Crazy Things We Did as Kids

If you have read my blog, you know that I spent my early childhood in Indianapolis, and moved to Smith Valley in 1962 when I was nine years old. Compared to what kids have today, in quantity and technology, we were in the stone ages. But I'm sure we had just as much fun with our simple toys as kids have today with Wii, Xbox, and that entire class of video game systems.

During my really early years, we lived in a duplex on North Rural Street in Indianapolis. On the other side of our duplex lived Ginny, Pinkie, and their son Ricky. Ginny had some neat stuff that we couldn't dream of having. She had an oven that had a glass door! Back in the late 50's, we had never seen such a thing. When Ginny baked a roast or anything, and one or two of us happened to be over playing with Ricky, we'd actually pull chairs up to the oven window and watch food cook! How's that for excitement?

She also had a deep fryer with an engraving of a chef where the temperature lights were. When the grease reached the desired temperature, the chef's eye's glowed red. Honest to God, this fascinated me to the point where I would sit near the fryer and watch the red eyes glow. A few years ago, Mom and I went to Illinois to visit Ginny--she moved there to be close to her sisters. I told Ginny how, as a kid, I loved that deep fryer because of the eyes. She went over to her cabinet, pulled out that same fryer and gave it to me. It still works like a charm, with the exception of the chef's red eyes. They no longer work. When you consider the fryer is over 50 years old, it's pretty amazing that it even heats up.

In our own home on North Rural, we had a place in the ceiling of our living room where a light fixture had hung. The light was gone, but the decorative "thing" it hung from was still on the ceiling. Something about that decorative thing caused us kids to place ourselves directly below it, look straight up at it, twirl around, and make this guttural sound as we twirled. Don't ask me why...it was just something to do. And if I'd been Mom, it would've driven me crazy.

Mom was great at keeping us entertained as well. She would put us (one at a time) in a pillowcase, gather up the opening, and then swing us around in a circle. Now that was a hoot! At times, she would hang us on the doorknobs by our shirts. What fun! Kids today have never been swung around in a pillowcase or hung from a doorknob. Today either one of those activities would probably be grounds to call CPS.

She also would get on the floor onto her back, lift her legs up (don't worry...this is clean), and one of us kids would "belly up" to her feet. She held our hands, then lifted us up in the air by straightening her knees and bending her legs at the hips at a 90-degree angle. Then we'd all yell, "Tra-dant!". And although I never swung my own kids in pillowcases or hung them on doorknobs, we did do Tra-dant quite often.

Another activity, probably dreamed up by my mom, was "The Quiet Game". That consisted of one kid yelling "QUIET". After that, the first one to make a peep lost the game. It kept us occupied for a few minutes.

Both of my brothers had hobbies that were horribly gross. (Kids, don't try this at home.) Mike liked to sit on the steps in front of our house and wait for a smoker to go by. If he threw his cigarette butt down, Mike picked it up and smoked it.

Now, if you think that's gross--hang on. Mark's hobby was to take one of Dad's big screwdrivers and walk up and down the sidewalk. When he found a *somewhat* fresh piece of ABC gum, he scraped it off the sidewalk with the screwdriver, stuck it in his mouth, and chomped away! To this day, I can still hear the grit in his mouth as he chewed! Mark must've had a mineral deficiency or something. Our back yard was nothing but dirt due to us kids grubbing around in it all day long. It was nothing to go out into the back yard and see Mark with a mud ring around his mouth. Yes, folks...the child ate dirt!

And for those of you that don't know what ABC gum is, ABC stands for "Already Been Chewed". Speaking of chewing-sometimes on a Saturday we'd walk through the alley to our alma mater, School 81. Since it was Saturday, we could walk through the alley to get to our school. We'd search the parking lot for some tar, scrape it off, and chew it! That was some pretty nasty tasting stuff. Luckily, we didn't do that often.

I know you're thinking that I must've been a more normal child than my brothers. But although I didn't smoke used cigarettes, chew sidewalk gum, or eat dirt, I did have my bad habits too. On a daily basis, I would stand up on my bed and stick my finger in the empty light socket attached to the wall. Heck, yes...it hurt! But now I could probably get struck by lightning and not blink an eye.

I also had a habit of swallowing nickels--no other currency--just nickels. It's not that I had a nickel in my mouth and accidentally swallowed it. Nope, I did it on purpose. A couple of days later, I would hear a *clink* and knew I had gotten rid of the last nickel I'd swallowed. I don't have an explanation why we did any of these weird things, but I guarantee you that your kids did some pretty weird stuff too--or if they are still young, they're still doing weird stuff. You just probably don't know about it. And no doubt you did too.

We three kids and Ricky formed a club. We voted on the name and decided on "The Dingbat Club". I imagine it was pretty close to being a perfect name for our motley crew. Our dues were ten cents a week. The main goal of "The Dingbat Club" was to beat the heck out of Marvin and Kenny, who lived a few houses down the alley from us. Marvin and Kenny were brothers, and if I remember correctly, their mother seemed to have a weird arrangment with someone the boys called "Uncle Cal".

When Marvin and Kenny) invaded our turf, that was reason enough to launch a full-scale war. Those two had no reason to be in the alley behind our house. They were just asking for it, and we gave it to them. After a sound whooping, they'd run home crying. If Uncle Cal was "visiting", he'd come out and yell at us. We didn't beat up Marvin and Kenny merely for being in the alley behind our house--we beat them up because they were creepy kids.

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Mom always said yes. I'd go get my PJs and head over to Ricky's. Ricky's mom and dad had a little bit of money and only one child at home. Ricky had toys lavished upon him. He had it all. I can remember a Hi-Ho Cherry-O game, a nice set of Lincoln Logs, a horrible stuffed chimp that I absolutely hated, and a very cool chemistry set. One day, I succumbed to temptation. On Ricky's chest of drawers was the coolest thing I had ever seen, purchased from a penny gumball machine. It was a silver plastic skull with red ruby eyes. That treasure would be mine before night's end.

Before I went home, I took the silver skull with the red ruby eyes and stuck it in my pocket. I didn't dream that Ricky would miss it--he had so many toys. But miss it he did, and it didn't take Ricky and Ginny very long to come over and ask for the skull. That was the last time I took something that didn't belong to me.

It's just a good thing that I haven't ran into another one of those silver skulls with red ruby eyes. I don't think I can take the temptation.

Some Things Just Aren't Meant to Be

When my husband and I were in our early 30s, we were asked by his brother if we'd like to go canoeing down the Blue River. Heck, why not? We never did anything like that, and we needed to do more things together. So we packed up our 11-year-old son and took off. We left Carrie at home with a sitter--she said she was a wimp and didn't want to go.

So after an hour or so we arrived in Milltown and got signed up for the canoe trip. We decided on the seven-mile run, since we've never done this before...and for sure we didn't want to go on the 14-mile trip. The "launchers" loaded up our canoes, we jumped in their van and off we went. My son got a partner, so it was just going to be Leroy and me in the canoe.

At the launching site, the "launchers" put the canoes in the water and got everyone into the water. The couple ahead of us made it in the canoe, but when it came time to actually "go", they both leaned sideways in the same direction. They and their cooler ended up in the river. That was funny enough, right?



When it came our turn, I climbed in the rear of the canoe, facing downriver. When Leroy climbed in, he sat down facing me--and facing upriver! I looked at him and said, "I'm not turning around!". The launchers cracked up!

He finally got turned around and we were off...and at least we were still dry. We spent the next seven miles zig-zagging back and forth. For some reason, I just naturally paddle harder than Leroy--or could be he was holding his paddle sideways in the water. He kept griping at me because we weren't catching up to the others in our group. The way I saw it was...he should paddle harder to match my paddling--or hold his paddle correctly in the water.

Halfway through the trip, we found a landing. All of us "parked" the canoes and had a little picnic. After lunch, we climbed back in and began the last half of our journey. At least Leroy faced downriver this time! At the very end of the canoe trip, the water got pretty deep, and then flowed over some sort of concrete dam. You either got out or ended up over the dam. My sister-in-law was the first one out of the canoe. For some reason, my brother-in-law John couldn't wait ten more seconds to light up a cigarette. As he lit up, his wife (not noticing John's lack of attention) bent down and pulled the canoe farther onto dry land.

That was just enough to throw John overboard, lit cigarette and all. Luckily, he managed to make it back to shore, but wasn't too happy about getting soaked. We drove back home and were sore for days. But all in all, we had a pretty good time.

A few years later, we were asked to go canoeing again. Little did we know, this would be our last canoe trip. We launched ok. Nobody got thrown into the water. But early on in the trip, we still had issues with me paddling too hard, or Leroy paddling too soft. He started griping at me again. That did it.

I threw down my paddle in the bottom of the boat and folded my arms. I told Leroy, "Fine...YOU paddle". And paddle he did. I sat in the back of the boat like some Navaho chief, my arms crossed and a fierce look on my face. About every mile, Leroy would ask me to pick up my paddle. Nope......PLEASE pick up the paddle! Nope.....

He paddled the entire trip, with me still doing my "Sitting Bull" impersonation. After that, we realized that this is just one of those things we should not do together. In fact, I've come up with a list of things we will not even TRY to do together.

Repelling
Mountain climbing
Tandem bicycling
Pairs ice skating
Ballroom dancing
Trapeze
Bungee jumping
Parachuting
Snowboarding
Synchronized swimming
Curling
Eyebrow waxing

And here's one activity we CAN do together.

Snow Day

Looks like I won't be going to work today. I hate that. It's not the same as when we were in school and school closed for the day due to snow. This costs me. I have to either take leave (which I'm trying to save for a trip to Italy), LWOP, or make it up on my RDO (regular day off) this Friday.

I really don't want to do any of those. I prefer to go to work, but if I can't--then I want a free snow day. Just give me the day off and pay me for it too! I certainly work hard enough that I've earned it. Give me the same feeling I had when I was a kid and in school. Call the local radio stations and have them announce that work is closed due to snow. Yay! No work! I promise I won't waste the day!

When daylight hits, I'll put on my snowsuit, hat, and boots. I don't have gloves so Mom will put socks on my hands. If the snow's a wet one, Mom will put breadsacks over our socked hands to try to keep them dry.

I'll go outside and throw snowballs. If the snow's real wet, I'll make a snow wall to hide behind to keep from getting smacked with the snowballs my brothers are throwing at me. When we tire of that, we'll make a snowman. Then we'll grab the sled and take a few rides down the hill. We might even grab a few bites of the white stuff, avoiding any yellow patches of snow.

Hey, the Waltman boys are making an igloo again! You'd swear Nanook from the North lives in their yard because their igloos are just like the real thing. "Mom, can we go to the Waltman's and play in their igloo???? Puh-leeeeaaaase???" We knew the answer would always be "no", but we still had to ask. Mom was scared it would collapse on us (they never collapse). Maybe one of these days she won't be paying attention to what we are asking and she'll say "yes".

When we get cold and our fingers turn numb, we'll track all that snow inside the house and begin throwing off breadsacks, sock mittens, boots, hats, and snowsuits. Mom will make us some hot cocoa and we'll sit by the oven and warm up....

....Reality check. I stayed home and switched a doctor's appointment so I could work this Friday to make up the nine hours I missed today. Nobody's giving me the day off without a cost to me. There are dishes and laundry to do, but that's not what I want to do. I'd like to go outside and take some photos, but that seems like a lot of trouble. And then I'd end up tracking snow all over my new carpeting. The kid inside me would love to go out and play in the snow, but the lazy adult in me says to stay inside and do some housework.

The sleet is starting back up again. They said we'd have two waves of this stuff. The first one's over and sounds like the second one is beginning. The weather guys say we will have nine inches of this stuff before the end of the day. Hope I can make it to work tomorrow. I've got lots to do before next month's software subrelease.

Sometimes being an adult sucks.

Valley Days

Lately my sister and I have been in blog contact with some fellow "Smith Valley-ians", and the chatter has conjured up a ton of memories from the days we lived in Smith Valley. One of the places they mentioned was "Effie's". Effie was a sweet little old lady that lived in the heart of Smith Valley in one of the older houses on Old Smith Valley Road. Out of her house, she ran "Effie's Variety Store". There were two rooms in the store; the first room had a counter full of candy bars. That's what attracted all of the kids from "The Valley". If you had a nickel in your hand, you had to go to Effie's to buy a candy bar.

I think this house is the one that used to be Effie's. If I'm wrong, hopefully a fellow Smith Valley-ian will let me know.

Very close to Effie's...maybe even next door...lived an older woman that had three thumbs. Her right thumb had a smaller, but perfect, thumb attached to it. She kept it perfectly manicured, just like her other two thumbs. Any time one of us kids had a reason to visit her, whether it was Halloween or selling something from the school, we made sure we hit her house so we could see her third thumb. It seems like she always bought whatever we were selling.

You would think she would've had the thing amputated years ago, but I supposed if I had something as cool as a third thumb, I'd have kept it too. I wonder if she had to pay more for a manicure since it involved 11 digits instead of 10. But back then, people weren't so concerned about themselves that they felt the need to spend $50 for a manicure job.

We had friends that lived in the heart of the valley--the Goodwins, the Branhams. Then there were the Watermans--not friends, but not enemies either. One of the Waterman boys was maybe a year or two older than me and always wore cool Dingo boots. When he got on Harry's school bus, he sauntered on and even had a cool way of sitting on the bus. It takes a cool guy to invent a cool way to sit on a school bus. He was a "Fonzie" kind of guy, for sure. The younger Waterman boy was quite a pistol.

Farther "up" the valley was the EUB church. Our neighbor "Ode" went to church there. I was good friends with Vicki, who's father was the minister there during high school. Nice people.


At the end of Old Smith Valley Road where it intersected with Morgantown Road, was the Beehive Restaurant. When we had enough money for a Chocola, we walked to the Beehive. Chocolas were great drinks on a hot summer day, but the best reason for getting a Chocola was to watch the owner, Ron, shake the drink by bouncing it on his biceps. Those were the days of glass bottles--not cans--and you had to shake the drink to mix the chocolate syrup. Ron's mom owned the restaurant as well. I can see her face, but can't quite remember her name. Maybe it'll come to me before I finish this story. Oh, wait. I'm pretty sure her name was Doris.


Coming back home from the Beehive, we usually stopped in at the Community Center to play on the playground equipment. With any luck, we never ran into the "Valley Gang" during one of our valley trips. I'm not sure what they called themselves--it was just a group of valley boys, and I think one of the Watermans was included. The Valley Gang liked to ride around on their bicycles and when they saw a car coming, they would block the road and not let the car through.

The gang tried this once with my mom. Little did they know Mom's old car was equipped with diesel horns that could rip the eardrums right out of your ear canals. So just north of the old iron bridge on Paddock Road, the gang blocked Mom's car. Heck, Mom had four little hoodlums herself. Did they think THAT was going to instill fear into her? Mom slowly brought the car right up to the boys. She got real close, and then blasted them with the diesel horn! Those boys were falling all over themselves trying to get the heck out of the way!

I don't think they messed with her any more.

There was a very interesting man that lived in the Smith Valley area. I never knew his name, but he was always dressed in a black suit and flat, wide-brimmed black hat. He looked like he just stepped out of the old west. We always called him "Bat Masterson". I never heard of him hurting anyone; I think he was a little strange, but harmless.

Then there was the creepy old coot that lived in the house at the corner of Old Smith Valley Road and our road, Paddock. Somehow we always knew we needed to stay away from him. I'm not sure what the rest of the valley called him, but we called him "Old Man Stayton".

One day, my brothers and I were playing hide and seek on a foggy day. Mike and I were hiding, and Mark was looking for us. I'm not sure where Mark was, but it seems like he was up in a tree. Out of the fog, Mike and I could see Old Man Stayton walking towards the bridge next to our land. We did not want to be in the area when Old Man Stayton got to the bridge, so we hid in a ditch. We had a vantage point where we could see the old man, but he couldn't see us.

Mark couldn't see much of anything from his vantage point. He knew Mike and I were hiding and he couldn't find us. He did not know Old Man Stayton was walking our way. Stayton walked to the middle of the bridge, stopped, and watched the creek for a few minutes. Then he turned towards his house and began walking back home. Like I said, Mark didn't know Old Man Stayton was there, but he decided to try to lure us out of our hiding spot. So very loudly Mark said, "Mon Dieu! Come back!" Old Man Stayton turned around and looked to see who was calling to him!

Not seeing anyone, he again turned and headed for home. Again, Mark yelled, "Mon Dieu! Come back!". Again, the old coot turned around. Mike and I were about to split a gut trying to keep from laughing out loud. Every time Stayton turned and started walking away, Mark would bellow out his semi-French "Mon Dieu! Come back!". The timing was impeccable. The old man finally gave up and eventually disappeared back into the fog.

Then there was the very eccentric Mary Sutton who lived up the road from us. When Mary could still drive, she was a frequent visitor to our place. Mary deserves an entire story, so I'll save her for a later time. And all I've got to say about that is...

"Mon Dieu! Come back!"

North Rural Street Memories

Dad and I were on the front porch of our duplex on North Rural Street in Indy. (Seems like no one else was home but us.) Dad didn't have kids merely to carry on his family name and DNA. He had kids to fetch his beer and cigarettes. That day, Dad told me to go down to the gas station and buy him some cigarettes. I was only five at the time, but back then a kid could walk around the block and not be worried about a drive-by or some pervert picking them up. And a kid could run down to the gas station and buy a package of cigarettes for her dad.

I got up from the porch steps, and Dad told me there was money on the kitchen table. As I walked into the house to pick up the money, he added, "...and get me a beer too". I picked up the money, stuck it in my pocket, and headed out the front door to go to the gas station. At the end of the block, I crossed 19th Street, making sure I looked both ways. Then I was in the gas station's parking lot.

I entered the station. Two attendants were at the counter. One of them leaned over to see what I wanted. I placed my money on the counter and said, "I want a beer and a package of Chesterfields!". The two attendants looked at each other and chuckled. One of them leaned over and said to me, "Honey, we don't sell beer here!". But he handed me the cigarettes and the change.

I walked back to the house and gave Dad his cigarettes. Then I told him that they didn't sell beer at the gas station. He gave me "the look" and said, "I didn't mean for you to BUY a beer. I wanted you to get me one out of the refrigerator!". Man, what a dopey kid I was. That was almost as embarrassing as the time I walked into the tavern where my grandpa bartended and sat down at the bar.

As you may have guessed, the top photo is the duplex we lived in on North Rural as it appears today. The next one is the gas station. I retrieved the photos from Google Maps, and am amazed that I was able to "virtually" walk up and down North Rural again. I was even more surprised to find that the old gas station is still there, and going a little farther north and across the street from the gas station, the old Garnett's market building still stands. It's evidently now a day care center.

The photo to the left is my mom walking home from Garnett's carrying her groceries. You can even see Garnett's in the photo. How cool is that? The cars give away how old this photo is.

Using Google Maps, I even traced my steps back to the school where I attended kindergarten. That was Public School 81. I think my teacher's name was Charity Showalter. We always walked 18th Street to the school. I remember not being able to tie my shoes for the longest time, and Miss Showalter said something about it one day. That made me determined to learn. In our classroom, we had a Fisher-Price "Old Woman that Lived in a Shoe" toy, complete with laces. I took that toy every day and played with it until I learned how to tie my shoes.

PS81 is also where I had my first crush. I was in love with David Qualkenbush, who had strawberry-blonde hair and freckles. I can still recall what he looked like--he was the cutest boy in the class. One day our teacher announced that we were going to have a field trip that day and we would choose partners. We all had to sit in a big circle on the floor to "choose up". Here's my chance, I thought. As soon as my name was called, I was going to pick David as my partner for the field trip. Little did I know until that day that EVERY girl in kindergarten had a crush on David Qualkenbush.
I didn't realize that, alphabetically, my name was way at the end of the pack--and that's how the names were being called. Sure enough, the first girl called ran over and picked David. My heart was broken. I remember hanging my head and tears going down my cheeks. Then at my deepest minute of despair, I saw a pair of shoes stop in front of me. I looked up and saw another little boy in my class. He asked ME to be his partner! Hey, maybe I was the cutest girl in the glass and every boy had a crush on ME.

I wiped my tears, stood up and took his hand. Who needed dumb ol' David Qualkenbush, anyway.

"Bird in the House, Ma"

Dad was sitting at the kitchen table as usual, puffing on his cigarette and sipping his beer. He did his deepest thinking at the kitchen table. You could see the wheels turning, and just know he was devising a get-rich-quick plan. But this particular night, his thinking was interrupted.

We were visiting for the weekend. My husband was in his usual place too--in the family room laying on the couch watching television. My kids were maybe three and six. They were with the rest of us in the family room. Dad came out of his thought balloon long enough to say, "Bird in the house, Ma". No excitement. Just a statement about the bird he saw flying around in the kitchen. I hopped up and ran into the kitchen, telling Dad, "Don't hurt it!".

Then the "bird" took a swoop at my head. I ducked just in time and yelled, "IT'S A BAT!!!!". Then pandemonium broke out. I panicked. The kids absorbed my fear and they started yelling and crying. I grabbed my babies and ran from room to room, trying to keep them away from the bat. The bat kept following us through the house. I was not thinking clearly, or I would've realized that all I had to do was put the kids in a bedroom and shut the door! All I could think about was one of us being bitten by a rabid bat.

At one point, I hit the kitchen on a return lap of panic and saw Dad with a flyswatter. He had the bat down to the floor, "whop whop whopping" it with a flyswatter. But soon the bat escaped and continued his flight back and forth through the house. My brave husband didn't move from his horizontal position the entire time. No show of fear, excitement, or anything. Just typical Leroy.

Thankfully, the bat finally flew out onto the enclosed back porch. Still in my unthinking state, I hurried to the sliding glass door between the kitchen and the back porch, slid the door shut, and locked it--like the bat had the ability to open the door and come back in! Thank God...now he was on the back porch where he couldn't get any of us. Then we heard a frenzied knocking from the other side of the sliding glass door. It was Mom! I had locked the bat and her on the porch! I didn't know if Mom had found a hiding spot out there, or what. But it turned out to be the worst spot in the house to take refuge once the bat was there and I locked her out.

We got Mom back inside and Dad went to the back porch, eventually getting the bat outside. Then it was time to take a deep breath and laugh. My son told us that he knew vampires weren't real, but that also encompassed bats--since bats turn into vampires and vampires turn into bats. Bats weren't real because vampires weren't real--until that night. When he saw the bat, he was forced into a swift paradigm shift. He now had to believe that bats were real, and therefore vampires were real too. And he thought that bat would turn into a blood-sucking vampire at any time.

...and I must've watched too many episodes of "Dark Shadows" when I was in high school.

Afternote...my sister remembers this a little differently than I do, and I must admit she's probably correct. She said her husband (now her ex) was there and I was climbing his back. I don't recall him being there, but I've been trying to forget that chucklehead for years. She also said I wasn't grabbing the kids to try to take them to safety, but only thinking of myself. I guess that's what hysteria does to a person!

The Garden of Eatin'

When we moved to Smith Valley in September of 1962, our five-acre plot had been planted entirely in stinking cabbage. We ate slaw. We ate boiled cabbage. We fried cabbage. We put cabbage in soup. We gave away cabbage. We were sick of cabbage.

Once you cut a head of cabbage from the garden, it leaves behind the root, plus whatever you didn't cut off when you harvested the cabbage. Those things take a long time to decompose. So we had the rotting cabbage smell around for quite a while. We don't know why the former occupants of our house planted five acres in cabbage, but they must've decided to sell when the cabbage started stinking up Smith Valley.

The next spring, we had the garden plowed and set to work planting tomatoes, potatoes, onions, radishes, and lots of sweet corn. I don't remember planting all five acres, but we did have a pretty good-sized garden---probably close to an acre.

I guess Dad thought he'd get some return on his investment on raising kids by buying us each a hoe, and enforcing his rule that we would hoe one row every day. We weren't happy about it, but we did it. I remember hoeing furiously just to get it over with. At times I would miss and hit the corn instead. So I'd pick up the cut corn stalk and stick it back in the ground real fast. Maybe Dad would think that there was some worm in the ground chomping his corn.

Every day I finished my chore before the boys. I'd straighten up, and loudly proclaim, "I'm the best hoer in Greenwood!". Nowadays, every fourth-grader knows what a "ho" is. To me, it was just a piece of metal attached to a long stick that caused blisters on my hands. Since I used a hoe and I was the fastest at it than anyone else I knew, I thought I had earned the right to call myself "the best hoer in Greenwood". (By the way, Smith Valley is sort of a "suburb" of Greenwood, so no... I hadn't forgotten where I lived--we had a Greenwood mailing address.)

Fast forward about seven years. I had taken a day off of school. I wasn't sick, but just didn't feel like going to school that day. It also happened to be my Dad's day off, so that wasn't good planning on my part. (What I wouldn't give for an entire day with my dad now!) Dad went to Farm Bureau and bought a couple hundred tomato plants. They came wrapped bare-rooted in wet newspaper strips. When he got home, he told me I was going to help him plant. Just like hoeing, I wanted to get this chore over with so I could do what I wanted with the rest of the day. So I dug holes and planted tomatoes in warp speed.

I was probably 30 feet ahead of Dad, who was planting tomatoes in his own row. Out of the blue, he started chuckling quietly. Then his laugh got louder and louder. I straightened up to look at him to see if I could figure out what was so funny. He finally said, "Helen, I have enough weeds in this garden without you planting them". Right in front of Dad in my row was a weed...in its own little spot, planted and watered. Evidently, there was a weed in the middle of my tomato plants, and I planted it right along with the tomatoes!

By the way, those hard reddish "rocks" you buy in the store are not tomatoes. If you have never eaten a Hoosier-grown tomato right out of the garden, you have no idea how good a real tomato tastes.