DON’T CALL ME “DEAR”

I don’t feel old – at least not most days – but I can tell that people see me according to my calendar age. The sagging jowls and graying hair (what there is of it) give me away. And I’m amused by how people react to me.

I’ve been addressed as “miss” more than once by flustered young men who apparently don’t know how to address an older woman. I find this startling. Whatever happened to “ma’am?” Technically, I haven’t been “miss” for 50 years. You were “miss” if you weren’t married and “Mrs.” if you were. The feminist movement didn’t like this -- especially not "miss" -- and insisted on a more generic title. I remember when I was instructed to replace “Miss” and “Mrs.” with “Ms.” at my first job.

As far as the title of address for a woman of more mature years, the French have a good solution. A mature woman is “madame” regardless of marital status. Or at least, this was the case 50+ years ago. Things might have changed.

I’ve been called “dear,” even when no term of address is warranted, like when I bought stamps at the post office the other day. The clerk didn’t use any form of address for the gal in front of me, but when it was my turn, she called me “dear” three times. I’m sure she meant to be respectful of the “old lady” she was serving, but it’s still an acknowledgement of age. In my family, we use terms of endearment infrequently, so I notice it.

Perhaps my least favorite form of address is “young lady.” This is as bad as calling me “old lady.” I suspect they think they’re complimenting me, as in “you’re doing so well for your age,” but in fact, it still says they notice my age. Why should my age be a matter for attention? My money is as good as anyone’s and perhaps better than some!

But – I say nothing to these people because it’s more polite to ignore it than to speak my mind. I credit them with meaning no offense. Maybe I shouldn’t be offended, but I do think a form of address other than "ma'am" is belittling.

On a similar topic, Mike and I were loading a large bag of dog food into the car at Walmart. I steadied the cart while he shifted the bag into the GTI. For sure, it’s a little harder than it used to be. A white-haired woman approached us and asked if she could return the cart for us. The cart return was just the next stall over, but we politely accepted her offer with thanks. Once in the car, we broke into laughter. “We must really look old,” I said. But on the positive side, it was a gracious act on her part. We should be thoughtful of one another. KW

NOT WHAT IT USED TO BE

Harold Peary as The Great Gildersleeve

Halloween 2025 is history. This morning, Mike stated his disappointment that we had no trick-or-treaters. Prepared with his collection of Halloween masks, he lamented, “It’s just not what it used to be.”

 

He’s right, of course, but I had to chuckle to myself. I listened to Halloween-themed podcasts this week, and Ozzie Nelson and The Great Gildersleeve both lamented in pre-1950 radio programs that Halloween wasn’t what it used to be. Remembering the “harmless” pranks of their youth, the kids’ interest in “trick-or-treating” seemed tame to them.

And there was Halloween mischief back in the day. My dad always pulled the garbage can into the garage to avoid having to pick up the strewn refuse. Mike remembers rock-and-roll playing from a church tower, and reaching even further back in history, overturning outhouses was a thing to do.

But today, we seem to have moved on from such “tricks” – thankfully so. Looking into our street to assess the Halloween situation, it was exceptionally still – no children moved from house to house, no excited voices filled the air. The houses on either side of us were totally dark, sending a clear message – “Don’t even think about it!”  

I stopped in at the Dollar Tree yesterday, where everything is no longer a dollar, but I was pleased to note that they are devoting one aisle to craft supplies. They even had ergo crochet hooks! Stockers were frantically changing Halloween into Christmas. KW

HAPPY HALLOWEEN!

 

In this photo from 1984 taken at a pre-school Halloween party, Mike carves a jack-o-lantern for 5-year-old Clinton, a.k.a. Skeletor. 

[RE]IMAGINING INA

Watching the autumn light and shadow play on the farm fields on an enchanted evening, my thoughts wandered back a century to my Grandmother Ina and how she must have lived in this house. KW

As the sun was setting and the house grew chilly, Ina pulled her old sweater more tightly around her shoulders. Another 15 minutes and she would have to light the kerosene lantern on the sconce above the wood cookstove. As it was, the north-facing kitchen was already too dark to read a recipe, but it would have to be darker yet before the kerosene lantern would make a difference.

Ina never tired of the magnificent effects that sun and shadow brought to the landscape – always something she hadn’t noticed before. But she would enjoy autumn more, Ina thought to herself, if it weren’t for the chill in the air that presaged winter. Winters were hard now, and especially hard for Jack, her husband. But – Christmas was always a bright spot for her, and it was time to get ready in earnest! What would her advent theme be this year, she wondered.

They’d had a frost mid-September, so she and Shirley, her last child at home, had put the garden to bed with the exception (maybe) of certain root vegetables. The garden and orchard had produced plentifully this past season, and the pantry shelves were filled with enough canned vegetables, fruit, and meat to see them through the winter. Just thinking of her well-stocked pantry gave Ina feelings of warm satisfaction.

While she could still see to move about the house, Ina performed all the little tasks that made their evening comfortable. She lit a little fire in the wood stove in the bedroom, just enough to take the chill off the room. She also built a fire in the fireplace and laid their nightwear on a chair in the kitchen to warm near the cookstove.

During the long dark evenings of fall / winter, Ina always looked forward to several hours of quiet evening reading, but this evening she was especially eager to tackle a fresh stack of already well-read magazines and papers sent over by a neighbor. Once her household had perused them, Ina would pass them along to the next household, adding to the stack any magazines and newspapers that had come to them from other sources. And that was how they did.

She stoked the fire in the cookstove and retrieved a jar of leftover chicken soup from the ice house to warm for their supper. Plenty of meat and vegetables remained, but she would cook more noodles and add broth and seasonings. Why was it that leftover soup was always short on broth? KW

[We had our first frost in the Valley this morning. We have yet to light a fire in the little stove.]

SUPPORT YOUR INCARCERATED “LOVED ONE”

It happens to some of us. Someone you love is incarcerated, and suddenly you have to do things you never dreamed you’d ever have to do, beginning with research to determine how you can communicate with and support your “loved one.” (The system refers to the inmates as “loved ones.” YOU love them. The system doesn’t.)

Society has all sorts of offenders, and we have consequences for them. My opinion is that prison hard time should be reserved for the worst of the lot – you know, murderers and thieves, psychopaths and sociopaths – but a large percentage of those incarcerated suffer addiction and / or mental illness. (Addiction is mental illness.) Naturally, you’re angry with your loved one for getting himself (or herself) into this mess, but if he has any support at all, you’re IT. You see his good along with his bad, and so you cherish and encourage the good.

Don’t be fooled by the resort-like atmosphere set forth by the prison website. That picture of a kitchen well-stocked with nutritious food is not reality. Don’t be taken in by the warden’s friendly grin. Don’t think that guards and staff members are caring and compassionate. Remember those prison movies where we actually have sympathy for the inmates because the warden and the guards are so heartless and corrupt? Well, those are based on fact.

The system also says that they will help your loved one by providing treatment, educational opportunities, chapel, and positive social interactions. If this is true, it doesn’t happen for everyone. Statistics show that if an inmate doesn’t have mental issues when processed into prison, he will when he is released. He will need plenty of help and encouragement, and again – you’re IT.

Don’t hesitate to make contacts within the system on behalf of your loved one. Follow your instincts. Don’t be afraid of being rebuffed. If you’re worried about your loved one, call the prison and ask questions. Document or record your calls. If the worst happens, as it did to us, you will have documentation that you served notice. 

Once incarcerated, your loved one can call you, but calls are expensive. He can message with you through the prison email system but only after you establish an account within that system. For the most part, it worked well for us, but all communication is subject to review. Nothing is private. Save any messages you receive from your loved one.

The prison experience is at least tolerable if the inmate has money in his commissary account. I think the Idaho prison system provides a blanket, towel, and slipper socks. For some reason, the prison provided these to us with Milo’s effects, and I was appalled by their worn condition. In the beginning, the prison also provides a few necessary toiletries – toothbrush, toothpaste, and soap. It’s not much. However, with money, an inmate can buy food and supplies to make life more comfortable – shoes, a pillow, a second blanket, exercise shorts, underwear, etc. Our son Milo was hypoglycemic and needed snacks to augment his meals, which tells you that the average man is not provided enough food. He bought a hot pot to warm ramen soup and make tea, and he also bought a small fan – cheap goods sold at a premium.

The corrections system in our country breaks those who come into it. It not only penalizes offenders but also their families. The concept of the “debtors’ prison” is alive and well in our country. Many of the incarcerated are poor to begin with, and a family that loses its breadwinner is at risk of homelessness. As incongruous as it seems to most of us, some families don’t have computers, which means they can’t visit with their loved one or supply him with commissary funds. Often an inmate has lost his family and everything he owns, which opens the door for a host of other problems, including hopelessness and homelessness. KW

[For a perspective on current prison life, I read the blog, Book of Irving.]

FALL PLANTING

When they say, “Fall is for planting,” exactly who are they talking about and where do they live?

As we cleaned out the raised beds today, Mike and I noted once again that the soil is hard. I have known this since we took up gardening here some 20+ years ago. I’d love to do more with the gardens. I see myself planting daisies in the spring and daffodils in the fall, but then reality hits. I can’t make a dent in the soil! It’s basically clay, you know, but even the good topsoil is dried by the sun. This place is meant to be dry land farming, but the draught conditions dry the soil even more.

Will this blanket flower take root?

And this begs the question: are those who have endured storm after devastating storm going to plant flowers this season? No, of course not!

Two weeks ago, Mike helped me transplant mint and blanket flowers from the town garden. If the plants don’t make it, I hope the seeds will spread. If not, we’re not out anything but our effort. It’s a waste to buy plants for this place.

I just wonder if the spring will bring renewal or if we’re losing some of our trees and other plantings. Time will tell. KW

Our beautiful purple ash in town

THE SECOND CABIN

 

He is honest, hardworking, ambitious, independent, public-spirited. Wanted to carve his own way and not work for someone else, wanted his sons to do likewise, and never wanted his daughters to work for others. He’s always been strictly decent, does not believe in “filthy communication.” – Ina Dobson on her husband Jack, 1934

Jack and Ina Dobson were so proud to have obtained a homestead of their own in 1895. And Jack did work hard on his land. He worked until he was worn out and could work no more, and then he died. His story is not unique. The small farm was subsistence living. They had no extra money to put by for the future, and they couldn’t sell the land for enough to take care of themselves in old age. Say what you will about the government’s generosity in handing out land, if the homesteaders stayed on the farm for the rest of their lives, they were eventually stuck there. 

The Original Cabin

We have established that Jack built the original cabin “down on the flat,” the northern edge of the property, in November and December of 1895. Ina and the three children moved there in the spring of 1896 after Irl was born. And then Jack located a better spot to establish the farmyard, including house, barn, woodshed, henhouse, and other buildings to accommodate a home and farm operation, including livestock.

According to Ina’s story, the family moved into the second cabin (the top photo) in December 1896, so they didn’t stay long in the original cabin. Ethel was born in this cabin in 1898, my dad (Vance) in 1904, and Shirley in 1910. The present farmhouse was built in 1917, and eventually this cabin -- the family home for 20 years -- became my dad’s machine shop. I don’t remember much about it except that it was small and would have been cramped quarters for a family with six growing children. It had an upstairs bedroom for the children’s sleeping quarters, and I only ventured up there once or twice. My dad burned it down in 1971. KW

I submitted the photo of Ina and her children to the Lewiston Tribune for their "Blast from the Past" feature. It was published on October 8, 2025. My grandmother, Ina Dobson, is seated in the foreground with her children -- Myrtle (Lynn), Ethel, Pearl, and Irl. The woman seated behind is Ida Chandler Dickson, who was married to James Benjamin (Ben) Dickson, Ina's brother. And to the right behind is my grandfather, Julian (Jack) Dobson.

It was 36 when Mike and I arose this morning, and I couldn't help but give thanks for our creature comforts. KW

A SUDDEN CHILL IN THE AIR

Pine trees reflected on June's field

So – We’ve gone from unseasonably warm temps to a sudden need for warmer garments. Last night I turned on the electric blanket for the first time this season and pulled the bedspread out of storage. Mike has built fires in the fireplaces at both houses and even lit the pilot on the wall furnace at the farmhouse. I guess he had an inkling that colder temps were on the way because last week he brought our space heaters in from the shed. This morning, he turned them on.

We went to the farm Thursday (Oct. 9). Afternoon highs Thursday and Friday were 82, but Friday the wind picked up and by evening it was raining. We need the rain. We’ve even prayed for rain, and all the while other regions of our country are inundated – storm after storm with wind and flooding. The glow cast by the evening sun as the storm approached was spectacular. The photos here (taken with my phone because I forgot the camera) just don’t do those “magnificent effects” justice.

So, it’s time to prepare for winter. It will surely come. The garden is finished. I picked two dozen (or more) ripe tomatoes and two heaping Cool Whip containers of green ones. (A Cool Whip container is a standard measurement at my house. At approximately three cups, it’s approximate but gives a mental picture nevertheless, sorta like the obsolete bushel and peck.) I picked a few strawberries but tossed them. And I picked three summer squash, but only two were edible. I did not pull the plants out. I’ll do it next trip – or next spring. (I’m tempted to say whichever comes first.)

Thursday afternoon, Mike and I transplanted “blanket flowers” and mint from the town garden in the orchard. These may not take but perhaps the seeds will spread and plant themselves. I can always dream.

The pears we picked last trip gradually ripened on the counter, so I sliced and dried two trays of them. We were surprised to find eight more decent pears on the tree, which Mike picked for us.

And I made a batch of haw jelly, baked an apple blueberry pie and cookies. Mike took the big chimes down and stored them. He also cleaned the eavestroughs. It all sounds so easy, doesn’t it? But it was work. And we brought the lawnmower back to town for winter service and storage. KW

 

INFLATION WOES

 Listen, the hard candy cost 9 cents a pound, cream 15 cents a pint, nuts two pounds for 35 cents. Some change! – Ina Dobson to son Vance, December 1932

We can laugh today at the inflation noted by Ina during the Great Depression, but in the days when every penny counted, I guess those were terrible prices. Strictly speaking, she didn’t need hard candy and nuts, but she wanted them as treats to serve at her annual Christmas party. She said that others were unable to contribute, so it fell to her to provide for everyone. She added that the store gave her an extra pound of hard candy, and she was grateful.

Previously I have said that we can afford to have whatever we want from the grocery store. I now say, “We can, but do we want to?” Food items keep going up. For 30 years, I have mixed myself a cup of hot chocolate with a touch of instant coffee every morning, but given the price of chocolate and coffee, I’m about to let it go. We have a stash of tea in the cupboard, so if I don’t find an outlet for affordable hot chocolate, I’ll switch to tea. What happens if you drink bedtime tea first thing in the morning?

But – we have to eat. The question is, what are we going to eat? I think Mike and I will stick to the basics – produce, dairy, bread, and meat. Maybe we’ll eat foods that are better for us. Relatively speaking, processed food has always been expensive.

What about other shopping? I might not buy 30 dolls this year. Maybe I’ll only buy two. I thought about buying a Maplelea Girl, the Canadian answer to the American Girl, but I don’t need another doll. In fact, I don’t need much – hardly anything at all. My stashes will hold me for a while. It’s just that something new now and then boosts the morale.

Here’s a small project I just finished – two Halloween quilt-as-you-go mug rugs, kits from the Fat Quarter Shop. They were quick to make and added to my enjoyment of the season. And the pineapple upside-down-cake that Mike ordered turned out well, too. (Not everything turns out well these days.) KW

 

THE ORIGINAL CABIN

 

In examining this photo of the first bean harvest on the Julian (Jack) Dobson homestead (see post of Sept. 20), Mike and son Murray discovered an obscure image of the “original" cabin, the first cabin that Grandpa Jack built here. Look closely, and you’ll see it just over the head of the man farthest left. (See enlargement.)

This one-room cabin was rough and rustic but served as their home base while they cleared the land and began their farming operation.

The "original" cabin, 1912

My aunt, Ethel Dobson Robinson, said that the cabin was built in November and December 1895 and was the first cabin in the Gilbert community. The Gilbert post office closed in 1920, but the general area on Russell Ridge is still known as Gilbert.

I don’t know when the cabin was demolished, but according to Aunt Ethel, her sister Myrtle Dobson (known to me as Aunt Lynn) took the picture in 1912. The family was living in the new cabin by 1900, and the present farmhouse was built in 1917. KW 

THE AUTUMNAL EQUINOX

Our north field in the foreground; planting on the neighbor's field

 I thought I had my semi-annual dental appointment on the 24^th, but I discovered that I had it all wrong. It’s not until November. So, we loaded the Jeep and headed to the farm.

The seasonal change was obvious as we drove along. It was a beautiful sunny day, but the tilt of the autumn sun often put the highway in shade. Autumn just has a look all its own. I suppose all seasons do, but with autumn, it seems more pronounced. It’s still early yet for the leaves to change color, but I saw a hint of fall color here and there.

While I dream of autumn, we’re still having 80-degree afternoons here at the farm. That sun is hot!

I left Jingles the Elf in town. He’s a stupid project, but I’ll finish him and we can all laugh. I’ve been saving patterns for other stuffed elves and Santas that I want to try, but first things first. Jingles must be finished.

I brought the Halloween quilt with me but left the instructions in town. C’est la vie! It’s always something. And I took one sewing machine back to town with the last trip and brought the other one back to the farmhouse. “Is this the same sewing machine we carried to town,” asks Mike. I was glad to be able to say no, but for all the good it does me, I shouldn’t have bothered. I just have to have some things with me or my life feels wrong!

Over the last couple of days, we have watched as the farmer planted the neighbor’s place. There’s just something comforting about the sound of distant farm machinery on a quiet autumn day. Our fields are stubble and won’t be planted until spring.

Son Murray came for dinner last night and spent several hours stargazing with the aid of an app. He identified the International Space Station, various satellites, etc.

Mike and I picked two gallons of pears from the old tree the other day, and I dried the ripest ones. Very good! (If I remember my grade school education, I think pears and apples should be measured in bushels and pecks, but apparently those measurements are obsolete now.)

I suspect that our garden is about finished. A few strawberry plants have blossoms, but none of the summer squash plants are in bloom. I picked a dozen tomatoes and will pick more before the next trip to town. I also picked many “Sweet 100” cherry tomatoes and might try making jam. I watered well this morning, and then Mike put the hoses away. I also pulled all the honey crisp apples off the tree and tossed most of them. What few I salvaged I managed to scorch in an effort to make applesauce. It happens – more and more. KW 

BEAN HARVEST, 1897

This photo, taken in 1897, is of the first bean harvest on my grandfather Julian Dobson's homestead. I submitted it to the Lewiston Tribune for the "Blast from the Past" section, where it was published on Thursday, Sept. 18.

My aunt, Ethel Dobson Robinson, identified the photo as follows: Ross Pratt, Junius Dobson, Julian Dobson, Frank Dickson, Perry Chandler, Charley Boehm, John Boehm, Clarence Chandler, and Marshall Brooks. 

Aunt Ethel adds: "No machinery was used on this bean crop. The beans were pulled by hand and later threshed on the barn floor with 'flails.'" 

Mike and I think the location is the field north of the house. KW

TACKLING A BUFFALO

On Dec. 10, 2023, as I attempted to digest the information that our son Milo had been murdered, so much went through my mind – shock, grief, anger, hurt, and dread -- dread because I knew this wrongful death would be disruptive to my daily life for a long time. “No!” I screamed into the phone. I felt the muses slipping away, and I knew they would be gone indefinitely. Mike and I now had work to do. Hallie soon took over much of it, but we are involved in the details. And so, we have worked diligently according to our leadings, and it’s not over yet. Life finally feels more normal, and the muses have returned despite the underlying sadness.

Anyway, that work in Milo’s name is not the buffalo. The buffalo is “Jingles the Elf,” a crochet project in process. The other day, as I tried to start yet another crocheted doll sweater, I realized that I should just retrieve Jingles from the shed and finish him. His face is finished, so he looks at me ruefully every time I go to the shed. My memory was that my work had just been interrupted, but I had forgotten that he was indeed a buffalo of the first magnitude.

It was his hair – the next step in his construction. The instructions ask me to crochet a strip of double loops into a chain, and this is just so difficult to do. I hate to say I can’t, but in some cases, it just isn’t practical in terms of time and stress. (And besides – the pattern is just someone’s idea, and who’s to say that my idea isn’t just as good?) With yarn and a needle, I think that I can come up with the same result – perhaps even better. So, I skipped his hair for now and moved on to his tunic.

We have a few friends among the prison inmates now, and one of them crochets stuffed toys. He says his grandmother taught him to crochet, and with time on his hands, he has perfected his craft. He uses worsted weight yarn ordered from Herrschners and a size F bamboo crochet hook. Inmates can ship things out of prison, so he takes orders from other inmates and makes stuffed toys for their children. 

His work is an inspiration to me. Just look how tightly he makes that fabric. I hope to emulate that work. KW

A LITTLE COOLER AND ANOTHER FINISH

After the storm -- morning fog

It’s cooler now – not quite cool enough for winter pajamas but cool enough to have a blanket at the ready for those early morning hours when your knees get cold.

Last week, I finished chair backs and arm covers in a hexagon quilt pattern from a farm-themed fabric. I’m not a perfectionist, and I don’t do perfect work, but I live with a perfectionist in my head. The hexie project was not difficult but took me months because the perfectionist balked at actually sewing. As long as a project remains in my head, it’s perfect. It’s only when I work on it that it becomes imperfect. Anyway, once I got into it, I enjoyed it, and it didn’t need to be perfect anyway.

And now it’s on to the next thing – a Halloween quilt. “Didn’t you make a Halloween quilt already?” asked Mike. Yes, I did, and I loved that fabric so much that I’m making another. Do I need another Halloween quilt? What does it matter? And even though I will work on it, I might not finish it this year. It’s difficult in that I’m feeling my way along, and as always, I have other things to do.

Wednesday (Sept. 10), I made a batch of hawberry jelly. It only amounted to four jars, but I have enough juice for another batch. The haws are sweet but rather bland. They don’t tickle your taste buds. Lemon juice sparks it up some. We checked again the other day for sincere elderberries but didn’t find any. And we didn’t get any serviceberries this year either. The jelly of the year is haw.

Wednesday night, we had a BIG storm at the farm – big wind from the south coupled with lightning and thunder and finally, heavy rain. The cistern is somewhat replenished now, but we hardly need it. In fact, with more rain in the forecast -- and the fact that we're at the end of the season -- I’m less worried about the raised beds and the fruit trees. Even so, I don’t really know what to expect in this changing world. The given is that the days grow short, and the vegetation gets the message that the season draws to a close.

I picked ten tomatoes yesterday, and a load of cherry tomatoes that I scarcely care about. I had no summer squash, but I have had enough for side dishes and zucchini bread. I even have a few boxes in the freezer -- more than I get some years.

Surprisingly, Bess weathered that storm on the porch, but when Mike put her to bed in the shed, she cried and cried. She does a lot of whining and complaining these days. He finally let her stay in the house. KW

The warm sun dispersed the fog

NOTES ON CHILDHOOD DISEASE AND INOCULATION

From the National Library of Medicine: “During the 1950s an annual average of greater than 500,000 cases of measles and nearly 500 deaths due to measles were reported in the United States. Surveys indicated that 95% of the population had been infected with measles by the age of 15 years. The introduction of measles vaccine and its widespread use, which began in 1963, has had a major impact on the occurrence of measles in the United States.”

I think that the collective memory has forgotten how very serious the childhood diseases can be. I think we have also lost our sense of working together for the good of the community.

I grew up before inoculations against the childhood diseases were available. Most of us children experienced those diseases, and it was hoped that you would contract the disease as a child so that you had your immunity before adulthood. Children endure the childhood diseases better than adults.

When I was five years old, I came down with the measles on the same day that my maternal grandmother, Nina Portfors, passed away. My mother was with family at the hospital on that day, so I was left at home in my dad’s care. Perhaps I hadn’t been feeling well because I was sitting on the bed in the front bedroom when Daddy came in and told me that Grandma had died. He also told me that I had to stay in bed because I had the measles. It was news to me. How did he know?

Once Mother was home, she called Dr. Pappenhagen, who subsequently made a house call. (Yes, I can remember when the local doctor made house calls.) “I’ll have to see more spots than this before I’ll call it measles,” he said. The next morning, Mother called Dr. Pappenhagen again. “You wanted to see more spots,” she said. “Well, I have them.” I don’t recall that the good doctor came again. I think he took her word for it. And any instructions for my care would have been very general. Medicine could do very little for us.

After that, I was feverish and delirious. I remember my poor mother coming and going from my bedside to attend to my needs. It had to have been a stressful time for her because the family had many out-of-town visitors for Grandma’s funeral. The household was abuzz with activity, and I was missing out!

Well, measles is just one example, of course, but it was not to be taken lightly. I remember one of my elementary teachers telling us that if we had measles, we should stay in bed in a darkened room and not try to read. Measles can cause blindness.

For my children (c. 1980), inoculation was the order of the day. If you didn’t have your children immunized, if you were even granted an exemption, your peers looked at you with derision. It was un-American and all but illegal not to protect your children and by extension, your community. I figured out that if I followed the immunization schedule for my babies, we would finish before they were old enough to put up much of a fuss. And then there was the booster when they started kindergarten. And as they entered junior high, each kid came home from school and reminded me that they needed a booster. They didn’t balk, and neither did I. (I add here that chicken pox vaccine was not available for my children. They all had the actual disease.)

As an adult, I’ve had Covid shots and boosters as recommended. Once I had a Covid booster and a flu shot at the same time, and that proved to be a bad idea. I had a reaction and passed out at the supper table. I won’t do that again. And four years ago, before I went to help with Baby Silas, I was immunized against whooping cough for his protection. KW 

BEACH SEASON ENDS ABRUPTLY

When we’re in town on a hot day, Mike exercises Bess at the beach in lieu of her evening constitutional. He uses a “Chuck-It” to toss balls into the river for her to fetch. Naturally, it’s her favorite thing to do, and she starts to nag us well before it’s time to go. If perchance we take her for a walk instead of to the beach, she will indicate her displeasure by attempting to herd us, as if to say, “No, no! This isn’t what I want to do.”

During the summer weeks, there were other families at that beach, but as soon as school started (Aug. 26 or so), we pretty much had it to ourselves. I guess families just have other activities when school starts, but it was still hot – over 100 – and as we drove past the ballfield at the school, we marveled at the kids suited up for football practice in the hot afternoon sun.

On Wednesday (Sept. 3), we noticed the river was rather high, and half of the beach was under water. We opined that they must be letting water through the dam. On Thursday, “the beach” was just a little strip at the edge of the water. Friday, I didn’t go, but Mike took Bess and said the beach was totally under water. There was no beach. He threw a few balls for Bess but didn’t take his customary dip.

It's just a sign that summer draws to a close. I washed our towels and suits and put them away. Mike’s not so sure, but I’m finished.

 

APPLE TREES AND HOT SUMMER DAYS

The farmhouse from behind the pond

“What happened to August,” asked brother Chuck. What indeed? It went the way of July, and now it’s already September 3. The current heat alert came into effect on Aug. 31, I think, but the weekend (and next week) should be more seasonable.

It’s hot, and I’m tired of watering, but I keep at it. The garden changes day by day. I’ve despaired of having more zucchini, but as I watered this morning, I discovered another overgrown squash that will grate up wonderfully for quick bread, and I saw a few blossoms. The tomatoes are slowly fading from green to white to orange.

The hummingbird feeders are now in storage, but this morning, a hummer buzzed me. Too bad. He’ll just have to live off the land.

Over the last several days, I noticed fewer apples on the “Empire” tree, and today I realized that I must pick them now or lose the crop entirely. Apparently, the deer are reaching over the fence. The apples snapped off easily, but I do think they could have stood to ripen a little longer.

Bess & Mike prepare to shoot clay pigeons

The Empire apple was developed in New York State during the mid-60s, a cross between the delicious apple and the McIntosh. It’s grown mostly in the northeastern U.S. So, why do I have this tree? Because four years ago, as I was shopping for apple trees, the nurseryman sold it to me. This variety was unexpected, but I guess I can’t complain. The apples are crisp, have good flavor, and are wormless.

Someone once told me that apples ripen toward the end of October, but if we waited that long, we would never get a single apple. They would fall off the tree and the deer would eat them. I think it depends a lot on the weather and the water. Anyway, I’m proud of myself for (mostly) saving the Empire apple crop.

The “Freedom” apple tree, planted at the same time, bloomed prettily in the spring but bore no apples. And the “Honey Crisp” apples were abundant but infected with worms even though we sprayed. I’m concerned about the trees that are closest to the grove.

Last Saturday, Mike and I walked down to the old apple tree at the end of the lane. It has been identified as a “Winterstein,” a variety developed by Luther Burbank in 1896. I have no proof, but I pretend that my grandfather and his twin brother, who homesteaded here in 1896, planted that tree. For an apple tree, it’s huge – probably 30 to 40 feet, which means it was grafted onto standard stock. The apples are wormy and mealy, but I chopped off the good parts and cooked them into delicious sauce. Mike says he’ll pick more next week, and I hope he can. The deer bed down under that tree, and they will eat the fruit on the lower branches.

Another rattlesnake greeted us as we walked around the pond the other day. That’s our ninth sighting this season, but I wonder if we’re seeing the same snake again and again. It seems short and plump to me.

We’re still hazy with smoke. I can barely see Teakean Butte to the north, and Cottonwood Butte to the south is totally obscured. KW

Little Canyon -- disappointing photo. Breathtaking in reality.

SUMMERWEEN

 

The smoky atmosphere lends an eeriness to the world. All of a sudden the days are noticeably shorter. The angle of the sun casts long shadows. Earth tones take the place of summer greens. It's "Summerween."

After several days of “excessive heat,” today is much cooler (70) with rain. We need the rain. As a matter of fact, the water level in the old cistern which we use to irrigate the gardens is now below the pump, so Mike connected the hoses to the spigot on the house. I’m also carrying gray water from the sink to the vegetation. It seems like a lot of work, but you know, September is upon us. We’ll be putting the gardens to bed before we know it. I wonder if my crop of green tomatoes will ripen or if I’ll make green tomato mincemeat this year.

Anyway, it’s a little cool but we feel refreshed. In fact, Mike said he enjoyed his bike ride so much this morning that he didn’t want to quit. And it’s finally cool enough to bake, and I made banana bread today.

It appeared that the smoke had cleared out some this morning, but it’s back with a vengeance this afternoon. Not only can we not see the canyon or the buttes but the fields are obscured. We’re sitting in the middle of smoke. In fact, I’m watching visibility grow worse right now. I don’t know where the fires are.

The hummingbirds are gone. It’s time to put the feeders away.

I needed to wash a load of whites this morning, even though I had to hang them on the wooden rack on the sun porch due to the pending rain. That’s not the story, though. The story is that it took me ten minutes to open the childproof pouch of Tide pods. I remember when childproof caps first came out (yes, I can remember when medicine bottles didn’t have childproof caps), and the joke was that senior citizens who don’t have children anyway couldn’t open their medications. I thought of that this morning as I made multiple attempts to open the pouch. I even felt panic rising until I realized that I still have liquid detergent, but just then I apparently held my mouth just right and the pouch zipped open. I reclosed it with a clip.
KW

HARVEST 2025

The harvesters made a start on June’s field Tuesday evening (Aug. 19) and worked just half an hour. This was a family operation this year – our lessor and his three teen-aged sons – and on Tuesday evening they had to quit early and return home for a family event.

They were back Wednesday morning and finished by suppertime. I figure that two combines finished our fields in eight or nine hours.

I took a lot of pictures, many of them not very interesting. In fact, I didn’t think it was an interesting operation this year. The wind was blowing in the morning, so they worked the southernmost field first, away from the house, and when they came in close, they mostly came down the hill from the west. Sometimes the combines were hidden in a cloud of dust. And of course, they don't pause for picures. At any rate, I’m glad that I got to watch.

Wednesday morning as I walked Bess around the pond, I came upon a rattlesnake in tall grass between the barn and the pond. I scurried to the yard to get Mike, and by the time we made it back to the spot in question, the rattlesnake was crossing the path, heading to the pond. Once a rattler is discovered, it doesn’t stick around. This was our seventh rattler sighting this season.

Now that harvest is over, we look forward to better hiking options. Thursday morning, we walked across the field to the canyon. We came upon a large covey of chukars, but Mike says not to worry. They will disappear when the season opens. (Maybe that's why they call it "hunting.") KW

 

MORE 2025 PRE-HARVEST PHOTOS

Upon returning to the farm on Monday (Aug. 18), I was delighted to see that I didn’t miss harvest after all. The spring wheat still stands in our fields. “Don’t get too excited,” says Mike; “we may yet miss harvest.”

I watched as the neighbor’s field across the draw was plowed. I don’t think it was really plowed up, but they at least knocked down the stubble. We don’t know the reason for this. Is it fire prevention? Is it better preparation for next year’s crop? The farmer tells us that he will plant these fields in the spring.

I did a load of laundry this morning – not more than I could quickly remove from the line if the harvesters showed up. They didn’t.

I picked two zucchini, one tomato, and a handful of strawberries yesterday. We had a BLT for lunch. Delicious!

A couple of hummingbirds are still here, so I put out more nectar. However, some little buzzing insects are making it difficult for the hummers to get to the feeders. The wasps (or whatever they are) also plague Bess.

At dusk last night, two relatively small whitetail bucks with largish racks entered the yard and commenced to eat pears off the old tree in the orchard. They’ve been here before and have already consumed the fruit off the lower branches. I tried to get a picture through the window in the bathroom, but it was too dark They didn’t stay long once they saw us, but our presence is not much of a deterrent.

Mike left on his bicycle at 7:30 a.m., so I walked Bess and took more pre-harvest photos. KW

 

FINAL 2025 PRE-HARVEST PHOTOS (PROBABLY)

 

You should see Earl rise early, work and manage here. He insisted on harrowing the bean ground and using the big cultivator, etc., till it only took 4 ½ days to “lay by” 62 acres. In former years it would have taken a crew of 6 to 8 men two or three weeks at big wages to do it. – Ina Dobson, 7-30-1933

Combine on top of hill

The harvesters were working in the ‘hood as we left the farm Friday afternoon (Aug. 15). We hear them working on the next place over whether or not we see them. We expected them here sooner, so we’re disappointed that this stay at the farmhouse concluded before they arrived. By the time we return, they likely will have finished.

So, why did we leave the farm if we were looking forward to harvest? Well, Mike wanted to ride with cyclists Saturday morning, and as long as he was working out of our town base, he arranged a motorcycle ride for Sunday morning. AND – we were out of milk. We can’t get along without milk.

We still anticipate harvest, but the hustle and bustle of the season just isn’t what it was “back in the day” when workers were hired and fed. Even when I was a girl and harvest was managed by my dad and a helper or two, it was still an exciting time. I experience some carry-over from those days. Mother cooked on the old wood stove, but sometimes she cooked in her own town kitchen and carried the mid-day meal to the farm. Cooking in a modern kitchen was much easier – and cooler.

I remember how dirty harvesters used to get. My dad’s face was covered with dust except for the clean ring around his eyes caused by his goggles. Thank goodness for his goggles! Daddy did not leave the farm during harvest, so he “washed up” before bed in the old kitchen. In those days, he started early and quit at suppertime. These days, the harvest operation starts mid-morning and sometimes continues after dark. Those big machines have lights. 

Mother lamented the passing of the small family farm. “It was a good life,” she said, and our neighbor the late Neil Miller concurred. “It WAS a good life,” he agreed. The day came when Neil’s heir had to give up the farm operation and lease to a larger operation. We all did. KW