So that's where our weather went...

  HA!!

 

 

 From my Texas friends at YMATA <<< 

  Here's a snippet of today's post:

 

THE HANDMADE WHISTLE

I was 8 years old. Old enough to be given my first pocket knife. A big moment in a young boy's life, given by his grandfather. 

I have written of my grandparents here early on when I started “the after” blog posting. They played an important part in my youth. Also time on their ranch and our weekend visits.

Grandpa fled Czarist Russia. Left as an “old” boy, a young man. My grandmother Rose, too. They both left their country very young, on their own, to make a life in this country. They came in through the front door. So did my father from Norway.

Grandpa was a designer/builder of all things. I spent many an hour in his make-shift foundry and metal-working shed where all things farm-related were heated, hammered into shape and attached into working machinery. Many hours in his company doing “manly” work. Milking cows, riding on the fender of his Ford tractor, tending the land and assorted barn chores.

Grandfather made everything. Metal-working, wood-working, even basket-weaving and shoes for his children. Everything. A hundred percent self- sufficient.

Cedar logs would break free from log rafts and floated up the river next to their home. Grandpa would snag one of these giant logs. A dog was set into the end of the log and it was dragged onto the shore at high tide. Grandpa now owned the log.

He would cut them into blocks from which he would hand-split cedar shakes for his barn.

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