Poolside Summer Beverage

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August 27, 2025

This column began with a good cup of decaf, (it is late in the evening) and a day of total rest. I can’t say I accomplished a great deal over my weekend, but restful, it has been.

I’ll start by saying it has been a remarkable week. I had the privilege of being a part of the entourage to accompany my son’s fiancée, as she chose her wedding dress. It was an honor, and one that I will always remember. Seeing the smile on her face when she put on what became ‘the dress’, was a memory maker, in the journey towards marriage.

Ervin and I have been lucky to have a son that has blessed out lives to the utmost. Now he is adding to his life with a wonderful mate, and a daughter we have loved since he first brought her home. Indeed, a week to cherish.

During the heat of summer it is rather fun to bring a refreshing beverage to a gathering,

especially when the ingredients are simple and easy to prepare. I got a chuckle at myself when I read the note in my own cookbook saying this recipe came from one of my Baptist friends! Perhaps it’s a good thing that I have no idea who that friend was at the time.

I’m sure you could switch out the Sprite soda for another white sparkling drink. For the pineapple coconut rum I would probably reach for the Rum Chata brand. If you make a full batch of this beverage you will have enough for 13, 8-ounce cups. The one thing you will want to remember is if the soda pop is put in from the very beginning you won’t be able to save the leftovers. So; I’m thinking I’ll type out the full recipe for you and then only a quarter of the recipe. Remember the pineapple juice can be purchased in small cans too. With many warm days left ahead I’m sure you’ll have no problem using

up the remaining dry lemonade mix.

How do we make this into a non alcoholic beverage? Probably implement some coconut milk and rum extract. You can also use a product called Coco Vana which would solve the alcohol free issue. Another nice entertaining tip would be to freeze some of the first 3 ingredients: pineapple juice, lemonade and water. This is like freezing ice tea cubes, it keeps the beverage from diluting.

For an easy garnish I would consider a pineapple spear with toasted coconut on the rim, perhaps a cherry for a pop of color.

Summer Poolside Drink Summer Poolside Drink

13 Servings 3 servings

48 ounces pineapple juice 12 ounces pineapple juice

1 cup dry lemonade mix ¼ cup dry lemonade mix

2 cups cold water ½ cup cold water

2 cans of sprite soda (12oz ea.) ¾ cup sprite soda pop

Pineapple Coconut Rum Pineapple Coconut Rum

Start with 1 ¼ cups 3-4 ounces to start/6-8 tablespoons

Single servings

½ cup pineapple juice

1 tablespoon plus 1 teaspoon dry lemonade mix

2 tablespoons water

4 tablespoons sprite

2-3 tablespoons of Pineapple Coconut Rum

Do the sip and taste method on the addition of the alcohol. I started the recipe with 1 ¼ cups of rum chata but you could increase to as much as 1 ¾. One last tip, don’t use diet soda, you will be disappointed.

Farm youth ingenuity

By

Milo Yield

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August 27, 2025

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A farm lad going to the nearby land-grant university wuz majoring in agribusiness. and marketing. He earned an internship at a well-known implement dealership and on his first day wuz placed with the company’s finance manager to learn the ropes about financing and collections.

The finance manager told the kid, “The fastest way to learn is to get right into the middle of collections. Collections is the only way our financing plans work. I like you and your grade point indicates that you’ve got smarts, so I’ll make you a deal. Here’s the address and phone number for one of our roughest past due accounts. He’s way behind on his payments. If you can collect on this one, I’ll let you spend the rest of your internship helping me make loans. That’s a lot more fun than collections.”

So, the manager tossed the kid the keys to a company pickup and said, “Good luck. Come talk to me when you get back.”

Three hours later the kid came back and reported to the finance manager, “I got him to pay his entire back bills in full. Here’s the certified check.”

The amazed finance manager said, “Just how in the heck did you do that? I’ve tried every trick in the book and made every kind of threat on that deadbeat — to no avail.”

“Easy,” the kid replied. “I told him that if he didn’t pay up, I’d tell all his other creditors that he paid us!”

***

A kindly reader from Colorado helped me out with this column. She ranches somewhere in the Rockies and she sent me a list of the ways “a wife knows she’s married to a rancher when…..”

Here’s her list:

• You know you’re married to a rancher when a stranger comes to ask directions and that stranger is now a friend who sits at the table for supper.

• You open the door in the truck and even the dog dashes for the middle seat — and you’re left to open the gates.

• Your husband has the car, gets home late, and you have to get to town before the bank closes and pick up a few things at the grocery store. So you jump in the car before he can say a word, and off to town you go, but when you open the trunk to put in the groceries you find a road kill that hubby plans to skin and sell the hide.

• After a hard spring day of stone picking, as he dozes off to sleep you ask, “Do you have a suggestion for a name when the new baby arrives. He sleepily answers, ‘Rocky for a boy and Pebbles for a girl.

• Your gifts are all useful and all tax deductible, too.

• You send your daughter down to the freezer for the frozen orange juice you froze in the pop bottle and she thaws the colostrum for supper.

• Your kitchen utensils disappear one by one.

• You find the slow cooker in the mud room warming up the colostrum.

• You find the hand cleaner for the kitchen sink in the sinkdownstairs.

• You put up the back seat of your little car, but it just doesn’t fit right and you find out it’s because of the oxygen tank hubby decided to pick up in town.

• You can never find the car seat for the little one. It’s either in the 4230 or the ATV.

***

While mowing the grass in our yard and around my gardens, I’ve come to realize the awesome powers of giant foxtail.

First, it thrives in drought.

Second, it also thrives in saturated soil.

Third, it grows as fast as asparagus.

Fourth, it never needs fertilization and will flourish in any soil.

Fifth, it’s has astonishing reproductive powers — producing heavy seed heads at least bi-weekly.

Sixth, it must be highly nutritious because I’ve cleaned wild turkeys with their craws filled with foxtail seed and I’ve watched geese and their goslings gobble up foxtail by stripping the seed heads with their bills.

And, seventh, by letting giant foxtail go to seed before frost, it very predictably re-seeds itself every year and isn’t fazed by repeat harvests on the same soil.

So, then I got to thinking how modern agriculture could harness all those magnificent giant foxtail traits to benefit farmers and consumers.

With all the successful genetic manipulations of plants I read about regularly, why can’t some genetic research team slice the good genes from giant foxtail and splice them into wheat?

What we’d end up with is wheat varieties that have multiple harvests each season, that produce in both drought and wet periods, is highly nutritious, re-seeds itself every year, and eliminates the need for crop rotation. It would be the perfect profitable crop for farmers that helps feed a hungry world, too.

***

Words of wisdom for the week: “Ya’ gotta do what ya’ gotta do now to eventually do what ya’ wanna do.”

Take care. Be safe. And, have a good ‘un.

The Case of the Missing Propeller

By

Steve Gilliland

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August 27, 2025

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Do you ever contemplate the things you’ve done that leave you wondering why you weren’t killed doing them? One such incident always comes to my mind this time of year.

Maybe I enjoy setting lines for catfish because it reminds me of trapping, which is my passion. Or, maybe I just like fresh catfish. Anyway, many years ago shortly after moving to Kansas, I went with my brother-in-law and some of his buddies to set bank lines for catfish on the Smoky Hill River near the little town of Bridgeport, KS. It was to be an overnight trip, and we camped in an alfalfa field near the river. The “smokey” was very high due to recent heavy rains to our north. The big channel and flathead catfish hide and wait for prey in deep holes around bends and beneath banks and high water brings them out to move around, so “bank liners” relish these occasional times of high water during the dog days of summer.

The plan was to set and bait lines late in the evening, then to check them around midnight and again at first light. One of the guys had borrowed a small aluminum boat and outboard motor, which barely held the five of us with lines, bait, etc. As high and swift as the river was running, the boat and motor were necessary as well as convenient.

As we set the lines, we looked for the aforementioned deep holes near the bank or under logs, with a tree limb or log on which to fasten a line. The lines were made of heavy cord like trotline, with large hooks tied onto one end. They were baited with live goldfish, lowered to the bottom, then tied onto a green springy branch or fastened with a rubber bungee cord to help keep a large fish from pulling the hook from its mouth. By nightfall, several lines were set, baited, and marked and the plan was on schedule.

Around midnight, after numerous camp-fire roasted hotdogs and very little sleep, we all piled into our tiny yacht and set off to check the lines, which were all downstream from camp. We motored beyond the farthest line, then turned and began to travel upstream against the current, but the boat soon stopped moving forward and started drifting backwards with the raging river. Someone grabbed the first passing limb and held on while the guy with the headlamp climbed to the back of the boat, jostling and rocking the tiny craft as he went. The motor was tilted from the water and inspected, but after finding nothing wrong, it was lowered into the water for another try and we were soon moving forward again. After a short distance, the problem reoccurred, this time with a much different outcome. As the motor was tilted from the water, an expletive or two informed us that the propeller, a major component in our forward movement, was missing from the motor. Our only option was to drift with the river until we reached a road where the boat could be beached and later retrieved by pickup. The night was still and very dark, and it was a quiet ride in more ways than one. Our man with the light was in front of the boat, and we could see raccoon eyes and other eerie sights as he panned back and forth along the bank. A heron scared the tar out of us all as it rose from the water just ahead. Finally the boat was beached beneath a bridge and retrieved by pickup after a long walk back to camp. The night had been an experience, but the real adventure, checking the lines on a boiling river with no motor, awaited us at first light.

As I remember, the August morning seemed to come earlier than most, and was clear, hot and steamy. The plan was to launch the boat upstream somewhere beyond the farthest

line, then attempt to reach each one as we steamed past with the current. With either the bravery of crusaders or the ignorance of youth, we were soon off and bouncing on the rolling river. The fellow with the sharpest eyes was up front, and as he saw each bank line approaching, the rest of us paddled like slaves to reach shore. Someone would grab hold of anything available and attempt to hold the boat, while the line was checked and retrieved, then the “anchorman” would release us to be swept on to the next one. The closest call came in the form of a huge cottonwood tree, totally intact with green leaves and all, lying across the river ahead. Despite our valiant paddling, the current sent us squarely through the middle of the tree, and as forward movement ceased, the seething river snapped the boat sideways and began to roll it over. We must have looked like monkeys in a mango tree as we all scrambled to break branches and get our little war canoe righted again! Then once more, whether by bravery or by ignorance, we were soon free and moving. Huck Finn would have been proud! The rest of the trip must have been reasonably docile, because the next memories I have are all about helping clean several nice channel cats and a couple respectable flathead catfish.

I’m pretty sure all of us can look back today and agree that this adventure was ill advised. Someone has said, “A good scare is worth more to a man than good advice.” Today, I would opt for the good advice, but back then those thoughts were probably trumped by each bite of fresh catfish…Continue to Explore Kansas Outdoors.

Saint Peter And The Sandman (Best Of)

By

Lee Pitts

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August 26, 2025

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On a wall in my office is a sign that reads: “Employees dying on the job are failing to fall down. This practice must stop, as it becomes impossible to distinguish between death and the natural movement of the staff. Any employee in the future found dead in the upright position will be dropped from the payroll.”

I mention this because I have the same problem with animals… I can’t tell the live ones from the dead ones. Just last week my wife and I were driving on the road that adjoins the horse pasture and I noticed the buzzards circling over Gentleman’s body. “Oh, no! He’s dead,” I screamed hysterically as I wheeled into the horse pasture.

“No, he’s just sleeping,” said my wife calmly.

“Then why are the buzzards circling?”

“Gentleman never has had the best horse hygiene if you know what I mean,” said the wife sarcastically.

“He’s dead I tell you. He’s saddled a cloud and rode to the great beyond.” Despite my serenading him with my best rendition of “Wake up, wake up, you sleepy head, come on, come on, get out of bed,” Gentleman didn’t twitch a muscle. So I got the chain out of the truck to drag my departed steed to the bone pile. About the time I made my second half hitch around Gentleman’s hind leg my good horse miraculously came back to life.

“How did you know he wasn’t dead?” I asked my wife.

“Horses generally don’t die standing up,” she replied accurately. Now all I ever hear when we see Gentleman is the sarcastic comment, “Looks pretty good for a dead horse doesn’t he?”

It’s the same way with cows. Whenever we are out checking for newborn calves I always get a glimpse of the grim reaper. I remember the time we were out riding and we spotted a cow through the binoculars with a calf hanging halfway out her rear end. Neither the cow or the calf were moving. The grass was waving over the pair and I just knew they were in the clutches of St. Peter, not the Sandman.

“She’s just resting between contractions,” suggested my wife looking through the binoculars.

“No, trust me. I’m sure on this one.” So we headed back to the house to call the tallow man. Funny thing is that when he arrived and we went out to get that cow and her dead calf we couldn’t find their bodies. Bears must have carried them away, I suppose.

And then there was the time I was driving into town and I saw a dead bull in my neighbor’s front field. Being the good neighbor that I am I called my neighbor to inform him of the passing of his expensive registered Angus herd bull. But when I dialed my neighbor’s number his recorded message indicated that he was trying to enjoy a much deserved vacation on the islands. So I naturally just left a message on his recorder that the bull he had just paid $15,000 for had passed on to the great never-never land.

How was I supposed to know the bull slept with all four legs in the air? I sure hope it didn’t ruin his vacation coming home four days early.

This habit of mine of thinking everything is dead when in fact the animals in question merely have a sleep disorder is causing my wife to stay awake nights. “Why can’t you ever go to sleep before me,” I asked her last night as she lay tossing and turning?

“Because I’m afraid if you look over and see me with my eyes closed you’ll have me buried in the bone pile before I even wake up.”