Memories of real men and depression cooking

Don’t worry that I can’t remember what I told you last week or where I put that train ticket… Actually, I am not a case of old‐timer’s disease. When I was sixteen, my mother already astutely noted and often announced to the world that I would “not remember where I put my head if it wasn’t attached to my shoulders.”     

I can remember that in the height of the great depression, my parents found room for me in their world. I carry their cautions and strategies for hard times with me. My mother always remarked about my dad’s wondrous ability to forage the woods and cook a tasty meal when the ice‐box (see archetypal fridge at the right) was empty. Yes, he was a “depression cook” who in demigod fashion could make something out of nothing. 

As a boy I was lucky to have “real men” in my life. My dad, who sometimes played Tarzan, and my two grandfathers did stuff with their hands and made things work better than “store bought,” and even showed me how. My uncle Johnny let me sit on his lap and drive his Model A on our way to a fishing hole. They still hang out together in my unconscious. Thanks, Guys!