"Open That Jar of Pickles"?

Open That Jar of Pickles


“Let me open that jar of pickles for you”.

Twirling around , hopping, in the kitchen must have been part of a magical dance to somehow help herself loosen the lid atop the jar of Mt. Olive dill pickles.

“I want to do it myself”.

With this kind of determination, always called for wrinkled eyebrows in sort of a “pout” and the heightened concentration by sticking her tongue out. With this, she had not changed since she was old enough to walk.

“Daddy, Daddy, come look. I can do it”.

At first I felt a bit of a shock. A parent can instantly see signs of pain in the face of their children. I had been occupied all morning building a storage shed in the back yard to put extra boxes that we had yet to unpack. Dust and dirt covered her little five year old face. Each cheek sported horizontal “clean” streaks resembling cartoon war paint. It was easy to recognize the knuckle smears where the backs of her hands had wiped the tears, and the dirt, from her eyes and cheeks over and over again.

“I can do it. I can ride my bicycle”.

By accident, we had moved a small 12” child’s bike that had belonged to a friend, when we moved to South Carolina from Texas. I remembered distinctively that it was not equipped with training wheels.

“Come watch me. I can ride it”.

Little, short, running strides could barely keep up with my normal walking gait. The bicycle had about as many scratches as she did. The knees of her blue jeans were almost worn throw and her tennis shoes were on their last leg. Snatching the frame upright on to its two wheels, she stood on her left tip-toes in order to throw her right leg over the seat.

“Don’t bite your tongue off”.

That was the only instruction that I had to offer. She was forever sticking her tongue out when she was wrestling with some type of obstacle, whether animate or mental. I stepped back to watch. Pushing off, she started down the driveway. Wiggle, wiggle, and then with speed, the travel line began to straighten. I positioned myself at the end of the driveway so I could stop her before she rode into the main street. I was a slight incline going toward the street. There had been no need. Applying the kick back brake, the rear tire locked up and place another signature along with the other black I can do it skid streaks.

Snap, a grunt, and a twist and the aroma of pickles filled the kitchen. The cartoon war streaks were not there but I still got to see that smile and determination.

“I told you I could do it”.

“Yep, you did, along with forty eleven dozen thing along the way”

We finished with our song…

(All my girls and grandkids had their own little song that we sing. This one was a pee-wee cheerleader so we developed hers into sort of a “yell”. This will stay up only a short time because,, well, that is just the way I am,,) I start, she picks up, I cut in, she pick back up ‘til after the clap and then sometimes finish in unison.

With a cadence:

Cortney Wortney, she’s my honey,

She is cuter than the Easter Bunny.

And, Like Brear Rabbit, who love the thicket,,

I lubbbbb my Cortney, (clap and stomp) Now that’s The Ticket.


Now, you have heard about the "whole bunch"  and a few have asked about pic.  This will be up for a short time only, but now you know who my baby girls are and Yep, The Boss.. lol