Humor

Hog Line Fishing for Salmon in The Columbia River

/ misssarahetc / Leave a comment
A nice big salmon I caught while fishing with my dad. Late 1970’s

As soon as I was old enough, Dad started taking me fishing in the big river. I’d have to say this was in the  late 70’s. My favorite place to be, was with my dad in his boat; right in the big middle of the Columbia  River, anchored with his fishing chums, who were in THEIR boats and all of us anchored in a “Hog Line”.  A “Hog Line” is a group of boats anchored next to each other forming a line perpendicular to the current  in the river during salmon runs (seasons). Salmon are sometimes called hogs due to the large sizes they  can grow. If you caught a fish over 30 pounds or so, it would be referred to as a “Hog”. I remember my  mom saying, “The fall hogs are makin’ their way up the river.” This meant the fall Chinook Salmon  season was going to start soon.  

My favorite fishing season was fall, and the fall chinook run was the most fun as far as I was concerned.  It seemed like the fish were bigger and there were more of them. I had a love-hate relationship with the  month of August. It meant summer was over and school would start and like any other kid, I hated  going back to school. But it also meant I was out on the river in the hog line with my dad fishing for  Chinook. Oh! I would get SO excited about going out on Dad’s old Larson Boat. It was only 16’ long and  wouldn’t really be safe to take out in the mouth of the river due to it being too small to handle the  water conditions of the Bar. It was fiberglass blue and white and it had a canvas cover with see through  plastic windows sewn into the canvas top. The blue part looked like it had been dusted with talcum  powder because of the oxidation from sitting in the sun. It was comfy and decked out with anything dad  my needed while fishing. Some of my best memories as a kid were of spending time with my dad in  that old boat. 

Dad’s boat was my happy place when I was a kid. It had a top on it, so we wouldn’t get soaked in the  rain or sunburnt in the bright sunshine. The Columbia River Gorge has a way of almost making its own  weather. We usually fished out of the Camas/Washougal port. It used to be called the “Dolphin  Marina”, which I always thought was kind of a dumb name because there were never any dolphins that  far up the river and certainly no ocean water to keep them alive even if they did manage to make it. The  boat launch is located at the mouth of the gorge. On overcast days, it seemed like it was always  “choppy”, which meant there were a lot of little waves and swells in the water that would rock the boat  around quite a bit.  

On some of those cloudy days, the temperature would drop a little, a sort of mist would form a wall off in the  distance toward the west telling us a storm was coming.  We would hunker down, zip our jackets and wait for the approaching  Squall to hit us. “Squalls” were what everyone living on or near the river called these little storms.  You could see the wall of weather coming at you. It would get darker and seem to  change shape as though it was alive. The closer it got to us, the more defined the curtain of rain and  wind would get. We watched the shoreline slowly disappear as the squall got closer and it was a little scary.  

Right before it reached our boats, the wind would pick up. It would really start rocking us around in the  water. I would reach for the edge of the boat and hang on. The tips of our fishing poles would dip with  the swells of the water, but the sinkers holding our lures in place on the bottom of the river held fast.  

Dad would holler, “Here she comes!” as the pounding rain would hit suddenly and fiercely. The raindrops were huge and almost felt as if they were coming at us sideways. The boats would start to rock a little bit harder. After a few minutes, I would look up from my boat seat and just start to see a bit of  blue sky through the clouds. As the squall went over us, the temperature would start to rise, and the  rain would start to slow down. Finally, the hard rain turned to a mist and the air got warmer. After the  storm had gone by, our boat would start to steam as the warmth of the sun would hit it and evaporate  the wetness the rain had left behind. The waves created by the wind that we call  “chop” would settle down and we would continue fishing.  Sometimes, you’d want to grab your fishing pole and check your gear to make sure everything was ok  and not tangled up. Then back in the water you’d go, pulling up on the pole so the tip was up, and you  could get the butt of it into the pole holders which were attached to the sides of the boat. This is the  way our days went when we were Salmon fishing in the fall. 

Dad always anchored with the same bunch of guys in our hog line. The boats were just feet apart in  steady current. You had to anchor in a place on the river where the flow of the river was strong enough  to make the spinners on your fishing lures spin. The regular guys who anchored with us were Wilson  Kennedy, Eugene; the Indian (which is what they all called him with no disrespect in any way, shape or  form intended) and a funny man by the name of Joe Schneider. 

The place they anchored was in a very special  “secret” spot. You NEVER gave away where your fishing hole was located. If you were asked by a friend  or if you asked a friend where they fished at, it was almost considered rude. When I was asked where  dad fished, I always fibbed and told them a totally different spot somewhere on the river. My mom had  a wise ass streak a mile wide, (guess the apple didn’t fall far from the tree) and she would tell people when asked where my dad went fishing, “Oh, he goes somewhere North of Corbett.” Most people didn’t  understand this was a joke and would look at her with a confused expression. What she was really  saying was, the state of Washington is north of Corbett, Oregon and he could be fishing anywhere in  Washington and to hell with you for trying to get it out of her! 

As an adult, I’ve been known to lie  through my teeth about fishing holes and even what to use for bait; “Oh, I use camel turds and Baklava on the end of a ‘wedding ring’”. How DARE you ask me a question like that! What would make a person  think I would EVER randomly give fishing advice to acquaintances?! Of course, my fishing buddies  always get the straight truth and we share information between ourselves.  

Anyway, on the days we went fishing, Dad always had to get up and go way before daylight. This  meant getting up around 4 in the morning. He’d get the boat and gear ready to go while my mom and I  would get breakfast cooked and our lunch packed up. She knew our favorite sandwiches were Liverwurst with mayo. She’d throw a couple of cans of pop, a bag of her Snickerdoodles and some sort  of fruit into a little old aluminum cooler along with those yummy Liverwurst sandwiches. She also made  sure dad’s old beat up stainless steel thermos was filled with hot coffee and she would make another  thermos of Cambric Tea with milk and sugar for me. We’d wolf down our breakfast and head out.  

Getting dad’s boat in the water and anchored was sometimes kind of stressful for me. After launching, I  would have to stand on the dock and hang onto the rope that was attached to the bow cleat to make  sure it wouldn’t float away while he parked the truck and trailer. When he came back down to the dock  

where I was waiting for him, he’d get in the boat, start the motor and as soon as it got warmed up, I’d  throw the rope into the boat and climb in. Sometimes this was a little tricky as the boat would drift  out a little and I’d damn near do the splits climbing in but I never fell in the water, it did get close a  couple times though.  

After getting out into the river where he would find the exact spot he wanted; dad would shift the boat  into neutral and heave up the heavy anchor onto the bow of the boat and get ready to drop it down into 

the water. His boat didn’t have an “Open bow” like many others but there was a little door in the  windshield that allowed him access to the bow of his boat. To protect the bow from getting chipped up  by the anchor, dad had cut a piece of old paper machine felt that he had pilfered off one of his millwright  jobs at the local papermill, to fit the top of the bow. The felt was heavy and did a good job of not only protecting the surface  of the bow but kept the anchor and buoy from sliding off the slick fiberglass when the boat rocked. 

After he got to his special fishing spot, he was always the first one to anchor. Once in a while, he would  be the second boat to anchor, but this didn’t happen very damn often! I made sure my feet were well out of the way of the coiled anchor rope  that lay on the floor of the boat. In my over-active-kid-mind, I was terrified of getting hung up in that length of rope when the anchor went to the bottom of the river. I imagined myself with it tangled around one of  my ankles and being dragged out the little door in the windshield, over the bow and watching myself drown as the heavy anchor pulled me to the bottom of the river. Of course, this never happened and I was always very aware of it. I also made sure to keep my mouth shut and stay out of the way until he  had the boat anchored and secured just where he wanted it.  

He always anchored the same way. He’d slowly let the anchor slip off the end of the bow and into the  water; holding on to the rope as he let it sink down into the water. As soon as he felt it hit the bottom  and could feel a little slack in the rope, he tied it off to the bow cleat and attached his buoy to it. He’d stand  and see if the anchor was holding and look at the position of the boat and see how fast the current was  running. He then attached his home-made buoy he’d made from a small cardboard barrel and  expanding foam to the anchor line. If we had to drift down river after a fish, this buoy would not only allow us to  get our anchor back, but keep our place in the hog line. 

As soon as he got us situated, we would check our fishing poles and get them into the water and set to  start fishing. Most of the time, dad would fish with lures he had made himself. He had an old beat up  metal coffee can which held all of the spinners, swivels, wire and pliers he needed to construct his lures right there in the boat if he needed to.  He had differently colored spoons, beads and swivels from either the “Herter’s” catalog or from the old  GI Joes store across the river in Portland. I remember his buddies who were in the hog line with us  asking him, very quietly across the boats, what color the salmon were hitting on. Dad would cup his  hand over the side of his mouth doing his best to be stealthy and give them their answer.  

This is still a really popular way of fishing for salmon. The theory is; when salmon are spawning, they  don’t bite on bait because they’re hungry. They bite on it because they’re MAD! It seemed like every  run hit on a different colored spoon or lure. The last year I went with my dad was the fall chinook run of  1987. That fall, they were hitting on half copper and half silver spoons. He made sure to have plenty of  lures that were copper and silver. He was so particular with his gear too. I had watched him for years tending to his fishing tackle. The hooks had to be sharpened regularly and your spinners better shine like  a new penny. There was always a little tube of this pasty, semi gritty polish in his tackle box. You’d  smear a little dab of that onto both sides of your spoon and rub it around between your thumb and  index finger to clean and polish it. Then you either used a rag or if you were me, the end of your t-shirt, to wipe off the paste and finish polishing it to a mirror shine.  

When you got your lure ready to go, you’d have to attach an 8-ounce lead sinker (fishing weight) below  the lure on a piece of leader. When you were finally geared up correctly, You held onto your pole, put  your thumb on top of the line on the spool and pushed the button on the old Penn baitcaster fishing reel with your  opposite hand and slowly let the line drop into the water. I never remember him or the other guys casting  our lines out when we were in a Hog Line. You had to hold your thumb onto the spool as the line stripped slowly off the reel. If you didn’t let it out slowly,  you’d get a big old “Birds Nest” as my dad used to call them. This is  where the spool goes faster than the line can go out so your fishing line just kind of explodes and makes  a looping mess that takes hours to untangle. It’s also embarrassing as hell if it happens to you. Even  today; if I get a bird’s nest on a bait caster, I look around and see if anyone is watching me; to see if  someone has that knowing grin on their face that says “good one Dumbass!”. It happens to the best of  us from time to time!  

As your line fed out, you waited to “feel” the bottom of the river. There would be a bit of a “thump”  from the sinker hitting the river bottom and the line from your pole would go slack. Dad’s way of doing  it was to hold your thumb firm on the spool of the reel and lift the tip of the pole up so the sinker and  lure would drift down a little further. He wanted those lures out far enough from the back of the boat so  they’d be less apt to tangle with another fishermen’s gear. When he thought we were out far enough, we would set the butts of our poles into “pole holders” that were attached onto the rails on either side  of the boat. When the poles were securely placed into the pole holders, you reeled up a bit to tighten the line  and make sure the sinker was going to hold your lure in place. And you were fishing!  

We settled in for the duration; in whatever kind of weather, waiting for a fish to hit. As a pre-teen  tomboy, the anticipation and daydreams of catching the biggest fish for the day was almost too much  for me to bear. I could already see that slight flick of the tip of the pole and then the fish sending the  rod bouncing in little spasms as it realized it was hooked. Nope. We sat there watching the water, our  rods, the rods in the other boats and drank hot drinks that my mom had fixed for us. 

I always tried not to drink too much as it brought the fishing trip to the inevitable point where you had  to pee. We weren’t on the water for an hour or so, we were on the water for HOURS! Dropping the  buoy and going to the shore just for dad to let me out to pee was a cardinal sin when you were tied up in a hog line. The men  had no issues peeing when they were  on their boats. I would hear one of the other fishermen anchored up in the hog line with us holler at me “Hey Sarah! What’s that out on the island?”     and knew this was my clue to turn my head until the all clear “Oh!  Guess it was nothing” answer come back. They could all stand and pee off the side of the boat or into a  coffee can very easily; and without making a mess.  

Not me. I would wait until I was about to burst with my belly aching so bad I thought I would die before telling my dad I had to go. He’d look at me with that knowing eyebrow raised; a doubting expression on his  face.  Then, throwing his fist in the air with a thumbs up over his shoulder, he’d motion toward the bow of the boat and say “you know  where the coffee can is”. 

With my poor little pudgy legs crossed as tight as I could get them, I’d do my “potty walk” to the bow  and grab my 3lb coffee can. I’d drop my drawers and try to squat while hanging on and aiming myself  into the can. I got pretty good at that part. As most ladies know, we’re not quite “plumbed” right to  

aim when we pee. Oh, that wonderful relief of an empty bladder! At that point I would always  remember where I am; in the water where the boat is gently rocking with the current. 

I’d stand part way  up and very carefully start to pull my britches up with one hand while hanging onto a seat with the  other. I could not bear the thought of one of those men seeing my business and the whole time I’m  being very mindful of where the coffee can is in relation to my feet. I zip up, stand up completely and I  hear the can move. “Oh God NO!” I think in my head. I try to catch it before it goes completely over  and see out of the corner of my eye as my dad shifts in his seat. “Not again!” I’m pleading with myself  thinking, “I was so careful this time!” 

My dad sees what I’ve done and bellows “God Dammit Sarah!” and I swear it just boomed across the  water. His voice seemed to echo off the other side of the river. I just knew that there was a deckhand somewhere on a barge, asking his buddy, “Did you hear that?”  

This is when the men in the other boats would roar with laughter at the situation. I have no idea how I  would manage to dump that coffee can over. To this day, I believe there was an invisible hand that  would hit it and tip it just enough so the rocking of the boat would send it and its contents completely  over. I would stand motionless, terrified to move. Dad would look at the stream of pee running down  the deck of his boat, shake his head and tell me to rinse it down with a can of water. At the same time  the other fishermen, who had been through this experience with me before, started offering their jovial  words of encouragement; “There’s always next time!”, “We’ve all done it too.” Always chuckling and  knowing as well as I and my dad knew, that sure as shit, I would do it again. 

On the off chance I DIDN’T  knock my coffee can over, dad would look at me sideways and grin teasingly from ear to ear. The guys  in the other boats would see me leaning over the side of the boat,  rinsing the can out and offer their  congratulations for a job well done. They’d laugh and make their comments, all in fun of course, and  then the quiet of waiting and watching for that “hit” on our poles settled back over the boats in our hog  line. The sound of the water lapping up against the hulls, the feeling of bobbing up and down as a barge  would head up river sending the wake into the hog line of boats; I would look over and see a few of the guys  nodding off while the peacefulness of waiting for that bite seemed to mesmerize all of us.  

When a salmon hit, I instantly got a lump in my throat. My knees went weak and dad’s pole started to bounce.  Immediately he grabbed his pole from its holder, pulled up and felt the fish start to fight on the end of  the line. As soon as I saw him start to reel, I grabbed my pole and started to reel in my gear as quickly as  I could. This was no easy task. The weight of the lead sinker and the fishing rig made  retrieving your gear against the river current  with the lure spinning like crazy took some doin’, even for a tough TomBoy like me. I looked over and  saw the tip of dad’s pole dip way down toward the water; his teeth were grit together with a  determined smile as the fish started to run and strip the line off the fishing reel. He turned the teeth on the  drag to tighten the line a bit so the salmon wouldn’t strip out as much line when running.  

I was starting to shake from excitement and  my heart pounding out of my chest. Finally, I saw my gear break the  surface of the water, the weight accidently slammed against the side of the boat as I pulled it up and out  of the river. Dad gave me a sideways look and I blurted out “Oops!”. I laid my pole with its gear  between my seat and the side of the boat so it would be out of the way. Everything was a blur; I knew  exactly what I had to do next; get up on the bow of the boat, drop the buoy with the anchor tied off to it  into the water as fast as I could. As soon as I saw it hit the water, I headed back to my seat and sat  down, out of the way.  

The boat started to drift slowly down river from the hog line. I glanced at the deck, making sure there was  nothing which would cause my dad to trip while he fought the fish. He was reeling in at a decent clip  and then his pole dipped down and away went the fish ripping line off the spool. He was running so  hard, you could hear the line as it was torn off the reel  and down into the water of the Columbia River. I could hear dad say under his breath,  “You son-of-a-bitch!”. The line stopped stripping off the reel and my dad pulled up on the rod slowly,  but firmly, it bent low from the current and the weight of the fish. As he leaned the pole forward  toward the water, he reeled in quickly. As he started to pull the pole up to bring the fish in closer, the tip seemed to flick a bit before it dipped down hard and the fish took off for another run. It didn’t go as  far this time. Dad was able to start gaining on it and he got it reeled in closer to the boat. 

He called out to me to “Get the Gaff”. A gaff hook was used years ago to bring bigger fish into a boat instead of using a  net. They didn’t take up as much room and were easier for some fishermen to use. (Sport fishermen  don’t use them currently; I think they’re just used by commercial fishermen.) I got the gaff and held it  carefully off to the side, over the water  and out of his way. As soon as he was sure he had the fish played out, I handed  him the gaff hook and in one arching sweep the handle went out of sight, into the water and into the  head of the salmon. Dad handed me his pole and used both hands to pull the fish on board the boat. 

It was a beautiful hen (female) chinook salmon. I reached and grabbed the Billy Club for dad as she  flopped around on the deck.  Still fighting to get away, dad cracked her a good one in the head and she  stopped flopping around. Oh!  She was a beautiful chrome color, so bright and shiny! He said she looked  to be 25 or maybe 30 lbs. She was a little on the thick side, so I squeezed her belly checking for eggs.  A few very pale eggs popped out which was a good sign. This meant she wasn’t quite ripe, or ready to  spawn. If they had been brighter reddish/orange and had come flowing easily out of her they wouldn’t have  made as good of fish bait as they would at this stage. Her eggs would hold together very well like they were  and those skeins of green eggs would be carefully laid aside, cut up into 1” pieces, mixed with “20 mule  team borax” and stored in the freezer for Steelhead and trout bait.  

We had drifted quite a way down river from our hog line. Dad always had a gunny sack in his boat for keeping  his fish in.  This kept them from drying out. Before heading back up to anchor in our space, dad dipped the  gunny sack in the water and shook it out a little. He picked the big hen up by her gill plate and put her head first into the gunny  sack. The end of her tail was sticking out of the burlap sack  a bit.  She was a beautiful big fall Chinook hen! 

As he fired up the boat motor and headed  back up river to take his place in the hog line, my heart beat started to slow, and I relaxed in my seat.  Dad would look back every once in a while, to make sure everything was secured. He would carefully  guide the boat back into his slot. When  he got to our buoy, he’d climb up on the bow and snag the line with  his gaff hook, tying it once again to the bow cleat of the boat. After checking his lure to make sure the  hook wasn’t bent or needed to be sharpened, we got our gear in the water and set again. Both of us  would settle back into our seats, beginning to relax and wait for the next fish to hit.  

Our little celebration of catching a fish was to dive into those liverwurst sandwiches my mom had made  for our lunch. Dad had a little propane heater in the boat for use on the chillier days and it had a grill on top of the heating element. He  would fire it up and turn the flame way down low. Very carefully, he would put our sandwiches on that  grill to toast them.  When they were warmed through, we would sit there, rocking on the water, eating  our warm liverwurst sandwiches and waiting for another fish to hit one of the poles. 

Most weekends in  the fall and spring of my childhood were spent on the Columbia River, just out from the Dolphin Marina  in a hog line fishing for salmon with my dad. I don’t have to try too hard to go back to those times in my mind. I can still smell the river, hear the waves lap up on the sides of the boat and smell that good fresh  fish smell on my hands. I was the only girl out there in that hog line. Those men always made me feel  like I was one of them; welcomed me and visited with me just like they did my dad.  

The old ways they fished back then are gone. Modern salmon fishermen don’t seem to anchor in hog  lines anymore. Now they use nets to bring their fish on board their boats and technology helps them to  find where the fish are in the river. Those old days when I was a Tom Boy just coming into my teens  are probably the most cherished memories I have of my youth. These stories of fishing with my dad  have been told time and time again and I’ll gladly share them with anyone who is interested in hearing them.

Pot Holders made for BIG hands

/ misssarahetc / Leave a comment
Stitches used: Slip Stitch, half double crochet, double crochet

Why are manufactured pot holders so little and thin? If you grab a hot pan out of the oven in MY kitchen, by God and sunny Jesus you are NOT gonna burn your hand!

I have a lot of scrap yarn left over from my various crochet projects. I save every bit of it too! It gets rolled up into little balls and stuffed into an old beat up Safeway paper grocery bag. I keep all sized pieces of yarn from a yard long and up. The little bitty pieces, get tied end to end and then rolled into a ball about the size of an orange. I use this ball for small projects that provide me with what I call “Instant Gratification Projects”.

Instant Gratification Projects take about as long to make as an episode of “Coach” lasts. They take zero thought and even less effort. Most all of us who these projects cause they’re done in a flash and you can look at the finished product and say to yourself “Looky what I did!?”.

Does that sound silly? Well, duh! Of course it does but the big take away is the Gratification of finishing a project. No matter how big, or in this case, how small. It may just be a scrap granny square that you add to a pile of other scrap granny squares to crochet together to make a scrap blanket with but you’ve finished it in no time! *please take into consideration all of us have projects sitting somewhere in a bag that’re only partly complete, that we’ll get to “tomorrow”.

Enter the homemade, crocheted Pot Holder. The method I use to make these is now referred to as “Free-form” crochet. I used to call it “winging it” as I’m sure most other old timers did. Free-form crochet doesn’t require a pattern no matter what you want to make. I guess this is Free-form crochet in it’s simplest form and you really don’t need a pattern to make these but you need a basic idea in your head of how you want it to look. I keep all the extra motifs, granny squares, parts of crocheted borders I’ve made up to see if I like them etc in a zip lock bag just to use for pot holders. If you don’t have any extra parts crocheted and stashed somewhere; grab your favorite hook, make a chain or circle or whatever turns your crank and just start to crochet!

Even beginners know a few stitches. It hasn’t got to be fancy, don’t chew on what or how you’re gonna do it, but here is the important thing to remember that a lot of us overlook when making these; SAFETY!

Size and Thickness *insert 12 year old giggle here*. It’s true though, when I grab for a pot holder in my kitchen, it’s to pull out a 400+ degree metal pan from the oven to get on the counter quick. I want to make sure I don’t burn my hand or my pretty counter tops.

20250202_1002437197319577154304044
Stitches used: single crochet, half double crochet, double crochet v-stitch

Crochet a shape, lay it down and put your hand in the middle of it. If your fingers hang over the edge of your crocheted piece, you got a ways to go! I always make sure I have at least 2″ of space bigger than the size of my hand. I have sausage fingers, pure and simple. If it’s a horse call it a horse. Occasionally, people with bigger hands than me have to get something out of my oven. Mostly I worry about a man or Amazon size Lady Friend. It doesn’t matter who it is, I don’t want someone burning their hand using a pot holder that’s way too small.

There are always 2 layers to my pot holders. So after you get your first side the size and shape you want it, make another one. It doesn’t have to be the exact match of the first one. It can just be one color. Make it as close to the size of the first one as you can. After all, these are going to be used as “Trivets” too. A Trivet is something you sit on your counter to put a hot pan on. Another reason to make them good and thick.

After you get the second side done, lay one on top of the other and figure out how you want to crochet them together. In the first photo, I’ve Slip Stiched the 2 sides together on both pot holders because one side was just a smidge bigger than the other. This works out great! In the second photo, I did a single crochet stitch clear around. Both layers were close enough in size, so I simply crocheted singles through both layers.

20250202_0959062481074296094184179
Stitches used: double crochet, single crochet, slip stitch

In the photo above, I used a basic shell to crochet the 2 sides together. For the brown one on the left, I added a slip stitch row just to play around with it. As far as weaving in the ends; I insert my hook in between the 2 sides and near the middle of one side. Which side doesn’t matter. Work the hook through those sides up to where there’s a hole at the tail of the yarn. Yarn over and pull the tail in between the sides. Give your pot holder a stretch and the end of the yarn should disappear inside. If not, pull it just a little tight, snip off the end and then give it a stretch and your tail will be pulled inside the potholder. Don’t worry, I’ve not ever had one come apart on me in all the years I’ve been making these.

I work with a lot of bachelors or gentlemen who are the cooks in their homes. Every single one of them are shocked at these simple pot holders. The comments always seem geared around “it’s actually BIG enough for my hands”!

You can’t buy these in any stores, they’re easy to make and last forever. I use acrylic yarn and have not had an issue with them scorching from a hot pan. If you get “whatever” baking goo on them just pitch them in the washer/dryer and call it wonderful!

That’s it my babies! Use your imagination and as always HAVE FUN!

The loss of my security, my fat

/ misssarahetc / Leave a comment

By Sarah Floyd

10/18/2018

I’ve always had a weight problem, genetics has not been kind to the women in my family.  I was born in 1966, spent the 1970’s in elementary school and the glorious 80’s in high school.

“Fatty Fatty two by four, can’t fit through the bathroom door!” was what I was greeted with when I was in the lower grades.  This was always followed by my braided hair getting pulled by  the little shits that were teasing me. I would get mad and start to cry; but would always say something smart back to them or sometimes whack the kid teasing me.

I remember thinking during my pre-teen years in middle school, “If I can just stay at 135lbs like I am now, I’ll get older and be the same size as everyone else.”  Great plan! Didn’t work worth a damn.  I got into high school and ballooned up to 185lbs.  Although I was still teased a bit, it wasn’t as vocal as it had been in the elementary  and middle schools.

I wasn’t beautiful, but I cleaned up o.k.  I learned what Aqua Net was and how to rat my hair and managed to “almost” blend in.  My sophomore year found me with my first love.  A boy who was shy, played on the JV football team and for what ever reason saw something in me, he thought was worth spending time with.

I don’t remember why we broke up, but he always stayed my friend.  After graduation, we all got busy with adulthood and  lost touch with each other .  In 1994, that shy boy committed suicide.  He had hung himself in his garage and one of his kids had found his body.  My first love was dead and I was heartbroken.

In the late 1970’s, we had a “JC Penny’s Catalog Store” in our town.  These stores were actually tiny little shops.  You went in  and stood at a counter with a Penny’s catalog.  When you picked out what you wanted the attendant would place your order for you and when it came in, you’d get a call to come into the store and pick the item up.  I know… I can’t imagine shopping that way anymore either, especially with endless shopping on the internet right there, from the comfort of your home.  AND you don’t have to get dressed in your good clothes to go the other room and do your online shopping.  In the 1970’s, it  meant you changed out of your play clothes, got dressed in your good, clean clothes and went to town.

I always hated shopping for clothes.  My mom usually made our clothes for us.  She used a lot of that gawd awful bullet proof polyester that was so popular then, but I didn’t ever see a size, nor did I get looked up and down by an uppity catalog store clerk.  At the Penny’s catalog store, the lady took my measurements, in front of everyone in the whole damn store, and told my mother in a condescending tone “Well, she’s just going to be a ‘Chubby’ size. She’s not into women’s sizes, but it’s close.”  Mom shot her a look and we continued to look at blouses in the catalog.  I found a dark green velour v-neck blouse and it was with-in the amount my mom had told us to stay under.

As my mom was placing my order, the uppity clerk commented on the style of blouse, she told my mom the length was not long enough to hide my being on the chubby side.  She shot her another look, this time a bit more stern with almost squinting eyes.  She was silently warning her “Back off, or you’ll get a mouthful of filth.”  I pretended not to hear what the attendant had said.  We finished at the store, headed home, I got changed back into my play clothes and went about messing around in my tree fort.

I think during all of those years I got hardened to the way people would look at me, or speak to me;  not really engaging in conversation with me, but instead saying enough to be polite and then heading off to somewhere or someone more interesting.

As odd as this sounds, I started to become secure with my obesity.  I’ve lost and gained at least 200lbs and every time I become a thinner version of myself, people start telling me how good I look.  “Wow!  Look how pretty you are!”, “You are looking SO good!”, “How much have you lost?”.  My thoughts every time someone makes an exclamation of how wonderful I look, instantly go to, “Holy Shit!  How awful did I look before?! ”

I do get that nano second of “way-to-go” thoughts, but then I go back to feeling that insecure feeling that comes every time I lose weight. People start talking to me more, they seem more interested in talking to me.  It’s an uncomfortable feeling and my mind starts to obsess with thoughts of “why is this person taking the time with me now that I’ve dropped a couple pounds when before I lost weight, they wouldn’t give me the time of day!”.

It kind of turns into a never ending cycle. Gaining weight and becoming someone who is looked “past”; seen, but not really seen. Then losing the weight and realizing people start to pay attention.  Getting older, for me,  has helped quite a bit as far as people being judgemental.  It seems with age comes acceptance.  I have had the pleasure of meeting people who have been accepting of me at different times during my life.  I truly appreciated each and every one of those people.

Now, in my 50’s, I’m losing weight again.  The same feelings of a “Sunken-in” sensation when I wake up and start to move around.  The feeling of my clothes loosening.  Seeing the expression on people’s faces as though I look different, but they can’t put their finger on what that difference is.

For me, my security starts to take a dive.  I know I’ll have to start talking more to people.  I’ll look different and will get “those” comments from kindhearted, well meaning people who have no clue how their words of congratulations are actually affecting me.  The sudden positive comments coming from what seems like every direction can be very overwhelming for me.

This is why I often think of my fat as being my “Security”.  It protects me from over-stimulation from the people around me, from strangers who now “see” me instead of looking through me.

I have a great personality and, as my late father would say, I was “vaccinated with a phonograph needle”, meaning I could talk a blue streak.  I don’t think I’ve ever met a stranger; I can strike up a conversation with most anyone who is interested.  The funny thing is, as soon as I start losing weight, I don’t “look” for those people who are interested in talking.  It’s not as easy for me, it’s as though I don’t want the attention drawn to myself.

So here I go again; on my way down to whatever weight I end up at this time.  Usually my goal weight is one that allows me greater ease of movement, a healthier and more energized version of me.  My doc will be tickled pink and my psychologist will look at me with her little sideways grin and squinting eyes, telling me how interesting I am.  She’ll tell me with the wave of her one of her little bamboo and paper type fans how she has never had anyone have that issue before.  I’ll giggle at her and grab a burger on the way home. I’ll think about how good I feel and how if I ate that burger I would feel awful from all the grease and gluten I’ll be eating.  That thought lasts about a minute.  I happily bite into my burger, enjoy the juiciness of this heart attack on a bun.  I can worry about the outcome later.  Maybe the real reason I give in and have the burger is the thought it will make me safe as I have one after another and begin to gain my weight back.

I wonder sometimes why people don’t ever say “Wow! Look how good you look with a few extra pounds”, “It’s nice to see you’re back into your plus sizes.”.  Maybe people don’t make comments like this as it’s not polite.  Maybe they feel they would be encouraging a defeat; one in which the person who has gained the weight back is suffering due, to the fact the pounds are packing back on.

I guess it’s a double edge sword, like many things in our lives can often be.  We each deal with them differently than most people would.  But those differences are what make each of us unique.

The next time you see a friend or family member who  has lost weight, try to be a bit less excited for them.  Tell them quietly how you feel.  Let it be a private moment between the 2 of you.  No matter what, love that person unconditionally and let them know it.  Big or small, let them know you love them.

 

 

 

You got no Fetchin’ up!

/ misssarahetc / 2 Comments

SHORT READ

Go back

Your message has been sent

Her name was Ruthie Maude.  She was in her early 60’s and a slight little thing with a sharp tongue and deep Southern accent. Born and breed in Arkansas she was  a “God-fearin’” woman.  She smoked “More Cigarettes”;  you remember the ones, they were the long, brown skinny ones.  She preferred the menthol kind.  She would lite them off the butt of the last one, a chain smoker.

Ruthie was married to my Uncle Pogo’s brother Dow. Both men had “real” names, but these are the names I grew up hearing from my dad.   She was one of my greatest influences when I was 16.  She and Dow were “Snowbirds”, meaning they would travel from Washington down to Arizona in the winter, Then back to Washington in the spring time.  Like many other Snowbirds, they pulled their house behind them.

While sitting under the Big Leaf Maple where their house was parked on Uncle Pogo’s place, I would sit in a comfy lawn chair with Ruthie Maude and the other old timers who were both family and friends and listen to their stories.

I loved sitting in the warm breeze of summer, with the bugs zipping around us and the smoke from those long, brown cigarettes wafting around.  Ruthie Maude was an extrovert.  She was forever injecting funny and endearing Southern sayings in everything she talked about.

“I’m fixin’ on….”

“You ain’t never gonna ….”

“I’m PLUM worn out!”

“Bless your heart” and many more I can’t think of at the moment.

Of all the sayings Ruthie Maude had, my favorite was “You ain’t FETCHED up right”, “You got no Fetchin’ up”, You gotta fetch ‘em up right…”.

“Fetchin” didn’t just mean “to go get something”.  To her and others from that region of the United States, it meant the way a child was raised.  If a child or adult did something she didn’t think was polite, she would stand her little thin self right straight in front of you and say with a hand on her hip “You got NO fetchin’ up!?  I tell you what, right then and right there, she had your attention!  Then her serious face would melt into a smile and she’s start to belly laughin’.  It was so contagious.

I think about the people who have influenced my life and helped to shape me into the woman that I am today.  As I sit and write this, I can see her clearly laughing, smoking and telling stories from her days as a bare-footed, knock-kneed kid in Arkansas where her dad worked in the Cole mines and suffered from Black Lung.  Talking quietly about her brother “Bud” being one of the soldiers to die during the Bataan Death March after the fall of Corregidor during the WWII.

So many people help to shape our lives while we are being “fetched up”.  Do you remember any of the people who influenced you while you were growing up?

My quest for the perfect pie crust

/ misssarahetc / 2 Comments

 

1493673446877

A pie

My mother grew up in depression era Iowa, the oldest of 3 daughters of a Share Cropper.  She milked cows before going to school and again as soon as she came home.  Her 2 best friends were a pig named “Herk” and a mule by the name of “Coley”.

My grandmother was an old school, meat and potatoes farm-wife cook.  You woke up to a hot breakfast, came into a good lunch and  at 6 o’clock a filling supper with sliced bread on the table and always a pie for dessert.  My favorite part of supper was knowing I would be able to dig into that yummy, mouthwatering pie and be in food heaven.

I watched my mom very closely when she cooked.  I wanted to be just as good a cook when I grew up.  I remembered the coffee she put in every beef pot roast,  that is now my “secret ingredient” in my pot roasts.  The fluffy pancakes she would make every Sunday morning with lots of hot coffee for the grown-ups and milk for my sister and I.  The thing I loved the most was company coming over.  Whether it was my dad’s fishing chums, a neighbor or family members;  everyone was welcome.   There was always a cake, pie or cookies of some sort for them to sit around the living room and enjoy with a hot cup of coffee.

I loved watching my mother roll pie dough.  She would dust our kitchen table with flour,  use a fork to take out a ball of dough from her mixing bowl and lay it down in the flour.  Never handling it too much.  “You don’t want to ‘Mother’ that pie dough to death or it’ll be so tough, it won’t be fit to eat!”  She would always give me tips of how to handle pie dough the right way making sure I knew it wasn’t bread dough.

Making pie was like second nature to her as I’m sure it was with most women her age.  Her recipe was the basic Betty Crocker pie dough recipe.  Flour, salt, lard (Crisco at our house) and of course, Ice water.  Her wire pastry blender was so old and beat up from making a life time pie crusts that the red paint on the wooden handle was nearly worn through.  Her rolling pin was never washed, but only wiped down with a clean cloth. She would stand at the table, cutting in the dry ingredients while turning the bowl and only looking down a couple times while watching Merv Griffin opening his show with some sort of crooner-type love song.  Of course the front of her apron always had two hand sized spots of flour on them because a dish towel wasn’t handy.

She had 2 very old tin pie pans that my sister still uses to this day. “Juice Saver” pie pans that were deep dish and wider across than the normal clear glass Pyrex Pie Plates.   Her pies were mouthwatering, juicy and the crusts were perfectly flaky.  At least in the eyes of a 10 year old tom boy girl.

I made my very first pie the year the Mount St. Helens erupted.  In 1980 I was a freshman in high school.  It was a blueberry pie for my dad’s work picnic and boy was it UGLY!  The blueberry juice had bubbled up through the steam slits leaving dark purple puddles on the crust and it seeped out through the edges where it hadn’t been sealed properly.  Ugh…mom said “It’ll be fine”, which was her generic answer to what ever it was which was clearly NOT fine.  I put it out on a table at the picnic, one of the ladies sliced and served it with juice running everywhere due to my not adding enough flour in to the filling mixture to thicken it.  We took three quarters of it home and it ended up being a nice treat for our chickens that evening when my sister fed them.

Fast forward 20 years in my own kitchen.  I had gathered together all the gadgets I needed to mix my pie dough.  A rolling pin which I had broken in on many batches of cut-out cookies, an old wire pastry blender I was lucky enough to find at a swap meet.  It was  like my mom’s, accept mine has a little tab at the end of the handle to put your thumb on.  I had a beautiful cranberry Pyrex bowl to mix my dough in and I was ready to go.  I had tried my best to make a pie dough that I was happy with, trying not to “Mother” the dough too much while mixing it.  I tried recipes that had ingredients like vinegar, mayonnaise even eggs.  Nothing was as good as what I remembered my mom’s pie crust tasting like.  Finally I saw a recipe for pie crust that called for milk.

I decided to go for it.  I didn’t like the taste of regular Crisco.  I wanted to try the Butter Flavored kind.  Wow!  What a difference in taste that made!  Changing the liquid to milk, I was really starting to like this new recipe.  I also started rolling my pie dough out onto a flour sack type dish towel.  I sprinkled flour onto it and rolled out my dough.  It made it way easier to control my rolling surface and clean up was a snap.  It was also easier to take the towel out into the front yard and shake out the flour and bits of raw pie dough for the dogs and little birds to enjoy.

I tried to remember how my mom had put it all together.  How did she crimp the edges?  How many slits in the top do I need?  I checked out cookbooks and looked at pies in the bakery sections of Costco  and Safeway.  The one thing which stood out in my mind, really made me say “Holy Crap!” was Turbinado Sugar.  More commonly known as “Sugar in the Raw”.  The sugar crystals are much bigger and have a slight Carmel color to them.  Sprinkled on top of these bakery pies gave them  a “finished” look;  as though the baker actually CARED about the finished product.  So after a light  spray of water from a water bottle, I sprinkled the Turbinado Sugar lightly all around the raw dough and decided on cutting 6 slits in the top of the pie.  I decided on this amount as they could also serve as cutting guides.  I suppose other people would cut 8 slits for smaller pieces.  I would rather a person enjoying pie and coffee in my home get a good, hearty piece that will give them something to come back for like my mom’s did with her guests.

At the time when I started to experiment with making pies, all I had were metal pie pans.  The dough was good, but didn’t seem like it was getting brown enough on the bottom.  This is when I discovered Crockery Pie Plates.  Ones that had been made of clay on a potters wheel.  I have 4 or 5 of these beautiful pie plates.  They’re spendy, but well worth the money as the finished product is so nice.  I experimented with different pies and found my new pie dough recipe along with baking them in the crockery pie plates was an absolute winner.  The smell of a pie cooking makes the whole house happy.  Cracking a window or opening your front door allows that smell to waft out into the world.  Driving up our driveway and smelling that good smell of pie baking is a treat in its self.  Walking over to the kitchen and seeing that beautiful pie plate with a yummy looking creation in it is just icing on the cake!  The flaky crust, the little bits of crystals reflecting on top and a peek into one of the steam slits seeing a piece of apple,  cherry or strawberry gets your mouth watering and ready for that first scrumptious bite.

After what seems like years, I have found my groove when it comes to pie crusts!  The HOLY Grail of pastry!  I love to watch a person eating my pie.  Their eyes light up, they stop chewing and say “this is REALLY good”.   It doesn’t taste like my moms pie.  It does evoke the same reaction people had when eating her pie.  People talk about my pies like they did hers.  That’s as good as it gets for me.  The feeling I get when people leave my home and I know they enjoyed their selves;  that knowing the time they spent with us made them feel good.  A full belly topped off with a delicious piece of pie will do it every time.

 

Miss Sarah’s Pie Crust 

2 cups All Purpose Flour

1 cup butter flavor Crisco or regular butter (at room temp)

1 teaspoon salt  (lessen this amount if you’d like)

1/4 to 1/3 cup milk (enough to make a workable dough)

Roll out 1/2 of the dough on a floured surface to 3″ bigger than your pie pan.  Place dough in pie pan so that it falls over the edges of your pan.  Fill with your choice of pie filling.  Roll out second 1/2 of dough and place on top of filling.  Fold dough  away from you and under its self.  Crimp how ever suits you.  Spray or baste with water and sprinkle ample Sugar in the Raw on top.  Bake at 400 degrees until juice bubbles and pie crust is golden brown.

 

My secret to being a happy narcissist

/ misssarahetc / Leave a comment

1990's little sexpot

“I’m lookin’ kinda cute” so says I to my husband as we’re headed out the door on our way to somewhere.  He chuckles, replies “Yes you are” and away we go.

After getting my swim suit on, I exclaim to no one in particular, but in the general direction of some of the ladies from my swim class “do you not LOVE this polka dot tankini?!”  A muffled laugh comes from the lot of them and then that endorphin releasing sensation of the “atta-boys” that I crave!   “Oh! That IS cute!”, “Where did you get it from?”, “I love that swim skirt too!”  My 300lb ego has been boosted and OUT I go, all a flutter and feelin’ good with the other ladies to the pool for our aquatics class.

1494269748132

Hmmmm…I hear what you’re thinking right now, is this gal REALLY this self-absorbed????  My answer is a resounding YES! I recently read a blog on line about how to tell if you’re a narcissist and according to that article, I’m a complete and utter, born and bred down to the bone narcissist.   UGH!

I do post pictures of yummy things I make onto social media sites.  I love to see what people have to say about it, how good it looks or how tasty it must be.  The comments left by friends and friends of friends make me feel good. It’s instant gratification to receive positive comments from people.

My social media is filled with endless photos and stories of all the great things I do.  Whether it’s a sewing project, an afghan I’ve just finished crocheting or a counter full of hams I have just retrieved from my smoke house.  You can get lost in the pictures and comments of (and about) projects and things that I do.

When I blurt out comments about myself as I did in the lady’s locker room, it’s an accidental positive affirmation for me, if that makes any sense.  The reactions of people around me are mostly smiles and laughs.  The last I knew, if you’re not happy about what a person has said or done, its more than likely you’re not going to respond with smiles and laughter.

I was born with an overabundance of personality.   My dad used to tell me I was “Vaccinated with a phonograph needle”, (a phonograph needle plays vinyl albums, hence if you were vaccinated with one, you talked a lot.)  To be quite honest, I’ve NEVER met a stranger and I am an extravert.  REALLY???  Nothin gets past you!

All of that being said; does this mean I am truly a narcissist?  That I am a self-absorbed individual?  I know people who would tell you I would absolutely give you the shirt off my back.  I have others who believe very strongly, that I am very conceited.

I really do enjoy doing things for people.  When there is a death or an emergency, I’m all in for standing up and getting the job done and receiving nothing in return. However, If I do something nice for you and don’t get some sort of gracious reply, I probably won’t ever do anything for you again.

This means, unless I get back something for my act of kindness, I’m going to be unhappy, have hurt feelings, or even be pissed at the person who has failed to acknowledge my good deed.  Then again, NOT acknowledging a person’s kindness could be construed as narcissistic.  “I don’t have to say, ‘thank you’, she KNOWS I appreciate what she does!”  AND “assuming” gets us back to the old adage of it making an “ASS out of U and ME”, at least that’s what the old timers used to say.  Either way, to not say something as simple as a “thank you” is just plain bad manners.

So now that I have you thinking about whether or not you fall into the category of “narcissistic”, I also need to point out the negatives of being a Happy Narcissist.  Deep down, inside, I don’t WANT to be self-absorbed.

Other than to put myself together in the mornings, I hate looking in the mirror. I see people walking past mirrors and taking long, sideways glances at themselves.  It’s like, almost creepy, the way some people do it.  That’s not me.  I hold doors open for people, I say thank you. I’M the one in the checkout line who will let the person behind me go ahead if they have less than I do.  I will give you my beloved hanky if you’re crying.

My beautiful picture

I even had a cloth hanky back in the early 70’s!

It all comes down to this.  I have no clue if I’m truly a narcissist or not.  I am, by no means, a perfect personality.  I have my bad days right along with everyone else BUT,  I laugh easily, I talk freely and I enjoy my life.  Guests to my home enjoy being around here, they’re comfortable.  I say funny things which make people laugh. I smile a lot and people smile back. To my way of thinking, there is nothing wrong with any of those things.   If all of this means I’m a self-absorbed person, with a true “narcissistic” personality, so be it.

At the end of the day, I’m a cool person.  I can accept the eccentric narcissistic person that I am.  I can also look in the mirror and like the person who looks back.  In my opinion, that’s the important part.

So, tell me, do you think you’re a happy narcissist?