I didn’t believe her. How could I? It was all so outlandish. Fish eyes! A tiny purse!
And yet, she was such a precocious child, or so we were told, that I wondered.
As new parents, we didn’t have other children for reference. Her first word was “Octi,” for the crocheted octopus she eventually carried everywhere. One of its olive green spirally legs, “the right one,” was an inch longer from her continual twisting and fingering it, always with a far-off look on her round little face.
She walked at nine months, early according to Penelope Leach’s well-worn advice book, our generation’s Dr. Spock.
And much earlier, at two weeks, she rolled over from her padded bedding on the wicker “coffee table” trunk, startling her dad, who jumped up to catch her but accidentally landed on an empty drinking glass with his bare foot, severing an artery. I wrapped them both up and drove to the ER in spite of the remnants of a February blizzard and my post-op restrictions about driving.
She kept us guessing what first would be next.
She was four when we had the talk. Or maybe three, now that I think about it.
The ruffled muslin curtains had been drawn in her little upstairs bedroom on Dodge Avenue. Drowsy from her warm bubble bath and snuggled into her clean nightie, she’d heard my bedtime story and song and finished her child prayers.
Her eyes were starting to fall, heavy with the pleasant fatigue of a satisfying day of child work: helping me dust and cook, making voices for her Teddy Ruxpin characters, taking an afternoon stroll to the park, supper with Poppy and me.
As I twisted the dresser light’s switch one click to make the tiny bulb inside the train engine glow, she whispered. “Remember when I had that little purse, Mama?”
I turned around in surprise. “A purse? Nooo, what did it look like?”
“It was hard.”
Hard? My eyes darted around the room‘s shelves mentally sorting through gifts from overindulgent grandparents, aunts, and uncles. What was I forgetting? A little Easter purse from Auntie Amanda? An old-fashioned clasp purse in the dress-up bag from Mamaw?
I leaned over and smoothed her hair. “No, sweetie, I don’t remember a purse.”
I pulled her flowery, quilted bedspread higher and tucked it around her little body.
“You know, the fish one,” she went on.
“The fish!” I said with a laugh. “I don’t remember a purse shaped like a fish.”
What was she thinking about? The only thing she had that related to fish were her copies of Rainbow Fish and One Fish, Two Fish…
“No,” she corrected me with a gentle scold. “It wasn’t shaped like a fish; it was a dried-up fish. I kept things in it.”
My eyes narrowed. Where in the world would she get such an idea? Was this…? No, surely not. But just on the off-chance, as her eyes got heavier and she struggled to keep them open, I prodded.
“What else did you have?”
“Fish eyes,” she murmured, snuggling her shoulders lower under her covers.
Fish eyes! This was getting weird.
“What about fish eyes, sweetie?”
“We ate ‘em,” she replied groggily.
I recoiled without thinking, my eyes huge. It was almost too much. Was she talking about some past life? A time where her people had dried fish and she’d played with one, and then eaten the eyes because they were so poor? Did people do that? Had they ever done that? I’d read about young children having memories from past lives, but I wasn’t sure if I believed it. And not my child, who looked so perfectly content, tucked in for bed.
A gentle smile played on her lips, as if she were remembering some past delight.
“They were candy.”
She sighed in satisfaction, wriggled, and then drifted into heavy, rhythmic breathing that took her to a different world.
A world I would never know, and the first of many more.
Genealogy has had an oscillating presence in my life. Sometimes its fan blows straight at me and keeps me cool and comfy; sometimes it blows in another direction, and I just catch a slight waft of the gentle breeze. Over the years, it’s depended on the amount of time I’ve been able to invest in research.
Using local resources, like the New Castle-Henry County Public Library and the New Castle Historical Society, has been fruitful. I discovered my three-times great-grandmother’s framed license to practice medicine! I discovered that she and her sister Mary Jane were members of a local temperance organization and shared their own poetry in public.
Living in Fort Wayne, Indiana, over thirty years ago, I had a surprisingly first-class resource at my beck and call– as long as it was during library hours. The Allen County Public Library’s Genealogy Center is among the top genealogy history libraries in the USA.
It was there that my mom and I traced our Holloway Quaker heritage back to the 1600’s in England. Quakers were notorious for keeping records of births, deaths, marriages, committee work, and even the names of members “read out of meeting” for their un-Quakerly behavior. Unfortunately, the specifics of those offenses were not generally noted, giving rise to great speculation. But to see three hundred years of Quaker history in my family tree was incredible. That’s quite a legacy! And just a little intimidating.
The Presence in the Midst
My Swander ancestors, on the other hand, trace their lineage back to Adam and Eve, according to the Swander minister who wrote our family history book that rests on my bookshelf. No need for Swanders to wonder about their forebears. Ha!
But I’m more interested in specific people and their lives, not just names, dates, and places, or references to my ancestors in Biblical stories. Perhaps that’s why my adventure with Mary Jane Edwards’ diary has had such a tight grip on me. MJ recorded her daily events and thoughts for the entire year of 1866. Her pen opened a window with a breeze that fans across me every time I open its text and am taken back to her winter and spring days as a teacher of freedmen in the Deep South or her summer and fall days on the family farm north of Raysville. I can learn about the books she read, the dresses she wore, the irritations and joys she felt, and what happened each time she attended Quaker meeting for worship. In doing so, I feel a real connection to MJ as a person, and as part of my gene pool.
Luckily, other resources can provide a similar peek into our ancestors’ lives. Sometimes without our even planning to find them!
Several weeks ago, I wrote a short article for the local historical society’s newsletter. My son is its editor, and he was lamenting the lack of submissions for this month’s issue. I told him that because our local Quaker meeting was in the process of selling its Gothic Revival meetinghouse, I would be glad to do some research and contribute an article about its construction and early days.
Friends Memorial Church, courtesy Ball State Digital Media Repository
The first thing I did was google the history of the meeting as a refresher to firm up my memory. And what was my first hit? An article written by my own grandmother for a program to honor the eightieth birthday of the church building in 1988! It was packed with information.
Then I decided to find out more about some of the early members. Thanks to the availability and wide reach of Newspapers.com, I was able to quickly locate fascinating information about various members and pastors. One of the founding members of the meeting was a wealthy grocer turned dry goods warehouse owner, Joseph Goddard whose wife was a birthright Quaker in search of a meeting. Mary Goddard is credited with being the driving force behind the building at Adams and Charles Streets.
An article I happened across about Goddard’s lavish warehouse grand opening, when he rented Interurban cars to bring potential customers from all over East-Central Indiana boggled my mind. His public relations campaign was as impressive as any marketing efforts today. In addition to providing transportation to potential customers, Goddard awarded the visitors with ribbons commemorative of the day and offered tours of his new facility. Afterward, a parade welcomed the visitors, who then marched to a local event hall for an extravagant meal featuring exotic grocery items from Goddard’s warehouse.
Photo courtesy of Lost Muncie Facebook Page
But the rabbit hole of detailed information didn’t end there. The warren twisted and turned as I discovered and combined new keywords. The strangest part of the meetinghouse story connected to my family!
I had assumed that my family members were newcomers to Muncie when my grandfather was a teenager, leaving his Henry County roots behind.
Not true. In a newspaper article, I discovered that one of Goddard’s assistants was none other than the sickly baby mentioned in Mary Jane’s diary! Harlan Rayle, my second cousin, four-times removed! Or something like that. Anyway, it was two generations before my grandfather came to Muncie. Later, Rayle and Goddard went into business together!
Harlan took me down another rabbit hole, where I worked my way backward to other ancestors in MJ’s diary.
Amazinghorsefacts.com
I discovered MJ’s youngest brother Milton was a breeder of Percheron horses! Those giant, proud draft horses with the long fetlocks. Several Henry County locals mentioned Milton’s colts as superb. I also learned Milton was a county commissioner and that he sorted out estates for many area residents, to the satisfaction of all parties. How fascinating to see how the young man who loved horses and studied bookkeeping in the diary grew up to be such a well-respected man of service to his community!
In the diary, David Edwards is MJ’s solid, quiet older brother who buys the brand-new reaper and runs the farm. As an adult, David was renowned for his mental acumen. In his obituary, he was praised as having one of the best mathematical brains in the state! I also found the advertisement for David’s estate sale and learned that Harlan, David’s nephew, settled his Uncle David’s estate, along with my two-times great-grandmother Lizzie, Mary Jane’s sister, and my grandpa’s grandmother. Harlan also served in county politics.
These details and connections stoke my imagination and help me visualize actual people who fill in the gaps in my genealogical trees. With this knowledge about their passions and how they spent their time, I also have a firmer idea of where I come from.
Everyone is not blessed with a family diary that is decades old. But with the availability of new tools and search engines– even Google– we can all at least have a more specific idea of our ancestors’ daily lives. And with that understanding comes an appreciation of the struggles they faced and inspiration they can offer us today.
Google your relatives. Check out Newspapers.com. See what you might find out about your people!
What do whiskey and cigarettes have in common in my life?
No, they’re not my coping mechanisms at the end of a stressful day.
What about Kellogg’s cereal, Hershey’s chocolate, and the US Bureau of Engraving and Printing?
Still stumped?
As a child of the 1960’s, I toured these manufacturing facilities with my family during our summer vacations. My dad worked in warehouse management for a regional supermarket chain, and his penchant for efficient processes meant touring “plants” was a common activity for us. Didn’t everyone do it?
While whiskey and cigarette manufacturing plants might not have been exactly age-appropriate for the preteen set, our walk-throughs didn’t seem to harm me. Most of these places didn’t give out samples, after all, except for the Froot Loop Sundae in Battle Creek, a classic!
These experiences did, however, give me indelible images of production processes and a wider vision of how the world works.
My dad’s interest in manufacturing was contagious. Although today it’s not as easy to score a facility walk-through due to liability issues, when we travel, I’m always looking for the behind-the-scenes tour. Whether it’s Barcadi Rum, or Louisville Sluggers, or Persian rugs, I want to learn how it’s made if I have the chance. I’ve toured food production facilities in China and Taiwan, printmaking studios at several universities, and a Toyota auto manufacturing plant in Japan. It’s intriguing to watch people and machines at work creating. Last winter, my family found a surprising and delicious production tour closer to home: DeBrand’s Fine Chocolates in Fort Wayne.
Truffles from DeBrand’s FIne Chocolates
As an educator, every time I walk through a production-type facility, I think about how many different occupations and people are required to make various products and businesses possible. And I’m reminded how important good communication skills are to ensure their success.
In this age where STEM wrestles with the Science of Reading for instructional time and funding, releasing students from their seats for real-world experiences in a variety of venues is crucial. The chance to experience a sampling of careers and opportunities through field trips and authentic experiences benefits students, schools, and families.
Focused career direction can make classwork relevant– or more tolerable– for many students and ultimately result in higher test scores that benefit students and schools. In addition, students having a clear career goal can save their families thousands of dollars in errant post-secondary tuition fees.
Those beliefs prompted me to create two yearly job shadow opportunities for my high school juniors at the first school where I taught. After they contacted potential hosts, my students spent a day with area professionals in a wide range of fields. They researched and wrote questions, spoke to adults, took notes about what they observed, and asked questions about their chosen job. Afterward, they wrote follow-up reports and thank-you letters.
Some students came away with confirmations about their chosen fields, while others fairly shouted that there was NO WAY they could do the job they shadowed. It was a powerful experience that guided many students in their post-secondary futures.
After those positive experiences, at my second school, I jumped on the chance to give a small group of students, who all happened to be female, a STEAM experience in the real world.
Released from our classrooms for a day of enrichment, my colleague Beth Roop and I drove white mini buses up State Road 9 and then headed west for about an hour to Kokomo Opalescent Glass, the world-renowned historical stained glass factory. The girls chattered the entire way.
Once inside the hundred-something-year-old building with its dusty, uneven cement floor and cobwebbed ceilings, the girls stopped talking and shrank back. Their disapproving looks around the factory screamed that they were out of their comfort zones.
Kokomo Opalescent Glass, photo by author
But their attention was immediately snagged by the intense heat and blinding glow from the 2600-degree furnace that melted the sand and ingredients. Nervous for the highly skilled workers, they whispered to each other about the danger of carrying huge ladles filled with molten glass from the furnace to the rolling machine. Even so, they edged closer to get a better look. Starting to engage, they were shocked when our guide told us of the $65,000 monthly gas bill during the factory’s peak season.
Inside the blowing room, the students smiled as they watched the artisan exhaling into the long tube to shape the blobs of hot glass into flat round plates of glass used as centerpieces for stained glass windows. By the time they saw the artisans making glass beads and laying out pieces of glass for stunning custom windows, they were pointing out the designs they would create if they were standing behind the work tables.
Kokomo Opalescent Glass, photo by author
As we headed to our next stop, we debriefed about the surprisingly different career options available in this historic factory. They could be a chemist who creates recipes for various types of glass; an engineer who designs the machinery that creates the glass; a social media expert who markets goods across the world; an artist who designs stained glass windows for churches or famous singers like customer Elton John; or even a retail store manager who sells delicate works of art, instead of burgers and fries or clothing.
Across town after lunch, we toured the Neo-Jacobean Seiberling Mansion which houses the Howard County Historical Society. The girls traipsed up and down the ornate stairs, admiring the decor, and asking numerous questions. After an hour of exploring, the girls came away with more career possibilities: historical preservation and museum curatorship, public history, interior design, and folklore. Each of these career options became a real possibility to these girls, more than just a major listed on a college website.
Seiberling Mansion, photo by author
Even though our day ostensibly was career-oriented, the field experience was more than about jobs; the girls learned about production and manufacturing. They learned that goods and museums don’t just appear. They learned about the processes people use in all fields with the support of math and science and language and trial and error. They learned that the past can guide us toward a better future if we take the time to learn from it.
Above all, they learned about living your passion. Our guides’ enthusiasm for their careers was contagious. These girls had a chance to see how people can take their passions in life and turn them into pleasure for others…while also earning a living.
In Indiana, my home state, the class of 2029 will have the opportunity to earn their diplomas in part from career-based experiences and/or internships that will count toward academic credit.
Let’s hope this new option is not simply a box that gets checked by placing kids in fast-food restaurants that are short of workers.
Let’s hope that students will be able to see their academic skills in action and observe how their strong communication skills will pave the way for their successful careers in a myriad of fields.
Let’s hope that the school administrators coordinating these experiences can offer a bevy of robust career experiences in unusual fields and venues for these young people’s benefit with the vigorous support of local communities.
Thirty-some years ago, finally divorced after months of marital and individual counseling and hours of agony trying to understand it all, I was settling in my hometown with three kids and a regular visitation schedule to their dad.
Alone, every other weekend, I had nothing to do, except fret and wonder what was happening while they were 110 miles away visiting him and his new wife.
Surely, the new wife was stepping in when he couldn’t give them his full attention. Wasn’t she? And if she weren’t, there was my oldest. Even at age 10, she would tell me if something were amiss. Wouldn’t she?
I was working as a single mom at a preschool, making ends meet with my spousal and child support. With three kids, I rarely had time to read anything but Frog and Toad or Hank the Cowdog.
We couldn’t afford cable, so mostly, I sat alone during those weekend visits and watched the local PBS station and fretted. I couldn’t concentrate on novels, and pulling out a poetry anthology to soothe my troubled heart was never a blip on my radar, even though I’d been an English Education major in college.
As an undergrad, I sat through numerous survey courses of British Lit and American Lit of various eras. But I was never a fan of poetry. I sometimes instinctively felt their emotion, but my mind often snapped closed. I just couldn’t understand it, so I avoided anything in verse- or worse, anything called poetry but without verse.
During one of those lonely single-parent weekends, I picked up a newspaper as a distraction. Buried between ads in a column inch or two was a brief blurb about a poetry contest. An organization in West Virginia promised 34 cash prizes for poems on any subject that were fewer than 20 lines long.
Could I do that? I certainly had enough overbrimming emotion to inspire a poem.
Thinking maybe some distraction would help, I picked up a pencil and notebook.
I began to scribble as I watched a bird out the window. My troubled, ignorant brain played with words and images and emotion. Not counting syllables, not marking scansion. That understanding would come later.
But I worked hard, finding the right word, the best phrase to convey my angst about myself and about my kids. Crossing out lines, drawing arrows, canceling entire stanzas.
Poetry- writing my own- spoke to me in a way it never had before. It was a start and a release.
What emerged wouldn’t qualify as great art, but the process of writing it calmed me. I wrote about my anxiety. I released it in just the exact words that spoke to me in that instant.
Did I win the contest?
No.
Thinking back, I’m not even sure that I submitted the poem.
But I found it tucked away in a manila folder yesterday. On its typed sheet, I had taped the newspaper blurb, now yellowed and a reminder of what prompted me to consider a different kind of writing that would ease the heaviness in my heart.
I also found my journal from those days, but that’s another tale… or two.
The poem is a reminder to me.
“Write for yourself,” it shouts. “Write to heal; write to celebrate! Even if you never send it to a contest or publish it, just write.”
And for that reason alone, this poem may be frame worthy. In my house, just for me!
It was only a week, but it seemed as if I’d been dozing, sneezing, coughing, and bingeing on historical dramas in print and video for forty days and forty nights. Like a baby with its days and nights mixed up, my sleep schedule didn’t help. I drifted in and out of daylight and alertness, with my high-test nasal decongestant spray the only thing that kept time for me, albeit in 12-hour segments.
The week before, I was nearly exhausted from helping my husband, who brought COVID into our otherwise, mostly healthy home. With his athsma, having the humidifier going and plenty of fluids and tissues and cough drops and food on hand in the guest room was critical. I accomplished mostly everything on both our lists, except for retrieving the mail on a few days.
He returned the favor for me the next week, as I spent the majority of my time in or on our bed dozing or reading.
Worried that working on my own historical novel during my bout with COVID might result in major errors that would cause contradictions or questions later, I settled for just reading and soaking up some historical ambiance. Here are my reflections about recent memorable fiction reads.
This Pulitzer Prize winner was a huge disappointment for me. While the descriptions and plot were interesting, I just could not get past the premise that there was a physical underground railway network that slaves used to work their way northward to freedom. Why invent such nonsense? It read like a gimmick to me. Once that element was introduced, I found myself doubting every historical element of the book.
Yellowface– R. F. Kung
Starting out with a bang, this novel revolves around a new author’s angst caused by comparing herself to her best friend, a rising star in the publishing world, and the crime she commits to achieve a similar status. Once she is in too deep to turn back, the story teeters on the edge of being a ghostly thriller. At that point, I was able to push away my teacher background to disregard the offensive inciting incident and read on to see how it turned out.
Two series by Susan Gabriel
The Temple Secrets Trilogy- Temple Secrets, Gullah Secrets and Tea Leaf Secrets
An entertaining series, these three novels are set in Savannah and weave cultural and societal traditions into the intertwined racial history of a prominent Southern family. The conflicts over inheritances and power kick off the series, but later the stories shift to focus on the Gullah background of one branch of the family as they uncover more secrets from relatives. Surviving a hurricane and the challenges of entrepreneurship round out the plots of these quick and entertaining reads.
The Wildflower Trilogy-The Secret Sense of Wildflower, Lily’s Song, and Daisy’s Fortune
Set in Apalachia, this generational series explores the values and challenges of three strong females in one family beginning in the 1940’s. The characters were well developed and likeabale and the plots were realistic and compelling. I especially liked teenager “Wildflower” in the first book who tried to navigate the loss of her father and life thereafter with little help from her emotionally distant mother. The book’s ending compelled me to read the sequel.
Warhorse– Micheal Morpurgo
Told from the perspective of a young horse named Joey, this story recounts how an auctioned-off colt connects with Albert, the teenage son of a drunken farmer, only to be sold to the English army and shipped off to France to serve in World War I. Frightened by the changes, Joey bonds with another cavalry horse who comforts him and helps him survive both in battle and pulling artillery wagons. The two animals eventually are captured by the Germans, who use them to convey ambulances. At the end of the war, Albert has enlisted and finds Joey in a veterinarian corps. Joey is set to be auctioned, rather than taken home by Albert. This Scholastic book is an easy read but an emotional one. Connecting to the horse protagonist is easy, and through Joey, readers see the pointlessness of war. The book was made into a Spielberg movie in 2011 and distributed by Touchstone Pictures. The film version won Film of the Year in 2011 from the American Film Institute. I’d like to see the film version.
The Dream Divided- Nancy Niblack Baxter
An 800-page account of the divided loyalties of Southern Indiana families during the Civil War, this saga follows enlisted men of the Indiana Fourteenth and Eightieth Regiments, as well as their families back home, loyal Unionists, mostly pacifist Quakers, and Hoosier Copperheads bent on ending the war in favor of the South. With rich detail and multiple plot lines, readers connect to several characters as they attempt to survive on the battlefield, in hospitals, in large northern cities, and at home. The book is epic in its survey of characters, Southern Indiana geography and history, and daily life during this era. A whopper of a read!
I used to believe that teachers could tackle nearly any job and do it with aplomb. I mean, who else is adept at managing up to 150 kids in various grades and abilities, creating engaging lessons and activities to keep 90% of the class on task and progressing, and jumping through protocols and approaches that change from year to year, and sometimes week to week?
Teachers rock their jobs!
But now that I’m putting my hands into the gloves of a veggie gardener, I have a new appreciation for the farm wives of years gone by. They may have been the original brilliant multi-taskers.
The learning curve for canning has been steep for me. Juggling the tasks isn’t as easy as the recipes seem! Today, I made cinnamon-watermelon rind pickles and charred red onion-cucumber relish. Concurrently.
See, that’s the problem with being a teacher: we’re multi-taskers. And, we’re darned good at it. I graded more papers and made more lesson plans in the car on the way to Elkhart every other weekend than I care to remember. I had more “with-it-ness” than one evaluator had ever seen in any observation- probably because I’d been a lifeguard on a lake in my younger days. I could see what was happening all around my classroom at any given time. (Except once when a kid ate a chicken leg in class and stashed the bone in the bookshelf along the north wall, the one that had tables jammed next to it due to limited classroom space. I didn’t find it until it was withered and dry, but he was especially adept in stealth maneuvers, and it was a special needs group that took an extra helping of with-it-ness. But still…)
Yes, I have a thirty-five-year history of managing many tasks at the same time. And that kind of confidence doesn’t just evaporate.
But maybe it should have.
I’m learning my place. Let’s just say that the skills of a teacher don’t necessarily transfer to being a home canner. At least not for this teacher.
Today’s venture into the land of self-sufficient eating involved watermelon rind and charred red onion. The recipes sounded a bit old school but appealing in a hipster kind of way. And I like a challenge.
My hubby was down with COVID, so I was flying solo. I couldn’t wait!
I retrieved the brining watermelon rind from the garage fridge after a grocery run earlier that morning. Accurate, if not full, disclosure: the covered bowl, properly weighted with a plate and another bowl, had been in the garage fridge for an extra day due to an on-the-job injury. Nothing major: to remove the thick skin of the baby watermelon, I was using my slingshot-shaped veggie peeler in the only effective way– toward me– and I peeled my thumb and nail in my exuberance. The visual of the green rind covered in my thickening red blood required a day of recovery. There went a few new red blood cells that my anemic self could have used!
Anyway, my thumb super-glued, I was ready to give my ambitious project a try.
After wasting time with missing ingredients in the last session, I set out all the ingredients I would need. The lime juice was uncooperative. I knew I had just bought it that morning.
Did I forget it in the car?
I made two sweeps of the kitchen and family room, until I realized I had already filed it away with the other canning supplies.
No deductions there, I counseled myself. Just a minor delay. Actually, extra points could be awarded for organizational intent.
So, I pressed onward with the watermelon recipe.
The cinnamon sticks gave me a moment, too, as I began to infuse the vinegar-sugar syrup. I checked their expiration label. 2020. Hmmm … I decided to throw in a few extra. I didn’t think they went bad, but a little more cinnamon taste wouldn’t hurt anyone. I snapped a couple more and tossed them into the simmering pot.
Things are moving along splendidly, I congratulated myself, as I checked the canner instructions.
It was time to set up the digital canner and put the jars, bands, and lids into the water to be sterilized. It took twenty minutes, so I estimated that the timing for the jars and relish would be close. But I knew I could do it!
Then it was time for the main event. I rinsed the watermelon rinds twice. They looked lovely, despite their long soak. White, palest pink, and deep green. Colors well suited for any summer party! I eased them into the pot to simmer in my syrup for the next hour.
An hour!
Last night while planning my morning, I recognized that this hour of downtime could be effectively utilized since I would be pony-tailed and set up for canning anyway. So I began the first task for my second recipe: peeling and slicing the red onions.
As they roasted and charred in five-minute increments under the broiler, I selected eight medium-sized cukes from the twenty on the table. I’m not a huge cucumber fan, so I split them and removed the seeds, via a spoon scrape technique, straight into the trash can. I smiled at my cleverness.
Chopped into the requisite size, the lovely green and white cubes went into a giant measuring bowl to await their boiled fate.
Off and on, the batches of red onions needed to be turned or taken out and chopped. They, too, had their own bowl, awaiting their union with the cukes.
See how handy multi-tasking is? I asked myself. I’m getting so much accomplished!
After a quick stir of the watermelon rind, I was ready to make the pickling sauce for the relish. What a combination of ingredients! Vinegar, sugar, lime juice, turmeric, mustard seed, coriander (from my garden), dried crushed red pepper, smoked paprika! This recipe had flavor promise! I added them all to the pot. Who knew how or when I would serve this relish, but it seemed exciting to make!
I dumped in the veggies and once the entire mess began to boil, I was feeling pretty confident. I set my phone timer for ten minutes and gave the watermelon another quick stir.
How much longer does it have to boil? I glanced at the stove timer.
It was off.
Uhhh, didn’t I set a timer for the watermelon? It had to simmer for an hour. How long ago had that been? Ten minutes? Twenty?
I guessed and set the stove timer.
Then it was time to get the jars ready. I opened the canner and fished out the sterilized lids and bands with my tongs.
Uhh, ohhhh, I bet I just ruined the plastisol seal by boiling the lids. Darn it!
I texted my son- the former Ball brand employee.
He called me back. “Well, Mom, you can try to use them. If they don’t seal, just reprocess them.”
I thanked him and pulled out new lids. Reprocessing would take way too much time. Would processing kill the germs? I gave them a quick rinse-off in the sink.
This time around, I remembered the damp paper towel to wipe off the jar rims. I remembered to poke the stick in the jars to release any air bubbles. I also remembered the measuring marks on the stick. Ha! No retractable tape measure needed today.
See you are learning how to do this! I encouraged myself.
As a teacher, I learned that multi-tasking is most successful when one stops to admire the work one has already accomplished. Mini rewards! This gives the worker a sense of pride and some regularly scheduled motivation to continue at the frantic, scattered pace.
I filled all the jars, and even loosened one just a bit, thinking I’d over-tightened it.
How lovely! They are in the canner, ready for processing!
I returned to my laminated canner instruction page, even checking that I was on the correct side, boiling water processing. “Fill canner with boiling water to one inch above the jar lids.”
Boiling water! I have no water boiling. Crap!
I put a pot of hot tap water on to boil and then reconsidered. This will take forever!What will happen to the relish? What’s the fastest way to heat water?
The electric teapot!
I filled it and took it to the dining room to plug it in. That way I wouldn’t blow a circuit breaker like last time.
Just as I flipped the ON switch, Hubster called down from upstairs saying that the roof guy had arrived. I’d forgotten I was supposed to take over meeting with him, since hubby is in COVID exile in the guest room.
Why didn’t my phone alarm go off? I know I set a reminder.
Yesterday, the man forgot about us; today, he was early. Oh well. I went out and quickly introduced myself and then begged off. “I’m canning today,” I told him, as I waved him around back and sent him on his estimating way.
Surely he understood. I was standing there barefoot, in a red onion and tomato-stained apron with my hair pulled into a wispy ponytail.
Back inside, I checked on the boiling water. Tiny bubbles were just starting to form on the bottom of the pot. I darted back to the dining room to get the tea kettle.
Oh! It’s off already; the water must’ve boiled. That was fast!
Nope. It had blown the circuit breaker.
Silly home builders! Who puts a dining room circuit on the same one as the garage?
I returned from feeling around for the right switch in the dark garage. Then I gave the watermelon another stir. The syrup was getting thicker. And darker. The rinds were getting limp, too. What were they supposed to look like anyway?
Hey,maybe pickle crisp will make them crunchier.And isn’t the recipe called Watermelon Rind PICKLES???
Truthfully, I just wanted to be able to prove to myself that I could use the right ingredient for the right reason after my last bout with pickle crisp. But it did sound reasonable.
I whipped out my phone and opened my personal online canning hotline. I posed my question on the Approved Methods canning group I’d joined. A message popped up. My post had to pass muster before it would be visible to anyone but admin. I shrugged. I’d probably, be long finished by the time anyone responded. Oh well. I typed anyway.
Finally, the water on the stovetop was bubbling, so I finagled my large pourable measuring cup into the pot a few times to transfer the water and reach its required height in the canner. I latched the lid and pushed the buttons for it to do its safe magic. This time, I remembered to refill the pot, so I’d have boiling water later. And by the looks of the diminishing rinds and syrup, there’d be a lot of canner space to fill with water. I’d be lucky to fill one pint of rinds!
As I waited the fifteen minutes of processing time, I checked Facebook. No response. So I tidied the kitchen, putting away ingredients and washing the broiler sheets and bowls. One more Fb check showed a response from an admin. Since the rinds had already softened, there was no point in using the additive. But wasn’t that the point of pickle crisp? Oh well, I was in no position to argue with a canning expert. Pickle crisp would not be responding to my invitation that day.
When the second series of beeps notified me that I could open the hatch, I was eager to see what I’d created. I didn’t expect a mess.
Floating above the jars was something like the chunks hurled after a college party. I knew they were cucumbers and onions, but ewwww. Luckily, I have a moderately strong stomach. I carefully lifted the three intact jars and set them to cool and ping as I deliberated.
What happened to the fourth jar? And how am I going to get this slop out of the pot?
Foolishly, I tried to lift the liner pot, but it was too heavy. And I quickly realized the danger in trying to lift and dump four quarts of recently boiling water into the sink. My oversized glass measuring cup came to the rescue. I dipped it into the pot to offload the waterlogged relish.
Just as I poured it into the sink, I shouted! What the heck?! My foot!!!
I glanced at the floor. A bee lazily circled and then zoomed away! I had stepped on a bee! In my own kitchen! How does that even happen?
Was it the kind that leaves a stinger?
I hobbled to the family room and found the flashlight app on my phone. Nothing visible.
Suck it up, Barby! You’ve got pickles to make! I scolded myself.
With some of the scalding water gone, I washed my hands and decided to remove the liner and dump it. I carefully folded a towel to protect my hands from the heat of the liner. I lifted it from its tight berth in the canner.
Dang! Dang it!
The heel of my hand slipped onto the liner. I almost heard the sizzle. I dumped the water into the sink and slung the liner back into the canner.
Luckily, Mr. Ouchie, our cute, friendly ice pack, was right there in his resting place in the freezer drawer waiting to be of service. I folded him over my hand.
There was no use crying over the spilled relish, so I set up the canner again, this time to process the watermelon rind. Mr. Ouchie was an awkward assistant, but we made do together.
By now, the lovely translucent watermelon rinds had become dark as blackstrap molasses. The syrup was, too. The whole batch had reduced by more than half. Optimistically, I set two wide-mouth pint jars in the canner to heat.
They came up to temperature quickly. The watermelon rinds now had the consistency of fried apples, and they were suspended in what could have been thick BBQ sauce. I chose a stainless spoon and began globbing thick, blobs into the jar. Only one jar.
Dang it! Why didn’t I prepare two half-pint jars? Who’s ever going to eat this anyway?
But thinking of my relish mishap, I paid close attention to my tasks. After the long day of prep, I wanted to at least have one jar to show for my efforts. Slowly and methodically, I went through the steps: glob the food into the jar; use the stick to release air bubbles; measure with the other end of the stick. And there I stopped.
The syrup was so thick, that some of it stuck to my hand. I sniffed it. Intrigued by its sour aroma, I pulled a spoon from the drawer. There was a little extra in the pot, so I tasted it.
OOOH! What a weird and wonderful flavor! Tangy-sweet! How in my entire lifetime had I missed tasting vinegar and sugar boiled down to this thick goo? Was this what BBQ sauce was? And I thought I didn’t like BBQ! Or was it candy? This stuff had possibilities!
Encouraged, I wiped the rim and then placed the flat lid on top of the jar. Carefully, I screwed on the band, just finger-tight. And I set it in the canner to process. My boiling water was ready this time, so I raised the water level, locked the hatch, and commenced processing.
Still in the pot were three pieces of watermelon rind smothering in syrup. I forked one and nibbled at it. Wow! And the syrup was crazy tasty! My mind flashed to baked beans. Then in a moment of insanity, I envisioned myself nibbling this BBQ sauce off a bone with smoked meat. I shook my head and came back to reality. That would never happen. But what about candy! Was vinegar candy a thing?
And then, like the teacher I have been, as I cleaned up the kitchen, I reflected on my day. There were challenges, but also accomplishments. What had I learned?
Several things!
I can fly solo, but it’s the work easier with a team.
Planning helps, but you have to be ready for the unexpected bee underfoot.
Trying to tackle too many things at once may sound efficient, but it isn’t the wisest approach.
My life is so much easier than people’s were back in the day.
Always keep a pot of boiling water on the stove.
They were worthy lessons for one day.
Just a few minutes later, the processing was complete. I heard the beeping of the canner and removed the single jar of cinnamon watermelon rind pickles after it cooled. I lifted it carefully and set it to cool. Within seconds, I heard the ping.
Yes, the rinds were too dark, and the jar probably wouldn’t win a ribbon at the county fair winner. But I was betting it would be delicious.
And I learned one more thing after all was said and done and cooling: vinegar candy IS a thing. Hmmmm….
