Remembering the Pickle Patch

Back when I was a kid on a farm near Wild Rose, Wisconsin, by now in the season our pickle patch was beginning to look a little ragged from the twice a week pickings since July. By Labor Day the pickle picking season was about over. If the season had been good, my brothers Donald and Darrel and I had new bib overalls and new shoes for school, and maybe even a new Daisy BB gun or a shiny new hunting knife we'd eyed in the Sears Catalog for weeks.


The Old Timers says:

"Knew this blind fellow once. He could see more than most of us."