The Boiling Point of Water

It has become apparent to me that water no longer boils at 212 F. The boiling point is apparently much lower. It became evident this morning when I made myself some oatmeal. I spooned it directly from the saucepan to the bowl, from there to the table and some milk and brown sugar and was able to eat it immediately.

I recalled when I was young and my Mother would make oatmeal that I had to blow on it to cool it. I would spoon a little milk into my mouth so I could pour more milk on the hot cereal in an effort to cool the mixture off. It would burn my mouth, it seemed like I had to wait forever for the cereal to get to a tolerable temperature.

Now, it seems to come from the saucepan at an edible temperature. Obviously the laws of physics have changed and water must boil at a much cooler temperature because at 62 I can eat my oatmeal right away without having to blow on steaming cereal. So much for the immutable laws of physics!

A Memory Revisited

The light fixture in our hallway went kaput. I decided to replace it with a track light so we could have illumination from the washer/dryer and up the stairs. Living in Arkansas I do not have much of an opportunity to watch my beloved Green Bay Packers, but from time to time they are televised nationally on Fox and I can see them then. I started to wonder this morning if that might be the case. Checking the online TV guide sure enough, they played Carolina and were on Fox. So I turned the game on and enjoyed working on the project while keeping track of the game. It made me think of a time long ago.

Our family lived in Sturtevant, WI from 1975 to 1980. We lived in a "starter" home. My Dad had not remarried and it must've been around 1975. It was the fall of the year and Dad had come down for a visit. We had gone to church and now were at home doing some fall chores, cleaning windows, raking leaves, etc. We had the Packer game on TV and a radio sticking out a window so we could hear the game while we worked outside. If something exciting happened during the game we would rush back into the living room to see the replay. A couple of times my father and I had to laugh because we would meet rushing into the living room Dad coming from the front door and me coming through the kitchen.

Today I was in the back hallway when Favre threw for a touchdown. Rushing back in to see the replay made me think of my Dad. I miss watching Green Bay play with my Dad.

Hunting the "Pat"

When I was a kid, probably ten years old or so my Dad took me "Pat" hunting. Now, to those raised in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan "Pat" stood for Partridge. However, we were not hunting Partridge, we were hunting Ruffed Grouse. The locals, me included called them Partridge, or Patridge, shortened to "Pat." Regardless, it is perhaps the finest upland game bird in America, and certainly a delight to hunt in the wilds of the Upper Peninsula.

Pats are an incredibly startling bird. Pats are hunted slowly, personally I've hunted them with dogs and without dogs. The problem with dogs is the make the process seem rushed, without dogs can lead to missed birds. Either way is fine with me, but when alone I do prefer without dogs.

If you hunt Pats without a dog the process is to move slow, stop, wait, listen, look, a few steps, pause, turn around and look. Why? Because Pats are not runners like a Pheasant, they will hold tight in cover and then when you look the other way, have a pine tree between you and them they flush in the most breathtaking flush I've ever seen. They do not cackle like a Pheasant, they explode from their hiding place causing the most experienced hunter to flinch, stumble and otherwise lose the composure. In the meantime they are rocketing away flying through trees putting as much distance as possible between he and thee.

Hunting methodically as I described above allows a person a number of pleasurable experiences. First is the enjoyment of the woods. Pats like Aspen or Poplar tree areas. They do not seem to reside in what one would call the true upland setting but along ridges, fields, thick stands of scrub Aspen. Usually they are found in areas where they have easy access to gravel so they can get grit for their crop after a late afternoon feed.

There is more I may describe later, but the greatest experience is being in the woods hunting them. The rustle of the leaves as you walk on them, the smell of a fall day in the northern woods, the sounds of branches rubbing, leaves being moved, birds calling in the distance make the experience spiritual. Many "Pat" hunters will say, I almost don't mind if I get a bird, just being out in the woods is sufficient reward.

My first Pat was taken just off the Ridge Road outside of Munising, MI. My Dad did not hunt, he did not carry a gun. I had an old Steven's 16 Ga. single shot. I believe it was my Grandfather's gun. The old timers didn't need pumps or automatics, a trusty single or double (side by side) was sufficient for their purposes.

We had parked the car and were walking back into a little clearing off the edge of the road. An apple tree had been broken over and was leaning at an angle to the ground. The branches had been broken or rotted off so the tree trunk was exposed and looked kind of like a pole leaning on a post.

I had just walked to an area in front of the broken apple and was standing there when this bird ran up the trunk of the apple preparing to take off. It was a Pat! I pulled up, cocked the hammer, oh yes, the gun had a hammer that had to be pulled back before you could shoot it. The gun came up to my shoulder, I looked to the barrel and let fly. (That means I fired the gun.) The bird keeled over and I excitedly walked over and picked up the first Pat I'd every shot. I wanted to examine it, I wanted to look at its markings and the beautiful tail feathers. I could hardly wait to wear some of those tail feathers in my hat when I went to school the next week.

I looked for its head, no head. Just some grass ends sticking out of its neck where its head had been. It had been so close and the shot pattern so tight I had taken its head off and there were no other pellets in the body. I was shocked.

Needless to say we took the bird home. My mother ooh'ed and aahed, and I am sure wished I'd never brought it home. She did cook the bird for me, but she hadn't cooked a lot of wild game so it was just OK, not excellent like Pats are when cooked correctly. I was proud though. I relieved that first bird for many weeks, and from time to time fifty some years later I still can picture the setting and the experience.

I will always love Pat hunting and promise never to call it what it is, Ruffed Grouse hunting. Old Pat will really get your heart to pumping. Nothing but good memories.