Sour Dough and Sweet Liberty

Goldie, Lee Horace, Heng, and Gentleman Jim

Sour Dough

Heck Far!

By Stephen L. Wilmeth

            Goldie and Lee Horace are now both gone.

            They were of the House of Rice that once kept us all together.  Lee was the oldest grandson of Lee and Mary Belle (Ma) and was not around much by the time we children of the ‘50s arrived. I got to know two of their boys pretty well, Randy and Austin, but, by the time I was old enough to comprehend much, they were all immersed in their place near Oracle. When we did see them, the conversation would always gravitate to federal dominion and the constant battle of trying to keep a public lands allotment viable.

            About the time we bought the Lazy E, they had retired and returned to Goldie’s roots in the Deming area. I’m not sure if Lee Horace contacted me or the other way around, but he wanted to see the ranch and I welcomed his interest and his visit. I’ll always remember that day. It was a typical dry, windy, cold New Mexico spring day and the dust was flying. The herd, put together from other droughted out country, was not the shiniest and Lee told me they reminded him of cattle from someone who we knew too well and whose offspring are still alive (and I simply won’t open that can of unwanted worms).

            I laughed at his matter of fact candor.

            Goldie was no different. With every one of those blond hairs fixed just so and her bright lipstick in place, she’d talk about the deepest state intrigue, and, pretty soon, you’d start to realize she was serious. Although at times the road map seemed to be missing, there was always a point in the dim lighted distance, and, when you were about lost in the underbrush, she’d pull it all together in an o. henry recapitulation and fiery ending.

            “Well, what do you think about that!”

            Rocking backward in the chair from the ferocity of the blast I mostly didn’t know what to think, but I was always fascinated by her sour dough starter. I am not sure how long they were together, but it was over 60 years and she always nurtured her gift and guarded that starter every day of their long marriage. Frank told me she got it from her mother and that had come to her from her grandmother.

            It could have been over a hundred years old. Heck far … it could have been a lot older than that!

            Heck Far!

            That naturally brings us to the Central Valley congressional race of Jim Costa.

We got to know gentleman Jim pretty well in our California tenure and one of the most interesting things about him was how he survived the conservative politics of the San Joaquin with such uncanny aplomb. He was a democrat, and that wasn’t always easy gliding in the south end of the Valley in those days.

            There were always enough Portuguese cousins and dairymen, though, and their guedo native son was patted on the head and sent to represent the faithful and the greenhorns alike. It had to be local politics at the beginning, but, by the time we called him by his first name, his realm was expanding.

            Seemingly, he was everywhere meals were being served. For the price of admission, he would be introduced, and then he’d be expected to say something important. He’d appear like an apparition from the crowd and make his way to the dais. He’d clear his throat and a complete Costa metamorphosis would take place. Out of his mouth would come this resonant speech as if he had been born attached to the very mike he was holding.

            “Somebody write that speech and give it to Jimmy?” one of those old dairymen in the back with hands like matched anvils would whisper. “Huh?”

            “Hush!” some lady nearby would say as an outburst of giggling broke out.

            So, it went with this little politico with a questionable IQ quotient, but with a flashing marquee sign that always had something intelligent on its graphic.  For 40 years Jimbo has played the part in trade for golden words, but, suddenly, there is an interesting challenger to his lock on California’s 16^th Congressional District.

Refugee daughter and former D.C. staffer, Elizabeth Heng, is rattling the traces. Touted to be the conservative counter to the New York communist challenger, Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez, Ms. Heng sees her Central Valley home as a wasteland in the making. She notes correctly that in the last 20 years (40 years matching Costa’s reign of magic is more correct) nothing has been done to halt the meltdown of the greatest agricultural wonder in the entire universe, the great San Joaquin Valley.

            Yessiree, it is past time to alter the ingredients being added to the original recipe starter of this land.

            Sour Dough

            Goldie’s starter is the proper comparison.

            If the political premise is not changed in California and across our land, continuing to add corrupted ingredients to a basic starter serves no purpose other than ruin. The likes of Feinstein, Boxer, Pelosi, Brown, Brown, Schiff, Miller, and Costa have hastened the tortuous descent. Name a single issue that is better today than 20 years ago in the circumstances that make living more indicative of the original goal.

            This Heng is an interesting candidate. The daughter of Cambodian refugees her family alone is a golden example of the promise of our American model. Electing to seize the opportunity of citizenship rather than exploit it, they are what so many of past generations were. Theirs is the pride of ownership, the result of hard and constant work, and the joy of expanding success. Rather than demanding part of the pie, they have created their own expanding biscuit with the only ingredients that actually work.

            God Bless our America!

           

                Stephen L. Wilmeth is a rancher from southern New Mexico. “Come look at our cows now, Lee.”

 "...I was always fascinated by her sour dough starter. I am not sure how long they were together, but it was over 60 years and she always nurtured her gift and guarded that starter every day of their long marriage. Frank told me she got it from her mother and that had come to her from her grandmother."

Now think of the sour dough starter bequeathed to us by our Founding Fathers. A nation formed by the states with limited and specific delegated powers. A national government with a system of checks and balances to limit the authority of any one branch. A republic of dual federalism with sovereignty divided  between the states and the national government.

Have we cared for and nurtured that "starter" the way Goldie and her family has their starter? Or have we instead ignored or even corrupted those original ingredients?

What happens when a sour dough starter is not tended to?

Donna Currie writes: 

People often worry if they've killed their starter by leaving it in the refrigerator for a long time without feeding it. When it's refrigerated, the yeast slows down and becomes practically dormant. A yellowish liquid usually forms on top, referred to as "hooch" by sourdough folks. Hooch isn't a big deal. Sometimes the hooch starts looking like it has a little black sediment in it. This also isn't a big deal. It's yeast cells that have died off, but chances are that there are plenty more still alive.
Just for the fun of it, I left some starter unfed and at room temperature for a week. At that point it smelled strongly of acetone—not something you'd want to eat. I stirred in some flour and water, and it sprang back to life even better than before. So, it wasn't dead or dying, it was just napping and waiting for a little food and a little stirring.

It is past time for the application of flour and water to have our republic "spring back to life". I just hope that somewhere along the line the refrigerator hasn't been unplugged and instead of Goldie's starter we have Rusty's remnants slowly rotting away. Let's hope not and instead fill our saddle bags with all the flour and water we can tote. Let's use sour dough for the return of sweet liberty.

---Frank DuBois