Thursday, September 13, 2012

Peas and beets and morality

"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.

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