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This, in response to those dang electronics ads:
http://collectibles.search.ebay.com/Ray-Bradbury_collectibles_WOQQfkrZ1QQfromZR8QQsac atZ1

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[This message has been edited by Nard Kordell (edited 01-18-2006).]

Shhh!

I think I hear

crickets!

Nope, that
is the creaking sound of this website falling off its hinges.

BAM! BAM! BAM!

...and that's the sound of me frantically nailing it back up.

See? Good as new.

Sure, always have a good role of duct tape available when things get "iffy!"

Besides, Grandfather Spaulding would not be pleased if we got rid of the old push mower. Spring is inching closer, and we all know what that means.
http://search.yahoo.com/search?ei=utf-8&fr=slv1-wave&p=dandelion+wine+recipe

Thanksh! The lasht batch was (*hic*) shwell!

Sundance: Watch your step!
"Don't worry about drowning. The fall will probably kill ya!"

When I was a kid, we had an old barn. In the far back corner was a heavy wooden door that fit snuggly into the old concrete floor. Being kids, we occasionallywould pry it up to look down into the damp "root cellar" that it sealed over. The depth reach down about eight feet and then spanned out left and right maybe 6-7' in each direction. Enough room was available to store "harvested crops" that could survive the cold temps of NNY! Or so the PC story goes!

In essence, it still had to us kids from the neighborhood a bit of the feel of Poe, the Keystone Cops, and the infamous speak easy mystique about it. A few old wooden barrels still rested in the barely lighted corners.

The barn, having been built at the turn of the 20th Cent. would have seen plenty of "storing" during the 20-30's! Not that the folks in the old neighborhood were a dishonest lot, mind you. Far from it!

Doors frequently remained unlocked, and bikes, dogs, and kids were unchained 24 hrs. a day. Disgreements lasted as long as the fisticuff necessary to settle the matter. But, grandparents and parents were from the old school, and medicinal remedies were as important as a hard day's work. Hand shakes and verbal contracts were the way of the time.

So, folktales could be heard around festive holiday tables of how those old root cellars came in handy in so many ways.
"I'm a fireater. Whoosh!"

We never actually ventured down into that old underground holding area, though. Too dubious and spidery, and big brothers and local pranksters were not always to be trusted on hot summer days!

"In pace requiescat!" Indeed!

Butch,
Ever find out what was in the barrels?
My grandparents' house in Washington had a still that was discovered in the '50s, I think, under the living room floor.

The old oak barrels had long been emptied. In discussions with my dad, he indicated the laws then allowed approximately 50 gals. a year for personal use. Anything after that would have been considered a quantity produced for sale, which, of course, no one along the old ethnic streets would have ever considered. (Right!)

In some of the more risky nearby city blocks, however, stories were told of the sweet smell of mash wafting through the cool early morning air. The brew from which the aroma emanated was typically long gone by the time the sun rose. But the air still hinted of something more than apples, tomatoes, lilacs, or onions. (Every square inch available in my end of town was a garden even as I was growing up.)

Local law enforcers were curiously just a little late to knock on a door or open a barn door for their official follow-up on a reported possible infraction of the homebrew codes.

Wine and beer passed along the country roads in old trucks and cars. The nearby Canadian border was difficult to patrol. The river is many hundreds of miles long and at that time prohibition was an American restriction, not Canadian. Thus, exchanges at times became quite lucrative and quite a bit more dangerous than the few barn or home cellars we are talking about here. Whiskey was the item of demand in areas that had big money.

In DW, didn't Mr. Black go across the street and spend his few earned dollars from the penny arcade on a daily "philter?"

I'll have to recount sometime the forays I occasionally had with my Italian speaking grandfather into his wine cellar. I was maybe 10-12 and he a bristly 75 or so.
"Whoosh" is exactly right!

Sure it was crickets and not cicadas?