And to know that now today the f-word is flung around so carelessly. It will become commonplace in my lifetime, I suppose. But then once upon a time short hair for women and wild dancing signaled the end of civilization . . .
Somewhat appropriately, here we have a photo of the beet planter and the beet don't-care-for-them guy.
No comments:
Post a Comment