Pickles and Ivotehappy

Sour Mustard Pickles to be exact. Really, no kidding. Pickles make me happy. Not so much eating them, although I do enjoy the extreme combination of the vinegar and mustard pickles, but making them and giving them to friends and family makes me very happy, and it is definitely one of the ways I vote happy in my life.

      So what’s the big deal, right? I make pickles. So what. I give most of them away, so giving makes me happy? Again you might say, big deal.

Yes, it is a big deal to me and, well, here’s why it’s so important and why it‘s how ivotehappy :

      Its late summer 1969.  I’m riding in my grandfathers white Ford Fairlane 500 Convertible with red interior. The top was down and I remember sitting in the front seat (Seatbelt? what seatbelt?), looking over at my grandfather as he effortlessly piloted the car through the hills and turns of rural Maine. I can tell you, after all these years, that he was wearing his glasses and over them plastic safety goggles. The clear kind that are molded to fit your face and are held in place with an elastic strap.  Why was he wearing them? Well, I’m not sure, but it may very well have had something to do with the fact that the speedometer usually hovered around 80, and occasionally made an attempt to disappear past the 120 mph printed on the dash and exit under the dash completely. This was more fun than any carnival ride I had ever seen at the county fair!  Up the hills and around the corners with a slight squeal of the tires and sometimes a jerky sideways motion we went.  Immediately after one of those quick jerky motions from the back, I looked over as he corrected our path and I could see he was humming. I couldn’t hear him, of course, over the wind and the noise of the powerful V-8 engine, but I had been around him all of my whole 8 years on this earth and believe me I could tell at a glance he was humming. He ALWAYS held his chin with his hand when he hummed, if he had a hand free, and apparently, driving near sideways at 85 mph required only one hand. The straight-aways were wicked fun, as he accelerated once again, and I felt the car lift as it shifted into high gear.  Events like this, when I experienced the childhood joy of total fun and innocence with my grandfather, with no concept of danger, bring a smile to my face to this day. Every day. All too soon we slowed down and turned into a driveway. We actually had business, serious business on that day and many days like it. My Grandfather had placed some wicker baskets in the trunk and we were visiting his friends to get jars to put in the baskets.  Coffee jars, spaghetti jars all kinds of jars.  Each friend was always happy to see “Mickey” and he proudly introduced me to each one. After a short visit, we traveled along as before to the next stop.  Unless the friend was a woman and single, then we stayed a little longer, although I couldn’t figure out why he paid them so much attention…until years later. As to the driving, he once remarked that he had been around before cars, telephones, radio, and electricity and he’d drive any damn way he pleased.

      And so it went for that afternoon, and later we visited friends that had gardens, and he filled those same bushel baskets with, say it with me, little cucumbers. 

      Some time later I went to see him, as I did nearly every day, as we lived next door. He was humming in his kitchen. The house reeked of vinegar. He had jars all over his table, and a big bucket in the sink that he was mixing ingredients with an old manual egg beater. He had cucumbers stacked on every counter. I watched, as quietly as an 8 year old can, as he painstakingly placed the cucumbers he had washed into the jars. He would nearly fill each jar and then search until he found a cucumber that was “just the right size” to fill the remaining space. I remember thinking something to the effect of “What does it matter? Just fill ‘em up and be done with it”.  Then he started filling the jars with the vinegary concoction ever so carefully so as not to waste any. Again I thought “so what if you spill some, the whole house stinks already.” Gramp filled all the jars, with the cucumbers and “juice”.  He then gave me the honor of turning all 79 jars of pickles (NOW they can be called pickles) every other day for a month. I know there were 79 jars that year, not because I counted them as I turned them, but because I have read the newspaper article published that fall about his great accomplishment, complete with his picture many times over the last 40 years.  I said rural Maine, didn’t I?  Small town, big news. He was proud!

      After the required month wait, he made the same trips as before, only this time the top was up as autumn was coming. He made the same visits and left each friend with at least one jar of his pickles, and a promise to return to start the cycle over in the spring. He planned on living and doing what made him happy for some time to come!

      My grandfather was retired. He had had a stroke and I think two heart attacks at the time of this story. Yet he was full of life. He voted happy in some way nearly every day until he died at the age of 87. 

      And so, I have made pickles as often as I can for the last few years, starting about the same time this IVOTEHAPPY did. I get jars from friends and complete the same cycle of jars for pickles my grandfather did, although usually at a slightly slower speed. My house stinks of vinegar. I don’t care. My friends, who knew my grandfather and ate his pickles, are overjoyed to have them once again, as it’s been thirty years. We share memories as we make more. My newer friends enjoy them just as much, and appreciate knowing the story.

      I learned a lot from grandfather, and although he’s been gone 33 years I still learn from him. As I made my first batches of his pickles, I quickly learned that if I find the right sized cucumbers for each jar and take up as much space as I can, and if I am careful not to spill much of the liquid; 
 
Three things happen:

First I use less of the liquid in each jar so I can make more pickles and this is good because a couple of ingredients are expensive,

And secondly,

If I don’t spill the liquid it won’t get into the house and the smell of vinegar will dissipate sooner……,

And finally,

I often find myself humming while I make his pickles as I Vote Happy just as he did.

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