A time to gather

As I am canning green beans, some thoughts surface in my mind.  I was reminded recently of something my mother said and most wives of farmers.  They said "It doesn't matter if harvest is early or late, the beans are always ready at harvest time".  I remember Mother driving the wheat truck for Daddy during harvest and then coming in and staying up late to can beans.  Our Grandma Horack (Millie) who stayed with us girls during harvest would have them picked and probably ready to can. 
Well, this year of 2012, wheat harvest began around this area in mid-May.  I checked the beans.  Sure enough, they were blooming.  By the time they were cutting our wheat, I was canning beans.  But I wasn't up half the night canning them. 
There were times that Mother canned beans even after harvest was over.  She would pick enough for a canner (7 quarts or 9 pints), wash, snap and pack them in jars.  Then she would get them in the pressure canner and get the pressure built up.  She would say "You watch the pressure gauge and if it gets over a certain number, you call me". Then she would go out to pick beans for the next canner.  Made me very nervous.  I watched that gauge like a hawk.  She always said you should but up 1 qt of whatever you were doing for each week of the year and some extra for company.  That was the canning rule.
 The year I really learned how to can beans, Aunt Doris and Uncle Harold were going to California to see Jean and John.  Aunt Doris said," Anita, the beans will be ready to can while we're gone.  You come out and can them".  Clinton was a baby.  But I went out.  He sat in his little seat.  I picked the beans and canned them for Aunt Doris.  Everything went fine.  Lots of memories of canning at Aunt Doris's. 
When you are used to home canned goods, nothing tastes the same.  We are very thankful for the produce and the knowledge to know how to preserve them.

The Tablecloth

Her things are always in my house; her coffee table and end table, dishes, pots, kitchen utensils. There is even a fleece jacket of hers that I wear almost every day during the winter, but I guess I’ve grown accustomed to having those things.

These are new. Tablecloths. I have a whole pile of them. Anita brought them up. Lace, linen, some Mother made, and many we bought her; one in particular stands out to me. She never used it much, said it didn’t fit the table for large groups, but I always loved it; the smoothness of the linen, the formality of it with just enough whimsy of fun in that trial of pale green shamrocks.

The things I was taught in the use of table clothes. Use the formal ones with the china, the bright printed ones with the Fiesta ware, for family dinners. There were others for Sunday after church dinners, parties with friends.

Much discussion always went into which one to use on which occasion. Did it hang right, was it the right color, and was it to short, too long? Dressing a table took forethought and preparation. It was a statement to your guests as they walked in your door.

“I’m ready for you!”
“I’m so glad you’re here!”
“I’ve planned something special just because you are coming.”

With the advent of Formica top tables, and polyurethane finishes, tables don’t need the protection of a table cloth or covering so much anymore. Placemats have also taken the place of table cloths. Shoot, people seldom drag out the china, and candle sticks anymore, if they entertain at all.

I didn’t realize that there was anything to doing it properly until I had Roger help me one time and he didn’t have a clue….he didn’t know the crease needs to run straight down the center of the table, the ends need to be even, to really do it correctly, you need a partner on the other end to get it centered just so. You don’t just “slap” a tablecloth on the table; you put something under it to protect the table. She went to far as taking old mattress pads and making table pads for her tables. She made special hangers to hang the cloths on in the closet after she had washed and ironed them so they would stay wrinkle free and ready to dress out the table at a moment’s notice.

As I went through the stack and looked at each one, I remembered them, and I remembered the times we used them, and I remembered her. I remember being taught to be particular about how you do things, pay attention to details--they matter, somethings go together, and somethings just don't, protect and take care of your things, they are worth it, be prepared for company, make people feel special, sometime it take more than two hands to do something right, and "yes, the crease being straight matters". As I look at that stack I miss my mother. I’m thankful for my Mother and all the simple life lessons that she taught me by simply teaching me the how’s and whys of using a table cloth.

By the handful......Grandma Wolf's homemade bread

I have written earlier on this blog about my Grandmother Wolf, the one that in her life time by feeding a family of 7 children and the hired hands that always helped with harvest, fed an entire army.

As she got older and she didn’t feel as good as she wanted and she would get an occasional vitamin B12 shot. That is when Dr’s did that sort of thing. It would help, and she would feel better…..for awhile.

Discussing it with Mother, and I’m sure the other Aunts and Uncles she decided she needed to start making her own bread again. “Bakers bread” just didn’t have what she needed as the quintessential source of the Vitamin B she obviously needed.

Grandma had made homemade bread all of my mother’s life, but she didn’t have a recipe. Something as common and everyday as bread was something you just……did. When asked about a recipe, Grandma would smile, and shrug her shoulders, she just made it. But when pressed, “HOW do you know Grandma?” She measured the flour and other dry ingredients by handfuls, liquids with a coffee cup, poured the salt into her hand………there was no written evidence of Grandma Wolfs homemade bread.

She began, once again, making her bread. Living by herself, she began giving that “extra loaf” away. Mother and I received a loaf every week. Warm and buttered it was…….beyond description……..and not even close to anything you could buy anywhere. This was back before the “artisan bread” craze and bread machines etc.

We relished it. Mother would freeze it, and get it out for company dinners and people would rave about the taste, the texture……..the memories it would conjure up for each and every one, of days when bread was the staff of life……….literally.

It was becoming obvious that a day of bread making, and “writing it down” was in someone’s future. I don’t remember exactly when it happened but I do know that Mother made a day when she went up to Grandma’s and as they made the bread, they took what was in the hand and the coffee cups, put it in measuring cups, writing it down and a recipe was born.

Mother then tried it, over and over; always saying “It isn’t as good as Mama’s”. I never saw or tasted any differences. It was good, always good. Full of texture, rich in flavor and melt in your mouth delicious.

My niece ask if I had the recipe the other day, and of all the things that SHOULD appear on this blog, this is one of them. Thank you DeLynne for reminding me of this, a staple of our family heritage.

Grandma Wolf’s Homemade Bread

1 pkg. of dry yeast
1/3 c. warm water
1 tsp. sugar
2 1/2 c. warm water
1/3 c. sugar
2 tsp. salt
1/3 stick margarine
5 c. white flour
1 c. whole wheat flour (for white bread use 6 c. white flour only)
1 c. wheat germ
Melted shorting for top

Mix water and sugar. Add yeast. Let stand 10 minutes. Add 2 ½ c. water, 1/3 c. sugar, salt and margarine. Mix well. Add white flour, wheat flour, and what germ. Mix and knead until springy, about 5 minutes. Brush top with shortening and let rise until double: work down and let rise again. Make into loaves, and let rise. Bake at 350 degrees for 1 hour. Makes 2 regular or 3 small loaves.

More on Memorial Day

Andrea as written about our Grandma Horack taking us to the cemetery and telling us family history. I didn't realize it at the time but she was also helping us not to be afraid of death. The people in the graves became very real to us as she told us their stories and their connection to her and us. Then seeing pictures of them with her or our Dad made them even more real. Other people have remarked that they won't go to funerals, they hate cemeteries, they're spooky, etc. We girls had a great time at the cemetery. We weren't disrespectful or anything but we had no qualms about walking across graves or being there with Grandma. Anytime spent with Grandma was great fun. What I remember most about Memorial Day was Grandma saving peonies for weeks ahead to take out. When she'd open her refrigerator door, her frig was full of peonies. Everybody now either buys artificial or orders from the florist or buys pots from somewhere. Since my peonies are always done blooming by Memorial Day, last year I decided to try what Grandma did. I thought it would be neat to put peonies on her grave as she always did on everyone elses. Two years ago I cut them just as they started to open and put them in vases of water in the frig downstairs. I noticed the florist kept them in vases in a cooler so thought that would be the best way. I took them out the day before going to the cemetery and they opened beautifully. This year I called the florist in town to see if she had an opinion on the best way to store them. She said the old timers said to wrap them in dry newspaper like a diaper and put them in the frig. So I did that this year. By the day before Memorial Day they were looking pretty droopy and sad. I didn't have very high hopes for their rejuvenation. I took them out the day before, put them in vases of water and by the next day, they had opened up beautifully. So I had peonies to put on Gma and Gpa Horack, A. Pauline and U. Wayne, and Mother and Daddy. I also took artificial flowers for my Grandma's parents, the aunt that raised her, her grandmother and her uncle. I trimmed the dead heads off the peonies that still live on GG Grandmother Katherine's grave and GG Uncle Jim's. I do this not because I have to but out of love and respect for my Grandma Horack and for the others who came before.
I noticed that one row over from Mother and Daddy there was a very old rose bush that was planted on a grave that hadn't been cared for for a very long time. I was blooming and trying it's best. So on Tuesday when I went to pick up the vases, I took the truck and loppers and trimmed all the dead out. No one had visited it or done anything for Memorial Day so I didn't figure anyone would care. I'm sure the bush feels much better, too.

Memorial Day Memories

Memorial Day has come and gone, and I want to preface this particular post by saying that if any of my sisters have anything to add here, please do.

Losing family members to untimely death at an early age seems to bring certain things into sharper focus for you even during childhood.

My Grandmother Horack lost her mother as a small child and she and her brother and Dad were “raised”, i.e.,taken care of, by her aunt Caroline, and her grandmother. She and my grandfather married and had three children, one, my aunt’s twin brother died at six months of age being born with a hole in his heart, which in those days wasn’t something they were skilled to do anything about. Having lost loved ones, throughout her entire life time, especially a child, made my Grandma someone who frequented the cemetery with regularity. She planted flowers on the graves, preferring peonies that would bloom around Memorial Day every year, ensuring that there would always be flowers on the graves, even after she was gone.

As a little girl I remember my Grandma Horack loading my cousin JoAnn and I up in her little 55 Chevy, with jars full of water, going by and picking up her friend Gertrude, and heading to the cemetery to “tend” the graves. We would deadhead the peonies that had bloomed that year giving them a drink, and clean up any weeds or debris that accumulated around the grave stones. While we did this Grandma talked about those people who were buried there, she told and retold the stories of how our ancestors came over on the boat from Europe. How Great-Great Grandmother Somer had decided to wean the baby before the trip thinking it would make things easier, only to have them run out of drinking water on the voyage, and her sharing her allotment with the infant. The struggles they experienced in carving out a life on the prairie. How our Great-Great Grandpa Somer, after coming to America, didn’t find it to his liking and left his wife and children behind returning to Bohemia, thus no grave beside our Great-Great Grandmother. How our Great Grandfather Horack was so poor that when he died they buried him in what they referred to as “potters field”, a section of the cemetery where there are no stones because poor people could afford none, and by the time someone could have afforded one, no one could remember just exactly where Grandpa Great was buried. As she would pull a weed or water a plant, or wash the bird droppings off the stones, these stories coupled with the pictures on the wall of her home, or in frames on her dresser made the people real.

Memorial Day wasn’t the only day of the year we went to the cemetery, oh no! In the summer when the weather was especially hot, and we hadn’t had enough rain, we would load up and take water out to the cemetery to water the flowers that she had planted earlier in the year, or in the years before. Tending the graves was a responsibility that she didn’t take lightly. Passing on the history of those people was something that brought her joy. She would tell stories of my dad, as we tended his grave, and talk about my grandpa. However, I noticed she spoke little of Paul, my aunt’s twin, that was too deep a wound to remember. But I always noticed that she would prepare a special bouquet for his grave on Memorial Day.
These were not sad times, quite the contrary, these were wonderful times. It brought Grandma and her friend great joy to reminisce about the days gone by when sorrows of losing loved ones were frequent enough that death was just a part of life that you wove into the everyday tapestry, adding the dark colors to offset the light ones.

After Grandma died, my mother and I continued to go to the cemetery. As a young girl I would ride my bike the mile outside of town to the cemetery, checking the graves, breaking off the dead heads of the peonies as grandma had taught me. I would pull a weed, and knock the bird droppings off the stones remembering the stories she had told over and over.

When Roger and I go to the Ozarks to visit Roger’s brother, we always stop by the cemetery where Roger’s parents are buried. Roger’s mother was cremated, and we planted a tree over her ashes, so we check on the tree to see if it is still alive....it is. When we were first married Roger thought I was kind of strange for wanting to go home for Memorial Day. He didn’t get it. He does now.

I think the tradition of tending to the dead, and their graves are something we learned from the Bible when the women returned to Jesus’ tomb to anoint His body. Care was given to the dead, a sign of respect, regard for their memory. The joy that comes in visiting the cemetery is the constant reminder that your loved ones aren’t really there. Grandma knew this, but she also knew that by taking us there, she was teaching us respect for our ancestors, and regard for their memory. She was instilling in us a sense of family that she knew would continue on down through the generations.
I learned a lot going to the cemetery with my Grandmother. I learned that remembering the dead can be something pleasant. It can bring you comfort. It reminds you of the ones that have gone before you and battled through. It teaches that death is a part of life, not the end, but a part. It brings you strength. It brings you comfort. It gives you roots and wings. I think Grandma knew this, and that is why she started us young. A foundation of family, living or departed, is never a bad thing.

Pioneer Moments

Saturday was Angel Food Ministries Day. Every month, we have people of every socio-economic level come in to buy Angel Food. Once and awhile one will share a story of how without it, they wouldn’t have enough to eat for the month. We have a similar story in our own family, only God provided the Angel. Every family has stories of hardship, and “pioneer moments”; ours is no different.
The following is an excerpt from the “written” family history of Adam and Anna Wolf whom Mother was named after; Anna Mae Wolf Horack Roseberry(whew).

Great Grandma Anna Wolf
Great Grandpa Adam and Great Grandma Anna Wolf were both born in Germany, but were brought to America as very young children by their parents who settled in Illinois. Adam and Anna would move west to Kansas where they would homestead south and east of Wichita around the South Haven area close to a tiny town called Portland. When Adam and Anna Wolf first moved to their homestead, they lived in a dugout. Later they built a small shanty being about 12X14, and still later, built a house, a barn, and a milk house.

The shanty, that they later used as a chicken house


Adam and Anna Wolf and thier children at the house they eventually built
They eventually obtained their land under the Homestead Act of 1862, which stipulated a head of household who was at least 21 years of age could obtain 160 acres of public land by “proving up.” (Wouldn’t the lawyers have a heyday with that terminology today!?!) The requirement for “proving up” meant the homesteader had to live on the land, build a home, make improvements, and farm for five years. It cost a total of $18 to homestead—a $10 filing fee and $2 for the land agent at the time the land was applied for and $6 at the time of “proving up.” In lieu of living on the land for five years, homesteaders were given the option of purchasing the land for $1.25 an acre after they had lived on it for six months. Adam Wolf and Anna purchased their land in this manner; it cost $200 to purchase the homestead.
Now, in order to secure enough money to pay for his land and buy the supplies to feed animals and his family, Adam returned to St. Louis Missouri, a distance of 400 miles from home, to work as a waiter in a hotel.
During this time Anna, and at least two of the children, remained on the homestead in Kansas. Adam would send her money and write her letters, which the post master had to read to her, as she could not read English. For some reason, she ran out of money, the corn and grain for the livestock ran out and she also ran out of food for her children and herself. There was nothing else to do but seek help from neighbors. Leaving the children at home by themselves, she walked over 3 miles to a neighbor and tried to explain to the man in her broken English, which was in actuality more German than English, her situation. His response to her was, “You are young and strong, and you will make it and be just fine. Just go on home.”, and gave her nothing.
She continued to walk an additional half mile to the farm of John Fredrickson and asked for his help. Mr. Fredrickson loaded corn, wheat and oats for the animals, and what food he could spare in the wagon and took Anna home.
Anna never forgot the kindness of Mr. Fredrickson at a time of desperately needing help and being destitute. When she related the story many years later to her then daughter-in-law, Grandma Amy Wolf, she told her that she owed her life to Amy’s UNCLE John Fredrickson for his help and kindness to her during this season of her life. Yes, our Grandma Amy Wolf’s uncle John was the one that extended the hand of compassion and kindness to the family that would later become his nieces’ own family.

Adam and Anna Wolf had 10 children, two of whom died in infancy, (Christian, and Elizabeth). They were married for 62 years. Adam died at 86 years of age and Anna died at 87 years of age.

During these days when families are struggling financially, and some are losing their homes and “our metal is being tested”, this is a story to bear in mind. This is our heritage, this is “us”.

Horack's Judging Rated High At State Contest

Since we are writing about our folks high school years, I thought this might be a good time to interject a little story about Daddy.
Apparently when Daddy was in High School, he was in the school Farming Association (FFA I’m thinking), and as part of the requirements they learned about livestock, how to care for, and judge it.
Following is a newspaper article that appeared in (what paper, Mother and I never knew). Apparently, Daddy was good at what he did in FFA, read on………………

Horacks meet Deets (cont. from Watch God Work)

Notice the signature, A.J Deets, that was Leonards Dad
1937 graduating class of South Haven High School. Mother, first row third from left, Leonard behind and to left, Katherine, third row, third from right.
When Anna Mae was in high school, there was a boy a grade ahead of her named Leonard Deets. His mom was Anna Mae's Sunday School Teacher. I think it was her Junior year in high school that a girl came to their school named Katherine Kirk. She moved up from Oklahoma to live with her brother and attend high school. He lived where our Uncle Henry and Aunt Betty later lived and still owns.
One day Ernest came home and told Anna Mae that he heard the place across the road west had sold to some people named Deets. Anna Mae replied that she wondered if they would be related to the Deets she had known in high school. She was thrilled to learn that it was Leonard and Katherine.
Katherine & Mother in St. Louis
Leonard & Daddy at New Salem Park
Ernest and Leonard first met when Leonard got a phone call to grab a bucket and meet Ernest at the end of his driveway because Rigg's barn was on fire. Leonard later put two and two together when he saw Ira's threshing machine in the machine shed at Horack's. He recognized it as the machine that had threshed his Dad's wheat years earlier.
Stories with the Deets would be a complete other Blog. They have been such a big part of our lives and still are. There is not a doubt in any of our minds that God put out families across the road from each other. For which, we are forever grateful.

New Years with Aunt Doris and Uncle Harold, Jean and Donna

Alane called yesterday and we started talking about New Years and our wonderful memories of spending it with Aunt Doris (mother’s oldest sister), and Uncle Harold Haines in Wichita. We talked of the similar things we remembered, and with Alane being older than me she was able to more clearly remember how we spent our time after those delicious meals. This will no doubt be the first of many blogs to include our Aunt Doris and Uncle Harold. Their influence in our lives was enormous, and as we write about them you will understand why. Jean and Donna, their two daughters are our “other” sisters. Times at their house were always “the best”, or as my kids say “good times, good, good times.”…………



I woke up New Years Day I started thinking about our New Years Days we spent with the Haines family. We would get up early enough to get to Wichita in time to watch the Rose parade on TV (in black and white no less). Of course we didn't know the difference and the announcers did a really good job of describing the floats. After the parade we always had a wonderful meal. This included black-eyed peas with ham. That is always a necessity for good luck.

We would play pinochle with Uncle Harold and Daddy and I think Mother and Aunt Doris were in the kitchen visiting & and I’m sure cleaning up the kitchen. When Daddy and Uncle Harold would decide to watch football or take a nap, all the girls went downstairs. We would sharpen our skills at ping-pong and then listen to records and dance. Jean and Donna had a great Connie Frances record collection and we would sing along. (I'm sure that is why we were in the basement) :)
Andrea remembers Aunt Doris' house (ALWAYS) smelling like ham and coffee. I remember the coffee. I always thought it smelled sooo good and I couldn't wait until I was old enough to drink coffee. What a disappointment!! Oh well, it is an acquired taste.
I'm not sure when or why the New Years tradition started, but I'm sure glad it did. It makes it easy to understand why Jean and Donna are just like our sisters. I think our Mothers were hoping for that and I am sure they were very happy with the outcome.
Jean, Anita, Donna, Alane, and Uncle Harold
Donna, Jean, Anita, Amy
We still have black-eyed peas on New Years Day. This year Steve found a recipe for Black-Eyed Pea chili. We tried it and it is really good.
You will find the recipe below if you would like to try it. We will be having it more than once a year. I double the sausage but the rest is the same. It makes it extra thick and meaty, the way Steve likes it.

Black-Eyed Pea Chili

1 pound bulk pork sausage
1 medium onion, chopped
1/2 cup chopped celery
4 (15 ounce) cans black-eyed peas, un-drained
1 (14 ounce) can diced unsalted tomatoes, un-drained
1 (10 ounce) can diced tomatoes with green chilies, un-drained
2 tablespoons chili powder

Heat a Dutch oven over medium-high heat. Add sausage; cook until
no longer pink, stirring constantly. Drain sausage on paper towels;
discard all but 1 tablespoon pan drippings. Add onion and celery to
pan; cook until onion is translucent, stirring constantly.

Add black-eyed peas, tomatoes, tomatoes with green chilies, and chili powder.
Stir in sausage. Bring to a boil, reduce heat and simmer, covered, 30 minutes.
Serves 10. This makes a large amount and I froze the leftovers in zip-lock bags.

Hope you like it.

(just an interjection at this point--Andrea isn't in the picture above, cuz ahem.....she wasn't here yet ;)

Happy Thanksgiving to All of You!

At last my sister Amy, who perhaps remembers more than most of us what "growing up Horack" meant, has blogged about an aspect of her growing up years, that makes her ever thankful (and me too) that things have changed if not a little kushy.


The films the other evening on the news with Sarah Palin at the turkey farm with the turkeys being killed behind her was more my reality. I'm sorry but I couldn't help but laugh at that video and how the news media was carrying on about the turkeys being killed. Do I dare write and tell about lopping the heads off of 40 or 50 chickens a day and dipping them into scalding water to pull off the feathers? Then holding them over an open flame of burning alcohol to singe off the pin feathers before cutting them open to take out all the insides (guts). I couldn't have been more than 11 or 12 years old and I was taking the hatchet and lopping the heads off chickens plus all the rest. Maybe I should tell it. If some kid was doing that now days, they would take the kid away from his/her parents and put them in foster care--which is worse! (You can laugh, it's o.k. I am.)
We just did what had to be done in order to have food on the table. If it meant raising chickens and then killing them, we did it. If it meant having a huge garden and freezing and canning until the middle of the night, we did it. We had one dress for "good" and 3 or 4 for school. We had one "good" pair of shoes and one pair for "everyday". And my kids wonder why I'm such a clothes horse. Anita & I shared a closet that was 4' x 4' at most and a regular size double bed. Our parents had grown up living pretty much the same way.
The last 50-some years in this country have been incredible and we have been very blessed. Actually, we and our children are spoiled rotten when it comes to the comforts of life. But some of us really appreciate all of it. It's a great time of year to remember and give thanks to a God that has made us all so comfortable and made us feel so loved. Happy Thanksgiving to you all.

Thanksgiving - My favorite Holiday

As I was coming home from the store today, it hit me that I have a freezer so full I can't get anything else in it. My cupboard shelves are full with no room for more canned goods and I just spent $154.00 for groceries. That is on top of my monthly shopping I already did at the first of the month. I called Andrea and asked her to ponder this situation and if she had an answer to please let me know. She laughed so hard I don't think the blood could get to her head for her to come up with an answer. I think we already know the answer. It is Thanksgiving. My idea of the very best holiday. Usually we have a beautiful fall day. (No over the river and through the woods in a horse drawn sleigh in Kansas. However I do remember one Thanksgiving that we got a bad snow storm and we were to go to one of the grandparents. Of course, Mother had done a lot of cooking to take along. We ended up riding to Finks east of us on a tractor pulled conveyance. Deets also went along. Everyone took the food they had prepared.) To me that is Thanksgiving. Lots of people, relatives or not, lots of food, fun, visiting, card games, leaves crunching on the ground. One year when Jennifer and Bryan Gibson were little, we buried them and their dad, Jim, in the pile of leaves in the garden. There's a picture of that somewhere. Thanksgiving fills my soul with joy. It is the perfect time to embrace family and friends with no pressure of giving the right gift. Just the gift of loving each other and sharing. (by Aunt Anita)

"The" pie crust recipe

My Grandma Wolf (my mother’s mother) was a little short German woman who raised a family of 7 children during the Great Depression. She and my grandfather Henry were “workers”, and she lived to be 96 years old. She was a quiet thoughtful woman who loved her family and gave us a work ethic that has not been diluted in the current generations. During those years when harvest time would roll around, Grandpa always hired extra men to help in the fields to bring in the harvest. Grandma, of course, with help from her girls, was expected to cook and feed the “crew”, along with the 9 regular members of the family. It was nothing for Grandma Wolf to make 3 or 4 pies a day and several loaves of bread too. This was all done on a wood stove that Grandma knew was the correct temperature by simply putting her hand in the oven to check it. As my mother said “I’m sure that your Grandma Wolf, in her lifetime, came pretty close to feeding an entire army.”
When Roger and I were dating, he had never met anyone who made pie crusts ahead and froze them; my mother did. We are pie people. My sister Anita considers pie to be its own separate food group; I am inclined to agree with her. My mother would make up pie crust dough, and freeze actual pies, or just make crust and put it in the pans and freeze it. That way it wasn’t unusual for my mom to have 4 or 5 frozen pie crusts at the ready in the freezer at any given time. We girls do this too, so the following won’t surprise anyone in my family: I have found a recipe that makes 20 pie crusts at one time. I made it yesterday and my mother and Grandma would have LOVED this! I warn you though, this is not a recipe for a novice pie maker, you are quite literally up to your elbows in pie dough, which could prove to be somewhat overwhelming, but it is great crust (Rog will attest). I can’t take credit for this, as I found it on one of the many blogs I follow.

20 Pie Crusts For the Freezer

3 lb can Crisco vegetable shortening (I use Butter-Flavored Crisco)
5 lb all-purpose flour
3 cups ice water
2 Tbsp. salt

Mix in a very large bowl or pan
Blend flour, salt, and Crisco together (by hand)
Add ice water and mix all together just until blended.
Form into patties weighing approx. 7.6 oz. each (if you have a scale and want to get 20 out of the recipe).
Makes about 18 to 20.

Flash freeze on wax-papered cookie sheets, then pop into Ziploc bags.
When you want to make a pie crust, defrost desired number of crust "patties" on the counter 30 minutes or so ahead of time, or in the fridge overnight.
Roll between 2 sheets of waxed paper or put a thin sock with the toe cut out over your rolling pin and roll out on a thin towel with a little flour to prevent sticking.
These will keep for about 1 year in the freezer.


By the way, my new apron featured on an earlier post, now has flour on the belly :) !

The correct story of the meatloaf !!!!!

Now I know how family history gets screwed up. How do you know what to believe. It's a good thing the person who knows the truth about this crucial matter is still alive. I mean what could be more important in our lineage than the truth of the meatloaf recipe. Andrea said Mother told her that she "thought" that it was Grandma's recipe and she got it from the Capper's Weekly. Well, I "know" where the recipe came from and I will share this all important truth with you. TA DA!!
We were still living on the farm but we did have our first TV. During the noon news, in those days, they would have a short cooking portion and a lady would share a recipe and demonstrate making it. I was home by myself (or I wouldn't have been watching TV) and a lady made this particular meatloaf. I wrote down the recipe and asked Mother if I could make it. She said yes and it has been THE meatloaf recipe ever since. Uncle Cliff was also not a fan of meatloaf but admits that he likes this one. It along with a baked potato and home canned green beans is one of my "comfort meals". I also like it sliced, heated and used in a sandwich with mustard. I always make extra sauce and hold some back to serve with the meatloaf. I am hoping that between us 4 girls, we can get the family story written correctly.

The Way it all began - watch God at work

On August 4, 1919, Henry and Amy Wolf had their 4th child. A girl they named Anna Mae. This was not really a convenient time as harvest was in full swing. Put 9 months earlier, I'm sure this was not given a thought. Anyway, Ira Horack was at the Wolf's threshing their wheat. Henry remarked to him that he had a new little girl that day. Ira said how nice that was and that he had a son that was 2 years old and maybe they should get them together some day. Skip ahead some years. Anna Mae's sister Harriet and her husband Delbert were living in the Miller house at what is now the NW corner of 50th and Webb. (Such fancy names now when back then it was the Miller house on the corner across from Finks west.) Henry, Jr, Anna Mae's younger brother "happened to know Ernest" and came to Harriets to get Anna Mae to introduce her to Ernest. The girls had been horseback riding and didn't particularly smell or look too good. But they relented. When they showed up at Horack's (which was on the SE corner of the intersection), they got Ernest up from a nap. It was Sunday afternoon, for Pete's sake. But they met and from their it began.(To be continued.)

An Introduction

By way of introduction of the Horack girls, pictured below in 1960, Anita has written her remembrances of growing up "Horack" which is where we all learned to "nest".

Amy, Alane, Daddy(Ernest), Anita, Mother(Anna Mae), Andrea

A long time ago, in the midst of the Great Plains, where the buffalo roam, where the deer and the antelope play, (I don’t know about antelope but the deer sure do play hiding in the ditches, and jumping out to play chicken with cars on the road.) Oh, dear. I digress. That’s another story.

Anyway, in the midst of these Great Plains, in a very small house, lived 4 girls with their hard working parents. The fact that they were sisters may or may not be important. Because, you see, they are all very different, (Hence the age-old question: “Which has more influence, the environment or genetics?”) These girls were very blessed to be able to live in the country with friendly neighbors, a country school and lots of chores to do.
The oldest was the only one to be promoted to the chore of helping with the milking. Jobs were given out based on experience, height, strength, age or who happened to be close by when something needed to be done. Of course, the oldest learned how to do the most since she had been around the longest. From these chores, they all learned valuable life skills, such as:

Management skills: Herding cows in from the pasture, managing younger siblings
Janitorial skills: Cleaning house, Cleaning the chicken house, hauling cow manure from the milk barn.
Group skills: Herding cows, herding sheep, moving the play house from site to site, playing duets with sisters on the piano, hauling wood with sisters to the house before some imagined disaster struck, helping Mother prepare meals.
Bookkeeping skills: 4-H record books for sewing, cooking, having a HUGE garden
Technical skills: Running a sweeper, running a mixer,(while standing on a chair, some of us were pretty short), using a sewing machine, using an electric milking machine (the oldest only), not too much technology then.
Culinary skills: Cooking meals, baking, canning all the produce from the HUGE garden.
Parental skills: Pretending the youngest sister was the doll and pushing her around in the doll buggy (OH YES THEY DID!!) dressing the dolls and farm cats in doll clothes.


All the sisters learned to play the piano, some with more skill and patience than others. All the sisters learned to sew, some with more skill and patience than others. All the sisters learned to cook,….Good Grief! How could they learn to be individuals if they all did the same things? Oh yea, the level of skill and patience must have been the individual part.
These 4 sisters were fortunate to have two parents who loved music and actually had rhythm (which is why there are 4 of us:) the mother was a good dancer but the father only danced with his fingers on the accordion. Many evenings were spent with the father playing the accordion and everyone singing. The oldest would play the piano along with him. Some of the favorite songs were “Beautiful Brown Eyes”, “Beer Barrel Polka”, “A Simple Melody”, and “Scatterbrain”. What would a psychologist say about that particular collection of favorites?
These 4 privileged (disillusioned?) girls often did things in the course of play that they did not know was actually work. For instance, they would ask their mom for permission to clean out the brooder house (where the little chicks were placed to get them started) so they could use it as a play house. Of course permission was given and much fervor went into the job. This mostly entailed sweeping out the straw, chicken poop and feathers left after moving the young chickens into the main chicken house. This is where they learned about “white things in the air”..(Sister Anita’s obsession)
This was also experienced from cleaning the barn loft (for a play house, of course.)
Some chores were just plain work. There was gathering the eggs from 2000 laying hens. (Try that while trying to hold your breath trying NOT to breath the white things in the air!) At the same time they had to be careful there wasn’t an old hen on the nest to peck their hand or a snake in the nest; this we called multi-tasking.
The sheep they had to feed were not your playful, skipping lambs that Mary had. Neither was their fleece white as snow. They knew what was in the feed buckets and they wanted it NOW! This is where problem-solving came in. The question of how to get from the fence, (which they had to step over), to the feed troughs without getting knocked down, and then dump the feed in the troughs which were full of hungry sheep’s heads. Getting to the troughs was to simply push and shove their way through. These sheep did not meekly and quietly follow the shepherd! But, ta-da! problem solved! Simply stand in the troughs and dump the feed while backing up. Then the sheep were so busy eating, the girls were able to get out of the pen unmolested. This skill the 4 girls were able to apply numerous times when having large groups of people to feed in their homes. However, they were able to be more gracious and not walk backwards down the middle of the table while serving the food.
Those 4 girls, who all had the same initials of A.M.H., grew up healthy and happy in the Great Plains of Kansas. Two still reside there. One is on the farm where they grew up. Another lives in Michigan and another lives in Washington. They would not trade their lives in the coutry or the lessons learned for anything. As for the answer to the age old question: Environment or genetics?, who knows?