The Christmas Mouse

For several years now at our annual Christmas party one of the favorite treats have been the chocolate mice. These chocolate mice are actually Californians. Several years ago when we were visiting Claudette's sister she showed us one she had frozen. There it was like some prehistoric beast frozen in time. We took photographs and

tried to remember Bev's description of the process. It was a learning experience that came to a good end. 

From the photograph you can see what's needed. 

• Oreo cookies
• dipping chocolate
• Maraschino cherries with stems intact
• slivered almonds
• Hershey's Kisses
• red cake decorating frosting in a tube

 Some notes about assembly:

1. Remove half of an Oreo cookie. Use the half with the center still attached.

2. We used the microwaveable chocolate for dipping the cherries. If you are making many you may have to reheat.

3. Take the cherries out of the containers, and let them drain on some paper towels before dipping. The cherry juice affects consistency of the chocolate.

4. The head (Hershey's Kiss) must be attached while the chocolate on the "body" is soft.

5. Insert "ears" while the chocolate is soft, but after it has cooled a little, so the ears don't droop.

6. Add "eyes & nose" after chocolate hardens. Also add any other decoration you might like.

My friend Tom tells me that the proper way to eat a mouse is to hold it by the tail, and down the hatch it goes. 

H-m-m...isn't that the way the aliens ate them on that old TV show "V"?

Bubba and the Alligator

Dear Tony,

When I first moved to the Carolina low country I was some what fascinated by alligators. I mean those seemingly prehistoric beasties were everywhere.  They were even on the sacred golf courses of the big shots.

I was living in a place near the Intracoastal Waterway and had a canoe in my bedroom. One day I got it out and put it in a creek.  It was in the spring. No one had told me that when them old gators had just woke up from a long winter’s nap they were very hungry.  I mean really, really hungry! This fact would figure in my near demise.

Anyway I launched my boat, an Old Town, and headed up the creek.  There’s something about that term “up the creek” that I’m not real fond of. As I paddled on my lowcountry adventure the creek began to narrow. Off to my left I saw a big alligator slide into the water. It was just like in those Tarzan movies I saw in my youth. I was busy watching the creek bank when something rubbed the bottom of the boat.  It even lifted the canoe up out of the water. At first I didn’t know what it was. But when I felt that rough rub I knew that it was a gator. And it wasn’t a little bitty one either.  I paddled a bit faster.  Actually a lot faster! The I saw him.  He was longer that the boat!  It was then that I realized that I was being sized up for a meal. What could I do? I didn’t rightly know but I paddled faster. He bumped the boat again.  The next time I saw his head, I tried to whack him across the head. But when I swung that paddle with all my might he opened his big ugly mouth.  With one mighty “crunch” he bit the whole end off my paddle.  I was gettin’ desperate. What was left of my paddle struck bottom as I paddled.  The big ole gator hit the canoe hard enough with his snout to dump me out of the boat.  I fell in to the waist-deep brackish water and drank my fill. Stumblin’ to my feet I staggered to a small island. And by small I mean little bitty.  ‘Bout the size of your average kitchen.  In the middle of this island was a scraggly old tree.  I climbed it. Like a squirrel chased by a hound, I went up that tree. After I had clum as fer as I could I stopped and looked down. Yessiree! I  had been treed by an alligator! Looking up at me with his big evil eyes and his mouth agape was that old gator, all twenty feet of him. Anybody that thinks a shark has a lot of teeth ain’t ever looked into the mouth of a twenty-foot gator.  He was close to my feet and he was snapping at me and I swear i could smell gator breath!

Remember, when I said there was something I didn’t like that term “up a creek”, now I remember the rest of that sayin’.  I was up that creek!

What was I gonna do?  One thing was for certain, I couldn’t get by that big gator at the bottom o the tree. I had to come up with a plan.  My mama had said she didn’t raise no fool.  But right then I was trying make sure mama wasn’t lyin’.  I put my thinkin’ cap on. And I thought.  In a few minutes I was thinkin’ maybe I had the wrong cap on.  The sun was slipping low in the west. By now the old gator had sort of curled his self around the tree. He appeared to be sleeping. By now I was also geting hungry.  I had missed lunch and it was getting close to supper time. I felt around in my pocket and pulled out a tuna fish sandwich. That sandwich had been in there all day, was all mashed up, and had started to smell like it was getting a little ripe. I pulled it out and got a whiff of it.  That’s when i got the big idea.  One time I had read somewhere that alligators liked food that was spoiled rather than fresh. “H--m-m-m” I said to myself.

I kind of snuck down the tree and was gingerly place that sandwich on the dozing gator’s tail. I stepped over the gator and was headed for the water when he awoke.

You won’t believe what happened next. Instead of trying to get me he took one whiff of that ole tuna sandwich on his tail and chomped right down on it. Yessir! that ole gator just et his self up!

I’ll bet I gotcha on that one! Ha, ha!

Your old buddy,

Bubba

White River Junction

One of the pleasures of travel by car is the discovery of little known places. On a recent trip, one designed to visit six of the north eastern states, we ventured into Vermont.  Seeing Vermont would allow us to complete our list of states visited.  Vermont would be number fifty! We found ourselves off the beaten path in White River Junction, Vermont.  I'm sure as we drove into the center of the historical district a smile spread over my face. The buildings are reminiscent of the early 1900's.  I half expected to hear a streetcar bell as we found a parking space for the Toyota right on Main Street across from the Amtrak station. A cold rain was beginning to fall as we exited the car. The weather forecast was calling for a winter storm. I remembered what a winter snowstorm was like from having worked in upstate New York. Hopefully it would not hit before we headed back south. We had been fortunate about the weather thus far.

"I'll have to take a closer look at that locomotive before we leave," I said as we walked toward the businesses on Main Street with the old steam locomotive behind us. The old engine was attached to tender and caboose under a shelter next to the Amtrak station.

"That looks like a good restaurant next to that hotel," Claudette said, "The BoHo Cafe it says"

"Works for me. I feel like a soup.  It's a soup of  day," I responded.

We crossed the traffic less street. There was a man walking away from us on the right,the only person on the deserted sidewalk.Without traffic it was  almost eerie under the cloudy sky pregnant with precipitation. The door creaked as we entered the early twentieth century building. To our left was a sofa inhabited by what appeared to be a college student with requisite laptop and an iPhone seemingly attached to her ear.  The lobby of the hotel next door could be seen through the eight foot wide opening in the wall.  The food preparation area was along the left wall and the rear of the restaurant.  The round tables were scattered about and there was railroad memorabilia was on the wall. There were about a dozen customers.  In the far right corner was a fireplace with a roaring fire. Two ladies with coffee cups were having a quiet conversation while the flames bathed their faces

with a warm glow. The menu was written with various colored chalk on a blackboard  near the counter where food was ordered and dispensed.  Sandwiches had names such as Evil Stepsister, Rapunzel and Big Bad Wolf. Our order was taken by a young woman of fresh scrubbed good looks and a pleasant demeanor. We chose the shepherd's pie. (It had a less adventurous name!) Claudette chose Diet Coke for a beverage but I chose water. She handed us our beverages and we soaked up the ambiance while waiting for our food. I was interested in the group of old men that were having an animated discussion. They had a number of books and periodicals spread out on their table amongst the plates and coffee cups.

Across the back of the dining area was a huge painting of people dancing probably twenty feet wide. In front of it were the urns of coffee and water from which to serve yourself. I needed more water. While refilling my water glass I chanced a conversation with the pretty fresh scrubbed employee. The other employee was rather rotund and older and perhaps the mother of the younger.

"Was the painting painted in the 1930's?" I asked. I knew that during the Great Depression the federal government had paid artist to paint murals and such in public buildings.

"No," she said with a smile, "I think it was painted by a local art teacher in the 1950's."

"What was this building used for?"

"Oh, it was a bakery next to the hotel," she said. "The hotel, the Coolidge Hotel, was built in 1879.  It had two hundred rooms and was named for President Coolidge's father."

"Wow!" I said. " Did the thirtieth president every stay there?"

"Yes he did," she said with a smile, "He was superstitious, they say. He would not stay in a room with a number."

"Oh, yeah,"

"He stayed in room 'A'," she said as she moved back to the food preparation area.

I picked up our food on the way back to our table. The aroma from the shepherd's pies filled my nostrils. Wow! I thought I might have to stop and have a bite before getting the food back to a waiting Claudette!

The pie was very good.  Although it was made with beef rather than lamb. I had to refill water glass and was overcome by curiosity. The discussion by the old men around the table  intrigued me. On my way back to my table I lingered by their table staring at the printed material on their table. After a few minutes I realized conversation had stopped and I felt eyes on me. I felt the need to speak and commented, " I wonder if you fellows could tell me something about the engine across the way at the Amtrak station?" I queried noting the books and photographs about railroads.

The man in the cardigan with the reading glasses that separated in the center spoke first. The others continued to peer at a map on the table. "This was a railroad town, the largest railroad junction north of Boston. Five railroads served this town. There was an eight track crossing here in 1863 with fifty passenger trains a day passing through. But the name White River Junction may come from the confluence of the White and Connecticut Rivers." He then looked at the map the others were studying and they began to talk in low tones.

I sensed it was time for me to move along.

"Thank-you, " I said and joined claudette back at our table. After paying our check we went across the way for a closer look at the train.

The cold rain was coming down in a light drizzle reminding me of Edinburgh.

We crossed the railroad tracks and walked to the Amtrak station.  Adjacent to the station is an old steam locomotive.  According to the signage it is was manufactured in Manchester, NH, in 1892.

 Engine number 494 is a 4-4-0* of the Boston and Maine Railroad. Attached to it is a coal tender and a caboose. I climbed aboard the engine with the intent of going inside the cab but it was not to be. Access was denied but I could see all the instruments and controls. I had been inside a modern diesel-

electric and noticed how the old engine had many more instruments and controls. I was surprised to find that the cab of the engine was made of wood like a traction engine, not iron like everything else. I dismounted and walked to the front of the engine and was surprised that the cow catcher, the plow like front of the engine, was made of wood also. Something tells me this was not OEM, Original Equipment Manufacture.

I had taken a number of pictures and Claudette says, "Let's  get a cup of coffee and get to the hotel before the snow comes!"

We walked back across to Maine Street and got a couple of steaming hot decaf mochas at a coffee shop on the corner which did not allow dogs. I know this because there was a perky little pooch of various and sundry ancestry on a leash tied to a lamp post. The coffee shop was a nice place crowded with people doing what people do in such places. Drinking coffee, eating veggie wraps, typing on their laptops and, of course, using their cells. It warm and cozy and the coffee was good plus free wifi.

As we left the little village of White River junction in the town of Hartford I thought of things we had not seen.  Looking at the tourist information brochure I noticed that we had not taken the time to visit the art galleries and a museum.

"Claudette," I said, "You know what we missed seeing in White River Junction?"

"What?" she asked with her eyes glued to the road.

"In the museum there they have Elvis' gallstones." I announced.

She failed to respond to my proclamation and White River Junction faded into the past.

*Under the Whyte notation for the classification of steam locomotives by wheel arrangement, 4-4-0 represents the arrangement of four leading wheels on two axles, usually in a leading bogie, four powered and coupled driving wheels on two axles, and no trailing wheels

Looking Back

We were driving west toward higher ground. Behind us were the marshes, the live oaks, the smell of  pluff mud, and white birds with long legs. The trees: red oaks, poplars, and sweet gums with colors of crimson and gold flash by.  Once off the federally mandated superhighway system originally designed for the rapid deployment of troops, we entered a small town. We stopped at McDonald's for a mocha and entered the town of Edgefield, known as the birthplace of ten South Carolina governors.  We passed through the town square with its Robert Mills designed courthouse and followed US highway 25 north, before turning west on US 378 and on to McCormick County. Here in South Carolina's youngest county we followed a dirt road through much national forest land to the land of my forefathers. The road was deeply rutted on the way to what remains of my grandfather's homestead.

"We'll have to walk from here.  The road is washed out too much, and I think the car would drag.  We don't need a hole in the oil pan here in the boondocks, " I announced.

"That's fine.  We need to get some exercise anyway.  We didn't make it to the gym today," she said.

The road leads down a slight grade, curves to the left,  and is flanked by a forest of pines and colorful hardwoods. We locked the car and began our walk. The quiet was almost eerie. You don't notice how much ambient sound there is in the city until you don't hear it. The call of a crow in the distance broke the silence. About a hundred yards down the road there was a steel cable barring entry to vehicles. "No Trespassing" signs are nailed to some of the trees.

"Can we go through?" asks Claudette.

"Sure we can.  This is our property.  The hunt club we lease it to put up these signs.  When Daddy was alive the managers of the property decided  that people were going to hunt on it without authorization, so we might as well lease it to them.  And so we did, and that provides enough income to pay the taxes and such," I said.

"Oh!"

"I'll hold up the cable so you can get under," I said.

"Then I'll return the favor," Claudette said.

After we were on the other side of the cable there was a clearing  on the left and a newer appearing road to the right.

"This little road goes to Long Cane Creek.  It was the border between the Cherokee Indians and the British in the  eighteenth century. You know cotton was the main crop in grandpa's day. He paid his rent in cotton. His landlord was his daddy, and the old Confederate veteran never gave any of his land to his children.  He rented it to them. That's why almost all of his land is intact today.  I think this little road made by the deer hunters will take us to the house Daddy grew up in," I said.

"But you haven't been here since the eighties..." she said.

I thought I detected a note of doubt in her voice. After about a few feet on the deer hunters' road I saw a structure amongst the shrubs and trees.  It was one  of the old barns, and it was partially collapsed.  The wood was weathered and the tin roof rusted. I remembered how Daddy had told me how the lower timbers on the walls that touched the ground were of red cedar, because cedar was less likely to rot on the wet ground. I had Claudette take a "you were there" photo and we continued to search for the old farm house.

"Look, there it is!" Claudette said.

Sure enough, through the trees I could see the old dilapidated farmhouse. Whenever I visit old homesites my imagination tends to take me back to the time when they were active.  Here I could imagine looking slightly uphill from the barn to the house. There would have been no shrubs around it but some tall trees shading the yard of hard red clay. This was where my father grew up.  We walked through the fallen leaves and undergrowth to the back of the house. I climbed over some brick to peer into the kitchen from where the chimney once was.

"What do you see?" Claudette asked. I was blocking her view.

"Not much, just an old rusted cookstove laying on its side," I answered her.

"Can you imagine how many meals she cooked for her husband and eleven children?"

I moved from the kitchen to the back of the house on my left.  Through the brush and blood thirsty briars I could see a collapsed porch from the addition which attached the main house to the kitchen. Like most houses of this era the kitchen was detached. Although, in event of fire, I don't believe a three-foot gap between buildings would have afforded much fire protection. About halfway down the back of the house was a door.  I fought my way through the briars with quarter inch barbs to get to this entrance to the house. Sunlight blazed into the interior from the door opposite. To the right of the entrance nearest me was a stairway to the loft. It had no bannister, and the steps were painted sky blue. I was about to step inside when I heard a voice behind me.

"You better not do that,"  she warned.

"Why?" I wanted to know.

"You might fall through the floor!"

"Oh...well, okay," I answered slowly. I thought she may have had a point. I may have been asking too much of this one hundred year old floor to support my two hundred plus pounds.  We continued to walk around to the front of the house, peering in windows and noting architectural details.  There were some old bed frames and debris, as well as a ladies white pump.  The house was last inhabited in the early 1940s.  The front of the house had a long porch with one end attached to a room extending out about eight feet. This extended room's wall had two windows, one above the other.  The upper allowed light into the attic space. At the far right of the porch was the main entryway. This door had small single panes on either side from ceiling to waist level. I think this would have been the fashion of houses built about 1900, although I believe this one was build a few years before the turn of that century. The were two doors on the front of the house. Claudette and I navigated of the rubble of the fallen porch to the door on the left, and I entered it.

"Hey, its pretty solid," I said as I inched my way around in the interior.

"Be careful!" she said.

Inside the room to my right was the fireplace and beside it a doorway to the adjoining room. Flanking the fireplace on the right was an empty wall, but on the left was the doorway and a stairway to the attic. I walked toward the stairway and into the next room. There was a closet under the stairs. Houses built when this one was built usually did not have closets. I returned to the room I had entered and called to Claudette.

"I'd really like to have a look in the attic.  What do you think?"

I did not get a response. Sunlight was streaming through the window at the end of the house. Sticking my head out I could see her.  She was digging in the earth a few yards away.

"Hey! Whatcha doing?" I queried.

"I've found this little holly tree.  I'm taking it home with me!" she said.  I guess you can take the a girl out of the garden, but you can't take the garden out of the girl.

"I was thinking about going upstairs, but I guess that's not a good idea," I mused.

"Not a good idea," she said and added, "You've probably spent enough time in there anyway."

I exited through the door I had entered earlier and joined her beside the house.  From there you could see how the kitchen was originally detached. Over the years an addition had been added to the house to extend it closer to the kitchen.  The final three feet appeared to be the last modification to

the structure. I took a photo.  I had taken quite a few photos of the interior and exterior of the house.
I pulled out a copy  of an old photo. It had been taken when my dad was a boy and included his entire family at this house. I wanted to determine the location of the picture. We speculated, but only decided where the picture was not taken. I had been working on a sketch of the house in my sketchbook while we were there as well as a floor plan, and I put the finishing touches on both.  I thought we were  ready to leave when Claudette announced, "I need to find a brick from here to put in my garden."  And so were sought the perfect brick from the rubble. She found it of course and also found in her purse a plastic shopping bag from Walmart to carry it in. Occasionally you can find an old brick with a handprint in it, but it was not to be on that day.

It had been an enjoyable day in the woods in and around the house where my father had been born and raised.  We were both delighted that the cool weather had acted as a deterrent to snakes and insects. From Daddy's home place we visited the site of the Long Cane Massacre, where in 1760 the Cherokee Indians killed twenty-three settlers during the Cherokee War.

BTW  My dad was the little guy in the front on the far right.

Musty Odors and Ancient Objects

"Lady, you need to get you son out of there!" the docent said to my mother. When I was a young boy

California Automotive Museum

(about five-years-old) my mom took me to the oldest museum in the United States, the Charleston Museum. Although only the classical Greek columns of the building remain today, I can still remember that musty smell of antiquity. I also remember being apprehended by museum personnel that day.  It seems I had managed to get inside some ancient piece of armor. Was this a detriment to my quest of old stuff? Not a bit!

Museums are of all kinds, and many specialize.  As an artist I find art museums extremely interesting. The Mona Lisa, Sunflowers, Guernica, or The Third of May.  Just to be so close to the genius of da Vinci, Van Gogh, Picasso or Goya is inspiring. The  photographs in art books don't do them justice.

The Tate Modern, London.

Reproductions of art somehow always miss something. Perhaps it's the dimensional aspect of the art. With oil paintings you can see the dimensional quality of brushstrokes better and just maybe smell the hint of oil in the air. There is something awe inspiring about seeing the actual works.

Aviation museums are no doubt my favorite.  There is something about these machines that break the bounds of gravity and join the realm of birds that have always fascinated me.  In our travels I
have seen many types of aircraft, some famous and some infamous. Of course the most common historic aircraft is the Wright Flyer, or rather a replica.  The original first American airplane to make controlled powered flight was destroyed. The Spirit of St. Louis, which first was flown solo across the Atlantic, and the huge NC4 flying boat of the U.S. Navy, which was the first to fly across the Atlantic, claim aviation fame. The Messerschmitt Me-262 was the first jet aircraft flown in combat and was a marvel of German technology.  The Glamorous Glynnis was the X-15 rocket plane which Chuck Yeager flew faster than the speed of sound. Actually, Gen. Yeager named all the planes he flew after his wife. The Enola Gay dropped the first atomic bomb, which ushered in the nuclear age, and the fastest airplane to ever fly was the SR-71, Blackbird. I've been fortunate enough to see these famous aircraft and many more.

The Chicago Museum of Science and Industry

To me, the British Museum is the creme de la creme of museums.  There you will find the Rosetta Stone. Discovered in 1801, this seventeen hundred pound piece of black granite has inscriptions in three languages.  These inscriptions in three languages allow linguists to translate the hieroglyphics of the ancient Egyptians. Also in this museum are many Egyptian mummies and the mummified remains of one of the first humans.  There are the ruins from Greek temples on display as well as Roman artifacts.  It was said that the sun never set on British soil.  During this period treasures of many civilizations were collected by the British Museum.

The Museum of Anatolian Civilizations, Ankara, Turkey

Once upon a time I was an enlisted man in the U. S. Navy and therefore have an affinity for things naval other than oranges. I must say that the Spanish Naval Museum in Madrid is another favorite of mine, although I've been aboard a number of the American warships which are now museums. The Spanish National Naval Museum houses a map produced by the cartographer who sailed with Christopher Columbus to the Americas. A map shows some of the coastline of the new world. The museum follows Spanish naval history from early colonial days through World War One.  It was interesting to see a scale model of the battleship U.S.S. Maine, the ship whose sinking started the Spanish-American War and whose capstan is in White Point Gardens in Charleston, South Carolina. Another Spanish museum I favor is the museum at the Spanish Artillery School in Segovia. Spanish weaponry is traced from the crossbow and spear to the rifled and breech loading cannon. Chicago's Museum of Science and Industry, The British Museum of Science, and the Museo della Scienza e della Tecnologia Leonardo da Vinci in Milan are great science and technology museums as well. One of the most popular exhibits in Chicago is the German submarine captured during WWII. The Milan museum does a great job tracing technology from Leonardo da Vinci's machines to modern computers. The mammoth steam engines are unforgettable in the British Science museum.

The National WWII Museum, New Orleans, 

As a childhood fan of B-Western movies, I would be remiss not to mention my fondness for cowboys. The one museum that depicts cowboy life well is the Buffalo Bill Historical Center in Cody, Wyoming. There is a reason your ticket will allow you entrance for two days.  It's that big! And, to appease the artist in me, it has Frederic Remington's studio reproduced. Remington is one of my all-time favorite painters and sculptors. Throughout this country museums abound on almost any subject.  Whether it is a museum about teapots or Winchester rifles I'm sure everyone can find one that suits their fancy. That includes the Crawford W. Long Museum in Jefferson, GA, which commemorates the birthplace of anesthesia.

Perhaps one of the greatest advantages of visiting museums is the opportunity to learn. Sometimes just to see an object as opposed to reading about it or seeing pictures of it can offer a completely

The Heard Museum, Phoenix, AZ

different explanation to its operation.  Nowhere is this more evident than in  science and industry museums. They show how stuff works. And musical instruments, which are machines of a different nature, are better understood when held in your hand. The Musical Instrument Museum in Phoenix, AZ, is great for this.  How do you play a gong anyway?

I will continue to immerse myself in the next museum I find, but I don't think I can get my torso into a piece of Greek armor anymore.

The Spanish Naval Museum, Madrid