The Gift of Metal Art Runs in Our Family!

Helen Johnson Hornberger is a gifted artist who works with metal. Her specialty is realistic metal flowers. Helen began experimenting with flower making with tin cans in the 1950s. She even asked her folks to save the cans that their frozen grapefruit juice came in, as the material was soft enough to easily shape. Later, Helen began to use sheets of thin copper for her creations. She enlisted her husband, Dwight, in bending heavy copper wire for stems as she directed him in getting the shape she needed.

 

In her words, “I found myself fully challenged by this new form of craftsmanship and the impossible goal of trying to duplicate the intricate beauty of living flowers. By trial and error, I devised designs that could simulate flower parts and structures in the lightweight metals. I experimented with types of paint, with light and color, to decorate the metal.”

 

As she perfected her craft, she received many requests and commissions for specific flowers and arrangements. She taught classes in tole flower making and, in 1972, published a book titled, The Art of Making Tole Flowers and Ornaments. Although it’s now out of print, you can find a copy at the Wichita Public Library.

 

Eventually, she had the opportunity to create a Fifty State Flowers arrangement for the Smithsonian Institution. Over the years, she made five more sets of the fifty state flowers, some as commissions and others for family members. The Sedgwick County Historical Museum recently acquired the set she kept for herself. That arrangement is awaiting a permanent spot in one of their displays.

 

Most of her friends and family cherish a piece or two of her art, given to them as a holiday or wedding gift. In recent years, she has continued to create metal flowers and has taught Shari, Brad, Dee, and Emily the basics of her craft. Helen has lost count of how many flowers she’s created, in almost seventy years of work, but it’s nearing a thousand!

 

Helen resides in an assisted living facility in Wichita and at 97 years of age, she is still constructing flowers.

 

 

 

 

Our Noisy Fourth of July Treat

Vera Johnson in her dining room in Wichita, Kansas.

A Fourth of July memory that stands out  from my 1960's childhood was of my mom’s noisy kitchen every Independence Day. 

Whether we were having company at our house or traveling to visit family and friends, homemade ice cream was likely going to be a treat. When I was very young, this wasn’t a noisy procedure and, because I was little, I didn’t have to sit and turn the hand crank, which would have made me appreciate the noisy machine. I was allowed to try the hand crank a time or two but if we were to have ice cream, we needed someone with muscles to make it happen. By the time I was in Junior High, Mom had a loud electric ice cream maker running by the kitchen sink before every summer get together.

Mom's recipe changed from time to time, and she experimented with flavors, by adding fresh peaches, or strawberries, or using eggs or no eggs. If she was making a flavored ice cream, it warranted a second batch of vanilla, always my favorite. I could hear the machine running from anywhere inside the house. I’d walk into the kitchen to it loudly rotating its paddles inside the canister. Why was it so loud? It seems all kitchen machines were noisy back then. 

Mom would stand in front of the redwood barrel on the counter with arctic ice water dripping into the sink from a hole on its side. She added crushed ice and rock salt in between the wooden sides and the canister to keep the freezing process moving along. Just like every procedure in her kitchen, she had it down to a science! My sisters and I all knew exactly how high to keep the ice in the barrel, just in case we needed to take over while she performed the multitude of tasks to have everything ready on time. She was great at kitchen timing.   

Making ice cream was even noisier with the constant yelling over the din. Not angry yelling mind you, but necessary planning yelling.

“We need to leave here by 11:00.” Dad might yell. 

“I’ll be ready.” Mom would answer. She was always right.

“Girls, why don’t you get the chairs put around the table?” or 

“Can you look in the second drawer of the hutch for the napkins I bought for today?”

“I think I’ll bring some tomatoes/ cucumbers/ radishes to give away.” Dad would yell above the commotion. 

It was the only time I heard Dad yell.

Suddenly the machine would stop, although the ringing in my ears took a few more moments to find silence. Then the motor would be set aside and carefully, Mom would lift the lid off the canister. She usually had a spoon and plastic bowl ready. A small portion was put into the bowl and if we were lucky, we got to participate in the taste test. One tiny spoonful and she knew if it was done. 

Satisfied, she’d slowly pull the paddles out of the ice cream before she replaced the lid, expertly sealing it with a folded piece of waxed paper. My sisters and I gathered around the bowl and paddles to eat the quickly melting leftovers. Mom tipped the barrel to empty any extra liquid, plugged the hole, and added more ice around the top. She covered the whole thing with old dishtowels or blankets, the insulation needed to get the sweet goodness to a party. 

Dad took over from there, if they would be transporting somewhere else.

When it was finally time to serve, Mom was there, with a big flat serving spoon, to distribute the milky mixture into bowls. I'd sample the other flavors and though delicious, I usually chose vanilla. It was always as good as I expected. My first bite, creamy and icy at the same time, had a rich vanilla flavor. Although Mom usually provided strawberries, blackberries, or blueberries as garnish, I either ate it plain, or topped mine with rivulets of chocolate syrup. I ate without stirring. Unlike some who mixed until theirs was a soupy light brown, I was looking for two distinct flavors in my bowl.

Homemade ice cream has become a rarity. It seldom appears on a summer holiday menu, and it’s been many years since I’ve had an ice cream maker of my own. I'm sure they're quieter now, but I’ll always remember the flavor that was worth the noise.

A Tribute to a Good Bird Dog

 My son-in-law, Dave Faught, wrote a great tribute about a dog they called Dixie, that they lost this last week. I asked his permission to share it. Our pets are like family!

She was a 26th birthday present from Emily. I can't begin to count the miles or the hours we spent together. Just me and her. Blazing heat, blizzards, subzero temperatures, rain storms. Nothing stopped us. She was never late getting in the truck. She never suggested we leave early. At the end of the day she always looked at me as if to say "one more fence row?" When we got home, she would crash out, sore and exhausted, grinning ear to ear. 

There wasn't a bird she didn't love to hunt, but her favorite days were spent tearing through the marshes after downed teal and busting coveys of quail because she knew she had a full day of pointing and retrieving singles. In the pre-dawn light, she would start to vibrate when she heard the flutter of dove wings overhead. Aching for the chance to do a job. She wasn't very big, so carrying roosters was tough, but she loved trying. By the time she retired, she was as sure-footed and wily as anything we hunted. No matter what we were after, I didn't even have to talk or gesture. We could read each others' minds. She knew how I hunted and I knew how she hunted. If you have ever looked in the eyes of a bird dog when it's working, you have seen the expression that defines purpose. 

It really is a privilege to watch a creature fulfill its destiny. Brittanies don't usually make it to 16 years old, but Dixie did. Because she was unstoppable. She has her legs back under her now, and I guarantee she is going off like a bottle rocket in the most perfect CRP patch she can imagine.

 ~David Faught