March 2013 Newsletter
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Memories and Musings on March as I Once Knew It During my boyhood, and for that matter much the same still holds true today, the month of March was a time of transition. Small game hunting seasons had come and gone; trout season opener, although actually only weeks away, seemed a distant, elusive dream; and I didn’t have turkey season to look forward to the way I do today. I never saw a wild turkey, much less hunted them, until I was well into adulthood. Have things ever changed in that regard. By the time you read these words I will likely be in Florida launching the rites of spring in the first of nine states I will hunt (others include, in the order of planned visits, Alabama, my native heath of South Carolina, South Dakota, Wyoming, Montana, Oklahoma, Texas, and North Carolina). By the time it is all over in early May, I’ll be worn to a frazzle, about as happy to see it all end as I was to see it start, and ready to live on memories for months to come. In one sense though, my turkey season has already started. That came with the non-stop yelping and constant shaking and howdying which typify the National Wild Turkey Federation’s annual convention in Nashville. I attended the whole shebang and was in the exhibit hall at Opryland virtually the whole time (the crush of people on Saturday got to be a bit much, and I fled for safety for a few hours). While in Nashville I met a surprising number of you who read these monthly scribblings, thanks to the fact that I had noted I’d be hanging out at Tom Kelly’s booth on a somewhat regular basis. There were even some really special moments—posing for photos with some of you, a hearty hug from a female reader, a snapshot with a grandson, a box of chocolate-covered cherries from Bill Robinson, and a lovely call from Mark McPhail of Wise Old Owl Turkey Calls. Thanks to one and all who stopped to chat, said something gracious about this newsletter, bought a book, or simply acknowledged my existence. Mind you, three days of listening, non-stop, to every type of yelp and gobble imaginable (a fair number of them mighty poor imitations of the real thing and virtually all of them far too loud), not to mention enough goose honking to make a hearing impaired Canada goose wish for total isolation, can fray one’s nerves a bit. Or, to put matters another way, I’ve had enough of that sort of hoopla and hype to last me another year. Meanwhile, back amidst the peace and serenity of a study where I’m surrounded by books and mementoes of decades of hunting and fishing, I find it soothing to look back on yesteryear. Earlier today I wrapped up a nostalgic piece on pocket knives for South Carolina Wildlife magazine, and just getting it down served to remind me of how much our world has changed. When I was a boy growing up in the 1950s any man who found himself without a pocket knife felt flat-out naked, and one of the consuming ambitions of youngsters, at least in North Carolina’s Great Smokies where I grew up, was to own a pocket knife. A boy’s first knife was a rite of passage second only to getting a gun, and often the manner in which he handled his first knife was a weighty factor in determining when he was ready to own a gun. Neither my father nor grandfather would have thought of leaving home without a pocket knife in their possession, and both of them owned a bunch. So did most everyone I knew. Whittling, carving, and shaping basic pieces of folk art with a knife were as common as pig tracks. Moreover, knives figured prominently in playground activities at school. Mumblety-peg was a popular game, and if a female teacher happened to ask if some boy in class had a pocket knife she could borrow, chances were every boy in class volunteered with the sort of enthusiasm which was singularly missing when the teacher asked questions of an academic nature. Today possession of a knife in the classroom will get you kicked out of school, in serious trouble with the authorities, and quite possibly lead to something like a lockdown or half a dozen cruisers stuffed with donut dunkers showing up on the premises. How things have changed, and I’m too “sot” in my ways for anyone to even take the trouble to convince me that the changes in arenas such as this are for the better. I’d make an educated guess that not a teenager in 20 knows what a whetstone is, never mind having the ability to use one. By way of contrast, a half century ago if you couldn’t sharpen a knife blade to the point where it shaved the hair off your arm or sliced through a sheet of paper like it was soft butter, you were looked on with a mixture of pity and disdain. I’ll share one personal example which really makes my point. It’s possible I’ve mentioned it before, because it made a big (and negative) impression on me, but if I have bear with me. Besides, the underlying lesson bears repeating. A few years back when it came time for me to visit the local Social Security office and complete the requisite paperwork, I parked my truck and set out towards the door. There was a genial, decidedly overweight fellow in uniform standing there. He greeted me with a cheery “Good morning” then added: “You look like a fellow who would carry a pocket knife.” I thought that was a somewhat strange statement but took the fact that I had that appearance as a compliment. “As a matter of fact,” I replied, “I’ve got two.” That was not the response he wanted. I was told, in no uncertain terms, that I could not darken the doors of the building until I returned to my truck, divested myself of said knives, and entered the premises as a non-threatening sort. Mind you, when I got inside and was greeted by semi-organized chaos associated with screaming babies; all sorts of folks seeking SNAP assistance; or, like the lyrics of the old country song from Jerry Reed’s “When You’re Hot, You’re Hot,” people worried about “Who’s gonna collect my welfare?” To say it was dismaying would be a major understatement, but it was a first-rate example of what the welfare state hath wrought. No knives, but plenty of dollars going to folks who seemed to me eminently capable of doing a day’s work and who were, judging by the vehicles in the parking lot and the array of cell phones, Bluetooths (should it be Blueteeth?), and other stuff I don’t even understand, doing pretty darn well sucking on the government teat. It was enough to frost a fellow’s grits. Accordingly, I’ll turn to more pleasant thoughts about another aspect of life as I once knew it, this time closely associated with March. It is, incidentally, a lifestyle which seems to be on the fast track taken by the dodo, ivory-billed woodpecker, and passenger pigeon. I’m speaking of the game of marbles. If words and phrases such as taw, dough rollers, steelies, fudging, lagging, knuckle down, and playing for keeps mean nothing to you, I’ll simply suggest that one aspect of your childhood was filled with deprivation. All come from the game of marbles, and if you pause to think about it, some of the game’s lingo—knuckle down, play for keeps, or all the marbles—have entered into the lexicon of everyday speech in America. When March rolled around and mountain weather began to offer the first hints of spring (and it wasn’t so cold or wet we couldn’t head for the playground), marbles was the game of choice. The knees of pants went through a patch of rough treatment (you simply couldn’t launch your taw or put knuckles to the ground in suitable fashion without one knee on the ground), and the knuckles of your shooting hand took on an appearance reminiscent of those of an auto mechanic. Never mind the strictures of parents and teachers alike, most of us yielded to the terrible sin of play “keepsies,” and that meant one day you might be flush with pockets bulging to full stretch with marbles and the next day down to your treasured taw and too few marbles even to fill the center circle. Of course those marbles served other purposes as well, such as the pieces for games of Chinese checkers. I don’t remember a lot about that, but I do know that when it came to optimal ammunition for one’s favorite slingshot, nothing quite matched marbles. The only downside was the inability to retrieve your ammo, although more than 50 years after the fact, when raising a garden at my Dad’s a few years back, I tilled up enough marbles to make me realize a fair number of my wayward shots, usually launched at blue jays, came back to earth not far from where they had been released. Add to those memories things like the first mess of poke sallet (if you haven’t eaten it, see the recipe below), Grandma Minnie insisting that a big spoonful of sulphur and molasses was just the ticket for shedding the last vestiges of cabin fever and greeting greening-up time with a spring in my step, drinking the obligatory cup of sassafras tea for the same purpose, and eager anticipation of the arrival of trout season and you have a pretty good handle on what early spring was like in my boyhood. It was simple, involved the outdoors and closeness to the earth, required little expenditure (25 cents for a bag of 50 marbles could take a real toll on my meager budget), and was filled with good times. Other than sliced fingers from inept whittling, there was no danger from knives, in school or otherwise. It was an era of simpler days and simpler ways, and somehow I have to believe that shooting slingshots and marbles had it all over sending text messages and playing computer games. But then what do I know? I’m just an aging hillbilly, a son of the Smokies who retains boyish enthusiasm in an old man’s body. Still, with every day that passes I realize just how blessed I was and have been in so many ways. I grew up poor but never realized it until I went off to college and actually was around people who had $5 or even $10 bills in their billfold. We didn’t have television but I had books and unrestricted opportunities to read (well, almost—there was the time Mom caught be delving into Peyton Place—pretty mild stuff by today’s standards but rest assured there was hell to pay then). I knew infinitely more about the natural world and life’s cycle than 99 percent of today’s youngsters, thanks to spending endless hours in the fields and woods. I knew intimately where Sunday’s chicken or backbones-and-ribs came from as well thanks to slaughtering chickens and butchering hogs being integral parts of my growing up. I had parents, grandparents, and neighbors who cared and friends who shared my interests. In short, I had an idyllic childhood. RECIPES I’m going to start with an old-time early spring dish from the Appalachians and then turn to soups. March, with its unpredictable weather, has always seemed to me a great time for soup, and it also a good time to make use of some of that game—ground venison, game birds, waterfowl, or the like, you stored away over the course of the past hunting season. Think gumbo for duck or goose, pilaus (or purlieus as they call them around here) for small game, soups with leftover doves or the carcass and pickings from a whole turkey or pheasants, and what have you. But let’s first offer an old-time mountain dish seen as a true herald of spring, a spring tonic, and which is just enough of a purgative to, in Grandma Minnie’s words, “clean out your system.” POKE SALLET Poke sprouts need to be picked when they are six inches or less in height. Finding them is easy enough, since the dead bushes from the previous year leave all the evidence you need. Also, pokeweed is incredibly hardy, coming back year after year, and it grows widely and prolifically. Once you have the tender shoots, thanks to the fact they actually carry too much Vitamin A, you need to clean the sprouts and bring them to a rolling boil for 10 minutes or so. Then drain, cover with cold water, and repeat the process. Drain yet again and the third time you are in the eatin’ mode. If you don’t mind the cholesterol, add a slice or two of streaked meat at this juncture, or maybe some bacon drippings. Serve with sliced boiled eggs, bacon bits, or crumbled fatback which has been fried to a crisp atop the “sallet.” Talk about fine! TURKEY AND WILD RICE SOUP
6 tablespoons margarine or butter Melt the margarine in a large pan and sauté the onion, celery, carrots, and mushrooms until tender-crisp. Stir in the flour, salt, and pepper and mix well. Add the chicken broth and milk and cook, stirring, until thickened. Add the wild rice and turkey. Adjust seasonings and simmer until heated through. BARLEY VENISON SOUP
1 cup fine barley, rinsed and drained Bring broth to a boil and add washed barley, chopped onion and frozen vegetables. Cook on low about 40 minutes until barley and veggies are done. Add tomato juice, venison, and seasonings. Simmer until piping hot. Great served with cornbread. BLACK BEAN SOUP
2 cups black beans, cleaned, rinsed and soaked Soak beans, then drain. Fill Dutch oven with ham hock, beans, water and broth. Cook on low until beans are tender. Sauté garlic, onion, and parsley in margarine and add to soup along with other ingredients. Continue cooking over low heat until beans are soft (about three hours). Add small amount of water if the soup becomes too thick. Remove bay leaves and hock, chopping ham from the latter into small pieces. Garnish with shredded cheddar cheese, sour cream, and chopped onion. DUCK SOUP
1 large or two small ducks, cut into small pieces Place all ingredients except noodles in a large kettle. Bring to a boil. Reduce heat, cover, and simmer for two to three hours. Skim if necessary and add more water if soup becomes too thick. Meat may be removed from bones, chopped and added back to the soup at this point. Or let everyone debone as they eat. Add noodles and cook until pasta is done. Serve with crusty bread for dipping. Recent Reading Enough of you have indicated that you appreciate my sharing what’s been on my reading list in recent weeks for me to continue offering this overview. My tastes range fairly widely, but believe it or not there is a pattern (or patterns) to my reading. Favorite arenas for me include crime and adventure fiction, autobiographies and biographies, most anything dealing with the outdoors, certain types of history (the Smokies and southern Appalachia, the literature of sport, the British Empire, exploration, etc.), and living close to nature. Those books marked with an asterisk (*) are ones I think others might find enjoyable.
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