bottlebugs
Well-Known Member
Sealer jars were found in every basement when I was a kid, They were a bygone product of the modern world of canned food. Pickles and relish are still my favourite but are found in Bick's jars not Ball jars.
We had new neighbours once, whose family was originally from the south. Way down south! I don't mean Toronto either....Mississippi to be exact. There were boys my age who were dying to play but found the prairies as dull as stale bread.
"Let's catch bees!' They suggested.
We all rushed back home to get jars to catch them in. Mom gave me an empty pickle jar. She knocked holes in the lid with an old screw driver sitting on the counter. There were small engine parts there too. She had tucked them into Tupperware containers to stop them from colonizing the kitchen.
My new friends were in the process of asking their Mom when I arrived with my pickle jar. She mulled over the situation but her jars were still full of food. She told them to grab some jars from Grampa's old steamer trunk in the basement. Grampa was long gone. He could spare a few. I followed fast on their heels. Down the stairs we went.
There were indeed old jars in the trunk, and much much more! There were old grey uniforms and swords and muskets! What a riot we had! We swung pretend slashes at each other and grabbed jars full of what they called "counterfeit" bank notes and threw them into the air in mock surrender. Confederate was the proper pronunciation. I was to learn that way too many years later.
Their jars had pressed glass images of Beehives and some guy named Mason with patent dates from the 1850s. They were oddly tinted blue and green, unlike my clear pickle jar. But mine had a lid! They had to improvise with tinfoil and elastic bands. Grampa would have approved.
We trekked deep into Dakota Territory. There were no bees, or trees or flowers in our neighbourhood. Dull as stale bread, right?
One by one we each caught a big bumble bee and proudly showed it off. An elderly man stepped out of the brush and shook his head. He wore a buckskin jacket and feathers were sticking out of his tattered stetson. He spoke with authority as he made us gather around him in a circle. He explained the importance of bees and suggested that we free our captives before they died in the prairie heat. We agreed.
My new friends tossed their jars against a rock smashing them to bits. I was concerned about my bee so I carefully opened my jar and shook it onto the palm of my hand. It slowly lifted up into the air and disappeared into a grove of Manitoba maples. The old man winked at me and I smiled back at him.
We had new neighbours once, whose family was originally from the south. Way down south! I don't mean Toronto either....Mississippi to be exact. There were boys my age who were dying to play but found the prairies as dull as stale bread.
"Let's catch bees!' They suggested.
We all rushed back home to get jars to catch them in. Mom gave me an empty pickle jar. She knocked holes in the lid with an old screw driver sitting on the counter. There were small engine parts there too. She had tucked them into Tupperware containers to stop them from colonizing the kitchen.
My new friends were in the process of asking their Mom when I arrived with my pickle jar. She mulled over the situation but her jars were still full of food. She told them to grab some jars from Grampa's old steamer trunk in the basement. Grampa was long gone. He could spare a few. I followed fast on their heels. Down the stairs we went.
There were indeed old jars in the trunk, and much much more! There were old grey uniforms and swords and muskets! What a riot we had! We swung pretend slashes at each other and grabbed jars full of what they called "counterfeit" bank notes and threw them into the air in mock surrender. Confederate was the proper pronunciation. I was to learn that way too many years later.
Their jars had pressed glass images of Beehives and some guy named Mason with patent dates from the 1850s. They were oddly tinted blue and green, unlike my clear pickle jar. But mine had a lid! They had to improvise with tinfoil and elastic bands. Grampa would have approved.
We trekked deep into Dakota Territory. There were no bees, or trees or flowers in our neighbourhood. Dull as stale bread, right?
One by one we each caught a big bumble bee and proudly showed it off. An elderly man stepped out of the brush and shook his head. He wore a buckskin jacket and feathers were sticking out of his tattered stetson. He spoke with authority as he made us gather around him in a circle. He explained the importance of bees and suggested that we free our captives before they died in the prairie heat. We agreed.
My new friends tossed their jars against a rock smashing them to bits. I was concerned about my bee so I carefully opened my jar and shook it onto the palm of my hand. It slowly lifted up into the air and disappeared into a grove of Manitoba maples. The old man winked at me and I smiled back at him.
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