Re: [gardeners] Oh, Lord; here we go with Barbeque! was Re:

Margaret Lauterbach (
Fri, 03 Jul 1998 14:47:28 -0600

At 03:03 PM 7/3/98 -0500, you wrote:
>Hi George and Catherine,
>    When I was a boy on my Grandfathers farm, a BBQ pit was exactly that.
A pit
>dug into the ground with big iron rods laid over it. Pecan wood fire. That
>good BBQ. They turned the meat with pitch forks. They also dug another pit
in the
>shade, lined it with a tarp and filled it with watermelons and canteloupes
>covered the top with a fold of the tarp and put sand over it. It sure made
>melons cold. Boy the memories.........
>    Allen
Fourth of July on my Grandfather's farm starred mountains of fried chicken
(I don't care what they say, Colonel Saunders never held a candle to
freshly killed free range chickens, plucked drawn and fried), potato salad,
green salads, beet salads, corn on the cob planted especially for that day,
fresh lemonade (from real lemons), and home-turned ice cream.  We were in
eastern Colorado, and watermelons were no where near ripe.  Granddad had a
long line of cottonwood trees on his place, the only trees for miles and
miles.  So neighbors came from near and far to picnic there on July 4.
That of course was preceded by his using a side mower to reduce weeds to
stubble, and my job was to pick up feed sacks that had blown into the
weeds.  He shouted at me and pointed, and I shook my head no.  He was
pretty steamed when he got off the tractor and walked over to the skunk
who'd lost two legs to the mower.  He decided against a confrontation until
he'd finished mowing, and by that time the skunk had dragged itself into
the Harison's yellow rosebush by the back door (en route to the outhouse).
I guess it healed enough to move on, and we certainly didn't cause it
aggravation, being so close to the house.  Relatives and kids our own ages
blew tin cans into the air with what we called cherry bombs (fat
firecracker with a fuse in the middle), and some blew up ant hills.  

My grandmother died in the spring of '44 (dirty damned needle used in blood
collection by the Red Cross), but he went ahead and hosted the July 4
gathering.  German POWs had been hoeing weeds from beets on the east side
of the farm, and he specifically asked the guards and drivers to take them
out the eastern road when they were finished.  They didn't.  They drove out
the western road, where the picnic was being held.  Enemy or no enemy,
Granddad and the neighbors weren't going to let the men go hungry.  They
shared their food with the POWs (and the drivers, who no doubt expected
that outcome anyway).  Granddad ate seven bowls of ice cream then
pronounced it too salty to my Dad's lifelong amusement.  

See what you started, Allen?  Margaret