Showing posts with label memories. Show all posts
Showing posts with label memories. Show all posts

Sunday, July 4, 2010

4th of July 1958

Todays post is brought to you by a guest writer, Mr. Jenny! Mr. Jenny has some wonderful memories of being a child in the 1950's.

It was late-morning on the 4th of July, 1958. The fast-moving river flowing toward the sea 500 miles to the west cut through black basalt and grass covered canyons. The heat radiating from the rock walls did little to decrease the anticipation of the three boys in the backseat of the Willys Jeepster. No towns (other than a berg across the way and just outside of town) punctuated the narrow gravel road on the 20 mile drive upriver from our home in Lewiston, Idaho. The three brothers in the Jeepster were my brothers and me. Gordon, two years older and the self-proclaimed “boss” of the kid-klan; little brother David, a spunky, head-strong and irrepressible eight- year old, and nine-year old me. We talked, and bickered and poked each other on this road less travelled, on the way to a day on the beach. There would be sodas for the kids, beer for the adults, firecrackers, and bottle rockets, and swimming in the rapid waters of the river. There might also be the possibility of hooking a giant catfish with a rod & line anchored into the sand for the afternoon, or the prospect of an inner tube race to the next rocky outcropping. And of course there would be a picnic with sandwiches, hot dogs on a grill, potato & macaroni salads, chips, cookies, and more.

Picnicking on the 4th of the July on the white sand beaches of the Snake River with family and friends was a tradition for our family. That sand was so fine it reminded you of an ocean beach, and so hot from the summer sun that it hurt your feet to walk on it. Those summer days were always dry and hot, with temperatures reaching well into the 100’s. The heat, concentrated by the black basalt rock and narrow canyon walls compounded and reflected into the bottom of the chasm, creating an unrelenting oven. It baked the bushes, small trees, and the grasses that grew in the wet, spring months. In fact, the heat turned the vegetation into an explosive fuel that was tinder to an errant match, a cigarette thrown carelessly, or a firecracker or bottle rocket aimed in the wrong direction by children too young to know any better.

This deep river canyon country is isolated with no residential areas, no weekend cabins, and only a few local visitors through the year. Just upstream, the stretch of river called Hells Canyon is deeper than the Grand Canyon. It is the deepest gorge in North America. The river divides the State of Washington to the West from the State of Idaho to the East. As children, we didn’t care about these geographical facts. We squirmed in the backseat in excitement as the Jeepster pulled into the shade of cottonwood trees off the beach access road. Dad hauled the beat-up red Coleman ice chest out of the back of the Jeepster. Mom took the picnic basket and we brothers loaded our arms with swimming suits, towels and blankets to carry down to the beach near the water.

Wesley and Dorothy Tollenaar, best friends of the family in those years, pulled in next driving a Jeep Wagon. They, too, unloaded their ice chests, food satchels, fishing gear, and an inflatable raft. After unloading the provisions, they let their two standard poodles out of the vehicle. These giant, playful white animals stood about 4 feet tall and were amazingly fast runners.

Because the Tollenaar’s were childless, they had become our honorary favorite “aunt” and “uncle” over the years. We had become their favorite kids.

Next to pull into the beach access road were Tom and Nancy Thomas’ family and their 3 and 4 year old children. When the Feeney’s pulled in next we were happy to see that their bratty children were staying at home today. Bob Feeney (who later spent three years in the Idaho State prison on an embezzlement charge) began unloading their ice chest stuffed full of beer and sandwiches.

The plans for the picnic were always the same. We would enjoy a day on the beach to picnic, swim, fish, and light hundreds of firecrackers. As twilight fell, the adults would supervise some aerial rockets and then we would all head back to town in time for the annual Jaycee’s fireworks display shot over the river from Beachview Park.

Most of the firecrackers we set off at the beach were standard Black Cat two inchers that come 50 or 100 to a string. It was legal to buy them in those days from the roadside stands that would magically appear a couple of weeks before the 4th, and would just as magically disappear on July 5th. To get the bigger fireworks such as cherry bombs, M-80s, and aerial rockets, my Dad took us to the neighboring Indian reservation roadside stands 18 miles out of town down Highway 95, a tradition we followed religiously a few days before the big picnic every year as well.

Armed with our vast arsenal of fireworks, the day started well. While Wes Tollenaar set up the grill, the ladies laid out the picnic blankets and food. All of us kids hid behind the cars to change into swimsuits while the rest of the men broke out the beer. Lots and lots of beer.

Let the fun begin! And it did.

Everyone hit the water first to cool off from that hot drive from town. The river was not very warm, in fact it was always downright cold. The river started its ocean-bound journey high in Yellowstone Park 800 miles away. Cold? Who cared! There was swimming to do, adults to dunk and men’s shoulders to ride. There was fishing line to throw into the river upstream away from the swimming hole. There were sodas to drink. (Always Pepsi products… Pepsi? In 1958? In backwater Northern Idaho? That’s another story for another time.)

And did I mention there was beer to drink for the adults? Lots and lots of beer.

When lunch was served it was always delicious. How could it not be? Grilled hot dogs, tuna fish and baloney & cheese sandwiches with lots of yellow mustard. A peanut butter sandwich or two always emerged from the cooler to pacify my little brother -- the whiner -- who wouldn’t eat anything but.

And, of course, beer for the adults. Lots and lots of beer.

To put the beer consumption into perspective, you need to remember that these picnics took place in post-war 1950s. The men were all World War II combat veterans, very serious people with dark stories that were never told. Perhaps alcohol helped dull the horrifying experiences that were not buried deeply enough in their memories. DUI and drunk driving were no big deal in those parts. Everyone did it, including the easily bribable county sheriff, and especially on long, hot summer holidays.

It was dry that day, the vegetation a tinder box awaiting a match, a firecracker, or a cigarette. And they all smoked cigarettes, every one of them.

The remote location was also many miles from firefighters who might come to the rescue should an unfortunate spark occur that could burn a few acres, a few thousand acres, or maybe a few hundred thousand acres. It happened every summer in this country. It was no big deal.

While the adults had another beer or two, the kids tackled the firecrackers…thousands of them. We started madly lighting them. Or we tried to. Our fun was made more difficult because somebody forgot to bring the punks (brother Gordon no doubt) and we didn’t have thousands of matches to light our treasure of firecrackers. But taught and trained in Boy Scouts in how to be exceptionally resourceful in the out-of-doors, we decided to use burning cigarettes to light the fuses. A burning cigarette, we found, was good for lighting a hundred or so firecrackers at a time. Burning cigarettes, though, needed to be thrown away when they got too short. Thrown away by kids who were not real tuned-in to tinder-dry vegetation that came right up to the back edge of the beach.

It was grand! We blew the hell out of the place. We set off single firecrackers, we set off whole strings of firecrackers. We sent bottle rockets skyward, they whizzed up 30 or 40 feet into the air before exploding to our riotous laughter.

And then it happened. Brother Gordon, cool and collected and self-proclaimed leader of us all, started putting M-80s in empty cans of beer to blow the sides out. Then he put them under the cans to see how high they would go when the giant crackers exploded. And it was high! Maybe 10 feet or even more. What fun.

Then he tried grounding a bottle rocket into an empty can and setting it off. When he did, that rocket flew over the beach toward the river, and exploded just before it hit the water. Oh man, this was great.

“Well”, said Tom Thomas, not the sharpest knife in the drawer that day with 10 or 12 beers in his gut, “What if you take one of these really really big rockets… this one that is a couple of feet long and is suppose to go 200 feet high before exploding… what if you stick that guy in an empty beer can and light it off over the river? That ought to be a great spectacle.” And indeed, it was a spectacle. Oh yes indeed, it was that.

“That rocket”, Tom swore later, “Was aimed at the river! Really, it was aimed at the river!” But instead, that sucker flew straight across the beach about five feet off the ground, not TOWARD the river, but TOWARD the slope in back of the beach. The slope covered with all the dried vegetation. It went 200 feet alright, but in the wrong direction. It hit, it blew up, and the flash of the exploding burning tinder was instantaneous.

That grass fire covered an acre before you could say, “Oh crap!” Those flames were jumping 20 feet in the air before you could say, “Holy-mother-of-God-what-are-we-going-to-do-now???!!!” That fire covered five acres in the time it took a race car to make one circle at Indy, and what could be faster than that? It felt like it hit 20 acres in about 10 seconds. Man, that was a fire and it was going fast! It headed toward the steep canyon slope. We were sure that if it gained momentum there it wouldn’t stop burning for weeks or maybe months. With my mouth hanging open in astonishment I wondered why are all the women screaming at the men to do something? Do what? Call the fire department? Nope, no phones and this was 30 years before cell phones (probably no cell service there today, either). What are those dogs doing barking at the flames? Is that going to help? What about the cars over there? Oh, oh.

My Dad, the World War II buck-private-promoted-to-Army-major in three war years, took charge.

“There are four galvanized buckets in the back of the Tollenaar Jeep! You, you, you! Fill them with water from the river and head for the flames. Get to the far side if you can, stop the flames there. You, you, and you! Empty the coolers into the sand, fill them with river water, and take them up to the fire line. You, you, and you! Take the beach towels to the river, wet them well and then pound the side of the flames with them. Tom, get out of the way!” Before you could say “What-drunken-fool-caused-this-mess”, the game plan was laid out, the resources organized, the manpower deployed to the lines. The adult manpower was well intentioned but woozy, and maybe a bit ineffective. But we kids were ready to fight the fire! And the battle was engaged! Victory was at hand!

But not because of us.

It was the road that stopped the fire’s race to the hillside. That road, maybe 40-feet wide of gravel and dirt, saved our bacon that day. The fire hit the side of the road and ran out of fuel. There was nothing left to burn. It had nowhere to go but out.

We battled anyway, beating the sides of the flames into submission with the wet beach towels, turning them into a black soggy mess. The men ran back and forth with the buckets filled with river water and ineffectively splashed the diminishing flames.

Oh, we thought we were being valiant and brave fighting that fire, but it was really the road that did the work. We just knocked down the few flames on either side of the fire and there weren’t many there.

Twenty minutes later it was all over. About 20 acres along the East side of the road were blackened and a bit of smoke still hung here and there in the late afternoon sunshine.

We all looked at each others soot darkened faces. The adults were suddenly more sober and all of us were exhausted. Even the dogs were no longer barking madly, but lay collapsed and panting. Nobody admitted how scared they had been.

It was a quiet ride back to town that afternoon, the hot air blowing over the open Jeepster cabin, the adults very quiet now, the kids even more so. The beer no longer flowed, and the stomachs of children growled a bit in hunger.

We made a quick stop at the Jade Lantern for Chinese take-out on the way into town, then home for baths and clean clothes before the evening fireworks.

But the spark, the normal excitement of a grand and glorious 4th of July Jaycee’s fireworks show after dark, was missing.

We thought all the excitement on the 4th of July on the Snake River was over. Little did we know that the next year would be the last 4th of July picnic on the Snake River beaches and that everyone, including us kids, would learn hard lessons about driving after a long, hot day on the sand and water with beer, lots and lots of beer.

Happy 4th of July from the Matlocks!

Mr. Jenny with his 1948 Jeepster identical to that in the story.

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Sunday, April 18, 2010

The tattered edge of the flyer...

...had ripped a bit in the breeze, but it fluttered there proudly on its bright pink thumbtack...and I was intriqued.

I had been thinking of ideas to entertain our Granddaughters over the summer and this seemed like a wonderful idea.

I was at the dairy farm for Morgan's pre-school field trip. The sign read "Get a jump-start to agriculture leadership. Students will learn general information about common farm animals including: horses, chickens, cows & goats. This is a great opportunity to see if your child is interested in the agriculture field of study, and get a taste of true farm life".

While we waited for the tour to begin, I sat outside in the mid-morning sunshine ... listening to the sound of chickens and children. I thought of the field trips I went on back in Ohio when my own children were small.

Oh...the fragrances...the manure, the hay, the green fields. It was the smell of the farm. It was always fun to watch the children stand open-mouthed with amazement as large black and white cows lumbered from green fields, jostling for their places in the milking parlor. The stainless steel gleamed. The wet cement and disinfectant scents mingled in the air to create an agricultural perfume that was somehow pleasing in its sweet intricacy.

My memories were interrupted when "Farmer" Jason told us the tour was starting. On our way in the door, I grabbed a flyer so I could call and sign the girls up for the farm classes. I was excited just thinking about how excited they would be.

We gathered in a large room and sat on hay bales while "Farmer" Jason gave us his farm spiel. I was a bit puzzled when he showed us some branches of cotton. He went on to explain that the cows on the farm were fed with cotton seeds. He then showed us a sawdust like substance that was the refuse from a pasta plant. He assured the children that the cows really liked both of these things and ate 50 pounds of them each and every day. We went outside and got on a hay wagon. "Farmer" Bob then proceeded to tell us about the holding pens while the tractor pulled us around. I was puzzled at first. I kept expecting to see green fields gleaming just round the corner. But there were none. There was just a sea of mud and manure...not pleasing in scent...not pleasing in sight.

I asked "Farmer" Bob, "Are these cows ever pastured?" He assured me the cows were happy.

Then "Farmer" Bob explained to the group that the calves were taken away from the "Mommy" cows at birth because they were happier all together with their "friends", I spoke up again. He talked over me and explained how the "babies" had to go away from their "Mommies" or there wouldn't be enough milk to make ice cream!

He did a little rah-rah thing and said "As soon as we get back, we'll all have some ice cream!" while he glared at me.

Oddly, no-one seemed to want to answer my questions about growth hormones or disease either.

And finally one "farmer" helper told me if I was interested in that organic milk stuff I should call a certain dairy...ironically named "Save Your Dairy".

Morgan loved patting the bunnies and feeding the horse and the goat. And I loved watching her happy face light up.

The children were all delighted to be served ice cream made with milk from the dairy's cows, but I declined. I wanted to decline for my Granddaughter as well...but I suspect that might be a battle for another day.

When we left, dusty and tired, Morgan walked with her hand carefully tucked in mine.

I put her securely into her car seat and made sure she was safe. She was happy and chattering about bunnies.

And then I saw a trash bin close by.

I tossed the crumpled up flyer into the bin. If this was "a taste of true farm life", I didn't really want our grandchildren exposed to it.

When I drove out of the crowded parking lot I was blinding for a moment by the sun.

I hesitated briefly before a pause in the traffic allowed me to pull out onto the heavily traveled road.

Though the chatter was entertaining from the back seat I could not shake the feeling that I had really, truly failed to keep this little girl safe.

And I felt saddened.

We stopped at the store to get her a snack. I walked right through the dairy section and got her an organic apple.

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Tuesday, April 13, 2010

I heard the song of a train this morning...

In the spring we sleep with the french door in our bedroom open.

The sounds of children playing in the neighborhood often lull me to sleep at night.

The sound of doves and the fresh scent of the breeze often awaken me in the morning.

I lie quietly (yes, I am actually quiet sometimes) and watch the morning awaken.

The light changes from a hint of the day to come, to that soft diffused early morning tenderness possible only during a morning in Spring.

The air smells alive and green and full of blossoms and promise.

And the clear, mournful song of the train horn takes me to verdant places where train tracks cross the distance of miles and memory. I am transported to places where white farmhouses stand sturdily, adorned and awash with only the slight pink light of the spring sunrise for a few moments each morning.

I travel by fields where some might view the broken down fences as abandoned dreams and some might view the overgrown weeds as hopeful possibilities.

My journey continues through small towns where vignettes of women in bathrobes stand in the warm golden light of their kitchen windows to fill battered coffee pots with cold, pure, tap water.

I return to those moments when I held the warmth and weight of small children, damp from their bath, smelling of sweetness and innocence on my lap.

I can feel the textured and slightly battered "Child's Garden of Verses Book" under my fingertips...the edge of the book rough and worn away with nightly readings of a quickly passing childhood.

Robert Louis Stevenson captures their imagination and their drowsy eyes grow wide as I recite these words...

"Faster than fairies, faster than witches,
Bridges and houses, hedges and ditches;
And charging along like troops in a battle
All through the meadows the horses and cattle."


They snuggle deeper in my lap...

"All of the sights of the hill and the plain
Fly as thick as driving rain;
And ever again, in the wink of an eye,
Painted stations whistle by.
Here is a child who clambers and scrambles,
All by himself and gathering brambles;
Here is a tramp who stands and gazes;
And here is the green for stringing the daisies."


Little heads grow heavy and lay upon my shoulder...

"Here is a cart runaway in the road
Lumping along with man and load;
And here is a mill, and there is a river:
Each a glimpse and gone forever!"


Oh, I heard the song of a train this morning.

And it was a lovely, poignant refrain.

Mr. Jenny says somedays we hear the train horn more clearly then others because there is more humidity in the air.

I think that somedays we hear it more clearly then others because we need to remember where we come from...

...so we can clearly see where we are going as we continue on this epic journey of our lives.

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Monday, February 15, 2010

A giveaway in Memory of Mike (PKW)

Possible Kleenex Warning post. Only a maybe...but I promised I would warn you always of any kleenex risk!

It was a gorgeous day here in the valley on Friday. Beautiful, pure blue skies...a few pristine fluffy clouds making the blue even more intense ...soft sunshine and soft cool breezes.

Steve and I drove through the congested traffic to share memories and sadness with our friend and her beautiful family.

The radio was playing softly...the sun made the interior of the car warm and cozy...my arm was tucked through Steve's and my fingers traced patterns on his wool jacket. Cars and miles and mountains fell away and we traveled closer to a church we had never been to before. We both sat quietly, wrapped in our own memories and thoughts

Funerals do that, don't they?

They make you dust off all the memories you have placed into safe-keeping. Memories so precious and painful that if they are not locked away can startle us when we least expect it. Those oh-so-painful memories that make you close your eyes and replay the sadnesses that you have put on “pause” so you can get through days, months and years at a time without ripping your heart out.

But funerals also make you remember lovely things. Moments of silliness. Memories of laughter. A remembrance of embrace or shared intimacy.

The first thing I saw walking into the large vestibule was our friend. She was looking small and lost in the echoing space…standing alone…looking almost dream-like. Behind her was a picture board collaged with photos of her son and a guest book and a beautiful gilt box filled with candy.

Her eyes focused on us and she came toward us with a lovely smile lighting her sweet face. “Oh, thank you for coming,” she said in a strong, clear voice. I hugged her perhaps a bit too long. I tried very hard to keep my own sadness to myself. This was about her. Her son. Her loss. Her day of grieving and closure.

She looked at the picture board with us. The baby pictures. The birthday pictures. The silly pictures. The pictures showing a healthy, sturdy child and a young, dream-filled man… the pictures showing the sickness creeping in.

We signed the guest book. Both for ourselves and for a precious group of friends that could not be present.

My husband and I each took a memorial card and a piece of Werthers gold-wrapped original candy. The metallic wrapper seemed oddly cheerful in such a somber setting. The candy, apparently a favorite of her sons, a sweet gift in the midst of such a solemn occasion.

The church was peaceful and quiet with only the sound of a water feature bubbling away accompanying the occasional sound of a sob or a whispered word.

It was a beautiful church. Jewel-toned stained glass clearstory windows lit the altar area with rich illumination.

Shortly after we were seated someone started a slide show presentation...the baby pictures, the birthday pictures, the silly pictures and the pictures showing a healthy, sturdy child and a young, dream-filled man…

Steve wrapped his arm around me and we held hands, tightly, the warmth a comfort as we intently watched the pictures showing the passage of a life.

The service started. The Priest was joyous. The music was beautiful…the guitars and vocals soaring to the very rafters of the church in celebration.

At the very end of the Mass, our friend went to the pulpit and shared little pieces of her life with her son. She reminisced about making wine, canning peaches, gardening and fishing. She spoke of her son's acceptance of his illness with grace and dignity. She spoke of his faith. And his joy.

She was strong. Composed. Sure in her words. Sure in what she wanted to convey.

Her plaintive cry at the very end was painful. “Oh, Michael,” she cried, “I loved you so much!”

The long silence after she returned to her seat let us all regain our composure.

Only to lose it again when Mike’s nephews attempted to sing a final song. Their muffled sobs into the microphone were sobering. And tear provoking. For everyone in the now solemn Church.

We waited quietly in the church foyer after the service. We looked at the picture board again. Oh, how quickly life goes. Here was a picture going to prom with a girl in a wide southern-bell hat.

And here now was our beautiful friend. Standing looking slightly puzzled but being her gracious and lovely self in the midst of all this emotion.

Everyone gathered in the church hall to share a potluck the ladies of the Church had provided. Food lined long tables…ties were loosened...talk became more relaxed.

Steve had taken his camera along to take photos if our friend wanted them. My Mom particularly treasures the photos from my sisters memorial lunch and we thought perhaps this was a small gift of remembrance we could offer.

Steve took photo after photo of laughter and hugs and tears and reflection. The aftermath of an emotional event.

The last photos Steve took were of the family gathered today. In strength. In remembrance. In love.

We said our goodbyes and drove home. Quiet again. Reflecting on the grace and courage we had just seen.

Reflecting on how quickly life goes and how important it is to live every moment.

Saddened by the loss of someone so young with so much courage and grace and example to offer.

And that is really what last weeks little series of gifts was about for me.

I wanted to share a little joy in what can often be a sad world for so many of us.

And what I learned was much greater then what I gave away. I learned that by turning outward and sharing it does diminish the loss. Somehow when we turn in it magnifies our sadness and isolates us from the people that can help us through. It truly and honestly does. At least for me.

So I thank you sincerely for letting me share a bit of happiness with you on what could have been a very sad time.

And in Mike's honor I would like to do one final giveaway.

This man loved the outdoors but lost his ability to be out in it and enjoy it often. His illness took that from him.

For this giveaway I would like to share a ZippyStrippyQuilt I made - it is a simple little cotton rag quilt but it is cozy and warm. The patterns on it are of the outdoors: camping, fishing, and picnicking! Something I feel is so appropriate in memory of this man.


To enter to win you must be a follower of my blog and your comment to this post is your entry. Please don't be sad in your comment, just tell me something you love doing outside with your family.

You can post a comment today, Monday, and again on Tuesday and Wednesday for three chances to win.

If Mr. Random Org isn't busy I will do the drawing on Wednesday night around 8 pm MST, right before I put up the Alphabe-Thursday link!

Thank you for helping me celebrate a life well-lived!

And thank you for coming to visit my blog.

I was so worried that just telling my stories would not be enough. And it gladdens my heart to find that it is.

Bless you all for that!

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Wednesday, January 13, 2010

Piecrusts and Promises

So...

It's been kind of time of deep and serious introspection for me lately and...

...quit laughing. I can so be all deep and serious. I just try not to be too much cuz it usually makes me run my mascara or something.

And the reason I've been all thinkful lately is because...gulp...my oldest daughter is turning 30 on Saturday.

Acccckkkk!

I can't even start the whole "I remember when her little head was covered in beautiful golden peach fuzz and her little rosebud mouth"...

NO!

Can't go there.

Must maintain some semblance of control. Must! Must! Must just say that she was just the sweetest little thing and I remember this time....

NO!

Stop! Must maintain control.

What the heck was this post about anyway?

Oh yea. Piecrusts.

When I was a young married girl filled with idealism and hope I felt confident that I could actually make piecrust. My Mother had never really made GREAT piecrust but for some reason I felt certain that it would be a snap for me.

After all I could cook and bake like nobodies business and I was really good at it.

But piecrusts became the bane of my existence and I became famous, or perhaps a better word is avoided, for my cardboard crusts. Until I went to a piecrust class.

It wasn't a real class like in a school or anything.

But one of my friends had a friend, Debby, who could really make piecrust. After years of begging the friend of the friend agreed to teach a piecrust class to six of us.

One of the group had a huge kitchen in this amazing 1802 restored Western Reserve farmhouse. We gathered there in her history steeped home to make our own piecrust history.

The piecrust teacher lady person was really serious.

I was a little afraid of her because, to be honest, my track record with teachers of arbitrary subjects hasn't always been ... ummm.... the best.

My nervousness increased when she took out a piece of paper for each of us with printing on it and said we needed to read it and sign it before she would start teaching the class.

It was a little contract that said we would never divulge the piecrust recipe even under torture. OK, I just threw the "under torture" in there to be funny but the rest of it is true.

I'm not sure what the threat was if we actually did divulge it but I was too afraid of her to even ask.

So the piecrust class started.

And it lasted for several hours.

And I learned to make great piecrusts. Flaky, amazing, look-of-wonder-on-peoples-faces piecrust.

And because of that I got to be "that lady!" The one who was asked to bring pies to every event. The one who modestly said "oh, it's nothing, please have another piece" and who firmly, firmly refused to ever give the secret recipe because somehow I felt the pie police might be watching me.

But over Thanksgiving I wasn't feeling so hot and my stepdaughter was visiting and offered to make the pies.

WHAT????

Make the pies!!!!???????

You're talking sacred ground here, stepdaughter. Back off!

She's sweet and lovely and all but invading my piecrust territory! Come on!

AND I couldn't share my recipe with her because after all a promise is a promise!

So I looked in several cookbooks which all had the same recipe!

And then...

EUREKA!

In my Chickberry Patch cookbook I found the "secret" recipe. Yup. There it was printed out for all the world to see so I told her to use that recipe.

And she did.

And the pies turned out wonderfully. Almost as good as mine. Grrrr...OK, as good as mine... man, that hurt just to write that in black and white for public consumption.

And because it is written down in somebody elses cookbook I can share the recipe with you!

The end.

.
.
.
.
Oh wait.

OK, so the reason that I'm telling you this strange story is not to share "the secret" piecrust recipe with you but to explain while I've been all serious and deep in my posts down memory lane of late.

It's because my daughter is turning 30.

And she wants me to make her a cherry pie for her birthday. Which makes me remember the time when she was little and...

NO!

Can't go there.

Must maintain some semblance of control. Must! Must!

And now I need to sign off right now cuz I think I got something in my eye.

Of course I'm not crying.

Crying? Me? Silly you! You can actually find my picture in the dictionary next to the word self-control.

Sigh...



Jimi's No Fail Pie Crust (see, it's not Debby's recipe so I'm not breaking any promises - so there!)

3 cups flour
1 1/3 cup shortening
3/4 teaspoon salt
1 beaten egg
5 T. cold water
1 T. apple cider vinegar

Mix the flour and the salt together. Cut the shortening in. Stir the egg and vinegar into the very cold water and gently toss the liquid into the flour. I live where it is super dry and sometimes I have to add a bit more water. Form into a flat disc and refrigerate for several hours. This will make double crust.

And if you liked this recipe I know you will want to visit this post for another great one to try!

Monday, January 11, 2010

The rest of the peony story...

…which is not nearly as poetically tragic.

If you're looking for my garden giveaway it is one post back or just click here!

Lori was beautiful and adventurous and funny. But she was also the “tough chick” type…as in, don’t screw around with me…ever!

A lot of the other Mom’s from the baseball team were afraid of Lori but she and I became good friends which was great for rescuing peonies but we also used to spend hours when the kids were at school in her 4 wheel-drive pick-up exploring old fallen down barns and houses. She was my favorite partner for this. The buildings had usually been stripped long ago of anything valuable but we were forever carting home rusty farm tools and foundation stones to both of our husband’s great dismay.

We saw each other at the game the Saturday after the peony destruction and she told me “that damned Doug, I am going to make him pay for this!” and I didn’t doubt it for a second. If I was Doug I would have been very, very afraid! I think being married to such a tough chick he didn’t take my glaring to heart very much. But glare I did!

So a few weeks go by and Lori calls me and says “come quick, come quick! You have to see this,” and she gave an evil cackle.

I jumped in the car and took the quick ride out to the farmhouse and there was Doug, sitting on the roof, swearing up a storm with a big, tall ladder reaching up to where he is sitting.

Lori is nowhere to be seen.

I knock at the door and she shouts, “come in Jen!” so I do.

And there she is sitting at the kitchen table drinking coffee and reading a magazine.

“Lori, what are you doing? Doug is stuck on the roof!” I say.

She gets this smug look on her face and says “Do you want coffee? I know he's up there AND he’s staying up there for awhile AND he’s afraid of heights so he can’t come down the ladder unless I hold it AND I told you I would pay him back for plowing that field under!”

“Ummmm…. OK,” I say.

She keeps giggling and drinking her coffee.

Then all of the sudden she busts out laughing and says “he got up there to fix some roof tiles using the Cherry Picker and when he moved to the other side of the roof I moved the Cherry Picker and now he can’t get down because I won't hold the ladder.” Did I tell you she was a tough chick? Oh yea.

I'm thinking this could be dangerous situation to be in the middle of so I tell her I have to get home because the kids are coming back from school and she gives me a big hug and continues to giggle.

I go outside and Doug is just sitting there screaming and he yells, “Go get my stupid f#$%cking wife! Tell her to get the f#$%cking Cherry Picker! And I’m not sorry about your stupid f#$%cking flowers! At least hold the f#$%cking ladder so I can get down!” But I just got in my car and drove home to water my peonies!

It made me crack-up to see big old muscle builder Doug sitting on the roof crying for his Momma.

OK, and yes I am a flower protection militant.

So there.

Sigh.

If you missed the original peony story just click here to read it!

Sunday, January 10, 2010

Peony tales - conclusion (PKW)

Not saying you'll need one but I promised the possible kleenex warning and here it is!
As soon as I got home I called the neighbor who plowed my gardens and asked him to come over right away to cultivate a new field for me. He came that same evening and worked up the rich, black earth into what seemed like a huge bed.

When my children left for school the next day I took a bunch of boxes to the farm and started digging, being careful to keep each tag with each tuber. About ten minutes into the digging Doug came home and said he had the day off work and he was going to start plowing right away! Oh no! Lori and I dug and dug and piled peony tubers into the truck helter-skelter. We were covered in dirt and mud but no matter how fast we dug the rows still stretched on.

We heard the tractor starting up and realized we were never going to get finished so we grabbed two more plants and then watched as that shiny metal started ripping out years and years of beauty and history. Did I mention I never did like Doug?

It made me sad to watch so I left to drive carefully home. Careful of the blisters on my hands, careful of my precious cargo.

When the kids got home from school they filled buckets of water from the spring and we spent hours and hours planting the 27 plants that had been rescued. Five had tags. The rest were a mystery.

They all grew. Each one into magnificent plants laden with blossoms of every color from the palest yellow frills to almost black single blossoms. Most of the varieties I could never identify. I found out later that the man who had lived on that farm for over fifty years was a peony breeder and had varieties from all over the world.

Each year I lived in that old house the peonies took my breath away. I could feel the history in the blossoms. Feel the mystery in the unnamed varieties.

Sometimes I thought that leaving my beloved farmhouse and my gardens and my friends would break my heart entirely. But time does heal all wounds, eventually. Or at least make them manageable.

Several years ago when I was back in Ohio I asked the people who now live in my old home if I could walk around the yard. The peonies were gone. The old apple trees were gone. The perennial beds were gone. So much was gone. All of that clutter was just in the way of mowing they told me.

I left that day feeling so sad. So much lost beauty for the sake of an hour or two saved on a lawn mower.

That tiny kernel of sadness for loss still resides in my heart…for the lost peonies and the lost dreams. There is a small consolation recognizing that the blossoms are still inside with me in memory. I can easily close my eyes and recall the feel of the moist, rich soil under my hands as I cultivated around them. My mind still sees their glorious colors illuminated in the late afternoon sunshine.

But sometimes no matter how vivid the memory, my heart still grieves for the passage of time and the loss of something wonderful.

Tend your peony beds carefully, my friend. They may never come again.

If you missed the first part of this story just click on this link.

Saturday, January 9, 2010

Peony tales - part one

Warming weather continues here on my blog. This story was written about my Federal style farm house in Northeastern Ohio. You’ve all heard the stories of my beloved old, farmhouse in Ohio. The place where my heart still resides rejoicing in the sprinkle of snowy apple blossoms from the ancient trees. The place where my souls joy lived in the grace of countless lilacs and daffodils and peonies planted everywhere on the property.

The peony field sat atop a gentle slope above the old spring. Two gnarled old apple trees stood sentry above the clear cool gush of water from the pipe in the hillside. The tin cup hanging on the stub of a branch there was always ready to help with a drink of cold refreshment no matter how hot the day.

The peony field was not always there. In fact, the peonies came from old, old garden stock rescued from the cold, steel blades of a tractors plow.

Lori, a woman I had become “baseball Mom” friends with, purchased a decrepit brick farmhouse with her husband. The home sat on a little, flat piece of land and had always been intriquing to me with its Federal architecture and overgrown surroundings.

Nothing invokes mystery and history for me like farm buildings and homes in disrepair and overgrowth. I feel if you take a moment and lay your hand or your cheek against the weathered old wood you can feel the history of the place. You can feel the moments and the magic and the memories from some other farm wife who laid her hand or cheek in that exact spot. Gazing at a carefully placed rock edge in a now-weed filled garden it is easy to imagine that same farm wife carefully snipping blossoms to fill a glass jar in the center of her scrub-worn kitchen table.
Lori’s farm was no different.

Fields surrounded her house with chest-high weeds and I never ventured into them on my visits there. We rummaged in some of the old buildings planning restorations and we sat at the edge of her crumbling front porch talking about having the simple joys of grass you could walk through without worrying about snakes and tripping over abandoned farm equipment. One early, early spring day I got a frantic call from my friend. Her husband had endured the overgrown fields long enough. He had purchased a brush hog and plow for the old tractor that came with the property. Unknown to Lori, over the period of several weeks he had been hauling all the rusted old farm equipment and fallen-down fence posts out of the area. Lori had decided to venture into the wasteland provoking the urgent call.

“Jenny,” she exclaimed, “there are all kinds of things planted in that field! I don’t know what they are but there are all kinds of tags and markers but no actual plants!” Well, hey, the kids were at school and I can never resist a plant mystery so I jumped in my car and ran right over. She lived fairly close but it felt like the drive took forever. I was so intriqued and so excited.

She met me in the driveway and we ran out to the field and started looking at all the tags. There were hundreds of tags – all with different names on them: Schaffe, White Japanese, Boule de Neige, Mons Jules Elie. We looked and deciphered and read fading painted signs for quite awhile until it finally dawned on me that these were peonies. Scraping away some of the leaves and dead plant growth on the ground you could barely see the crowns starting to show growth.

Oh, I was excited until Lori said that Doug was plowing that field in two days and he could care less what was planted there. He had told Lori to dig up anything she wanted for the house but the rest were going to be plowed under!

Total panic! What! No! Oh no, no, no! I told Lori I would try to get them all moved and she said she would help.

To be continued tomorrow!

For the next part of the story just click here!

And PJ, this past post is for you! (evil chuckle)

Friday, January 8, 2010

A summer story for all of you freezing friends!

OK, OK! I get it. I was cruel bringing up sunshine and oranges and flowers. So I am going to do a two-fer today!

This is a story I wrote several years ago but since you all seem to be freezing I’ll try and warm you up a little bit, OK?

Yesterday my husband and I had a few errands to do in downtown Phoenix. Afterwards we went driving around some of the historic neighborhoods and decided to visit a nursery that we had received a gift certificate from. A lot of wrong turns and rambling around and we eventually stumbled across the little nursery tucked into the middle of high rises, vacant lots, boarded-up houses and parking garages.

The nursery gift shop and office was inside a small, 1910 bungalow and surrounded by wild, out of control greenery. The grounds around the bungalow were a potpourri of mismatched pottery, pots, broken tools and overgrown plantings with hoses in bright blue and neon green snaking through the profusion of leaves and flowers. Cement blocks held abundant pomegranate bushes next to flats of purple salvia, while lime green sweet potato vines ran rampant from black plastic pots. We wandered around for a bit talking of this plant and that. Trying vainly to think of places where we could integrate another 100 or so plants into our yard.

The proprietor wandered out after a while. This little garden creature was probably about five feet tall and tipped the scale (while holding a big potted plant) at 95 pounds. Her feet were tiny and bare and very, very dirty. Her crocheted garden hat was grimy and worn low shading a wrinkled and wizened nut brown face. “Oh,” she said, “I see you looking at my salvias. I am addicted to salvias!”

And then she launched into a 15 minute recital of why she loves them, why they are wonderful and why I needed to buy one of each variety. I told her we were going to remodel our backyard in the fall and I would come back and let her help me create a salvia planting and she clapped her hands in delight like a small child promised her favorite flavor of ice cream.

We sat on the cement steps by her porch and talked about gardens we have loved. I told her the thing I missed most was lilacs. She popped up from the steps and literally danced into the little house and came back with a picture of a Persian lilac bush. She told me I could grow them in Arizona and, in fact, had 5 in her own backyard. The fragrance was the same but there were a few special things the bushed needed to survive our summers. But, she promised, they would grow and thrive in our extreme summer conditions.

After her little speech she looked at me, carefully. She looked over at our shiny, car parked at the curb. She looked at my tennis shoes. I think she even noticed my short fingernails with a little bit of garden dirt under them. She reminded me of a little, inquisitive wrinkled bird tipping her head this way and that in studious concentration.

Then she said, “I think you might be the kind of person who could love a lilac bush.” I replied that I thought it would be difficult to find someone who didn't love lilacs.

“Oh.” she said, “you would be surprised. Lilacs have their down time, like everything in nature. People hate down time. They want their flowers to always be blooming, to never have dead leaves or bare branches. They want everything to be pretty and perfect and beautiful all the time - but it's not. If you can stand these Persian lilacs looking brown and dreary for several months they will reward you with flowers and fragrance. The flowers will only bloom for several weeks, but oh, it is heaven when they blossom.”

On the way home in the car I was uncharacteristically silent, looking out the window and thinking about her words. I thought how true they were - we all try to be perfect all the time. We apologize when our hair is not right, when our clothes are not right, when our house is not perfect.

But I think I am going to try living my life more like the lilacs - radiant, happy and simple, soaking up the sun and the sky and the clouds and the birds and going through the plain, bare and sad times with as much grace and peace as I can gather into my soul.

And on those glorious days that are perfect, the days when my granddaughters rest their petal soft cheeks on mine, the days when my husband and I sit doing nothing together but enjoying being together, the days when my hair is shiny and perfect and the breakfast toast and jam is especially wonderful- I am going to rejoice with my whole being.

AND YOU CAN CLICK HERE TO GO TO THE ORIGINAL POST THAT STARTED ALL THIS FREEZING STUFF!

Monday, January 4, 2010

Our youngest granddaughter had her tonsils out...

...some months ago.

And somehow when they removed the tonsils they also increased the pitch of her little voice by about three octaves.

So when she OK her voice is still soft and sweet BUT when she is excited it feels like her voice is going to break glass and/or puncture your eardrums.

It's a painful thing.

I was present at her 1 month post-op surgical visit and asked the doc when her voice would return to normal and he said "it is normal. It was not normal before." I was tempted to say "can I pay you to put the tonsils back cuz she is forever hurting my ears" but I thought that was kind of mean and un-grandmotherly so I restrained myself.

But still.

Very often in the car when I am taking all three little girls home I make up these bizarre stories that keep them enthralled and not fighting for the whole thirty minutes or so.

The stories always involve three little girls who are living in Cloud City, or in Igloos at the Northpole, or in a forest surrounded by talking animals.

There is not a peep out of the back seat and they sit there with their little eyes wide open just hanging on my every word.

It's wonderful.

Or it was.

Until lately.

The shrill little one has now decided to have an opinion about what her name is in the stories.

I'll be saying,

"Once upon a time there was a magic forest. The forest was lovely and green and filled with amazing and unusual animals. There were pink and purple striped zebras and..."

Suddenly from the backseat the three year old screeches "Gamma, Gamma...I want to be Snow White! Snow White Gamma!" Her voice is so startling and so high pitched that it sometimes makes her sisters start crying! "Morgan, you hurt my ears!" they yell. "Morgan, don't screech!" I yell.

And then I continue the story...

I say "where was I?"

And one of the older ones will say "pink and purple striped zebras!" so I will continue...

"and there lovely lions with manes made out of cotton candy and..."

"Gamma! Gamma!" the screeching commences again, "I want to have rainbow powers! I want rainbow..."

And I say "Morgan, please quit screaming! I know you want to be named Snow White. I know you have rainbow powers!" "Now, please quit screeching!"

And she will be all crest-fallen and I will feel very mean.

But I can't help it really. When my ears start bleeding I just tend to snap a bit.

Today, though her seven year old sister said "wait, Grandma, I need to tell Morgan something before you start the story again."

And then she said in a very serious voice, "Morgan, if you keep screaming like that people will never tell you stories. Grandma will stop telling you stories. People you don't know will not tell you stories. Your teachers will not tell you a story. No-one in the world will ever tell you a story because YOU HURT OUR EARS WHEN YOU SCREAM!"

And then she said "Go ahead, Grandma, she's not gonna scream anymore."

Ahhh...the optimism of youth.

So I continue "and three little girls came into the forest..."

And I kind of cringe expecting the glass-shattering shrillness. But it is silent.

I look back and there she is with a tear running down her sweet little pink face.

I hop off the next exit and say "Mo Mo? Why are you crying?"

And she says "I sowwy Gamma. No-one will tell me a story. I sowwy."

Oh geez.

Geez.

Oh man.

I hug her and say "it's OK Mo Mo! You can say what you think, OK? You can say you want to be Snow White and you can remind me about your rainbow powers, OK?"

And she says in her sweet little non-excited voice "OK Gwamma!"

And we continue down the road into our magical forest of colorful animals filled with little high-pitched Snow Whites with rainbow powers.

After all, what's a bleeding ear or two when you're a Grandma?

Sigh.

Thursday, December 31, 2009

What a difference a year makes...(PKW)

...and I tell you this tale to...

... Oh, what is the PKW you ask? It is a "possible kleenex warning". I've had some e-mails and comment requests asking for a kleenex warning when I switch from wearing my normal smart-alec hat to my more somber serious hat...I'm not saying it will make you cry but it might...OK, resuming serious now)

OK, hmmm.... yea. Oh yea.

I'm not telling this tale to you for any pity but to let you know that the impossible can happen. And I'm not telling you this story for you to judge me. Judge me you may...and I cannot stop that but unless or until you have a child in this situation the way you imagine you will handle it never seems to be the way you do. Or maybe it is. But this is what happened for me.

Last Christmas found me sitting outside in the shivery star-filled night playing my guitar and singing "Silent Night" trying to regain my sanity and to subdue the pain that was ripping my heart apart.

My sweet husband found me there and wrapped a blanket around me and led me to bed where I cried until I literally thought I might die.

Oh, I wanted to. I really did.

There is nothing that can cause pain like one of your children suffering. And suffering by perceived choice and not by unlucky chance.

Our youngest daughter is a heroin addict.

The whole full-on hoodie wearing junkie with track marks you see living on the streets.

To say this has been a horror is beyond an understatement. I have probably written 500,000 words trying to rid my soul of this pain. To no avail.

Our last attempt at "saving" this beloved girl resulted in me being away from my home and family staying in shivery-cold Minneapolis for six weeks while she went to a naturopathic rehab. An experience that could result in a thousand or more blog posts if I ever choose to share it.

I saw a miracle in Minneapolis. A true, honest to God, miracle. I saw my daughter return to me...talk to me...laugh with me...have honest light and life in her dimmed and delusioned hazel eyes.

It was a revelation.

And a heartbreak.

Because when we returned to "real life" she fell back into her old habits. Immediately.

And with great sorrow in my heart I let my soul die and began letting her go. A process that might seem easy. A process that is anything but easy.

But I decided that I had to do this to save myself. And that there were others in the family that I loved and that loved me. And that putting myself into the grave trying to save someone who did not want to be saved served no purpose. No matter how much I loved them.

It broke my heart. Almost literally.

So I did not see her or talk to her. I left food and blankets outside for her to pick up on our cold winter nights. The thought of my child living on the street was beyond anything I could even wrap my mind around.

I went to all the NA support meetings, I did all the "stuff" you are supposed to do but nothing helped.

And there was no light and music in my soul.

And right before Christmas she called and said she was clean and sober and asked to come to Christmas Eve. And against all the discordant clamor of my inner warning bells I said yes.

Last Christmas was brutal. Beyond brutal. It was like what I imagine hell to be. Because she wasn't clean or sober. And I tried to pretend for my Granddaughters sake that it was all OK. But it wasn't. Not by a mile. Not by a million miles. And when that night ended and I watched my big, tough son and my husband who can control emotions like nobodies business reduced to sobbing tears I thought my heart had broken even more. Something that seemed impossible.

So I sat under the stars in the backyard playing my old 12-string guitar until I actually felt my finger-tips bleeding. But still I couldn't stop. I could not release that horror and all the previous horrors from my mind.

In January when I encountered one of my long last cousins through her blog. And somehow just meeting her let the music come alive in my heart again

Just a tiny bit.

And as months passed I learned to laugh again. In spite of the fact that I felt I had lost my daughter. We had endured so much through this addiction and not being around it let me finally breathe.

And even though each breath was painful it was possible.

And through each breath the tiny kernel of hope inside of me sat untouched. Just waiting.

In April when she called me she sounded oddly quiet and composed. And she told me she was working on getting clean and staying sober.

I wished her luck but kept that kernel of hope locked up tight, tight, tight. Because it was really and truly all I had left.

But something happened because weeks began to pass and she stayed sober. She stayed off all the drugs.

But I still kept that hope locked up...because it had been beaten down and trampled so many, many times before that I was afraid to loose it entirely.

But I watched.

And I waited.

And the days clicked by...one after another...as they do whether we want them to or not.

And she found a place to live.

And she enrolled in college.

And she picked up the tiny fragments of her life little by little.

And she came back into our lives...little by little...and we let her...very, very carefully.

And now over eight months has passed and she is still finding her way back.

And she has become part of our family again.

And that tiny little kernel of hope has grown a tiny sprig of green and there is a leaf there that is about to bud.

Christmas morning she came with her boyfriend and they opened their stockings and laughed and kidded and joked and then went to my parents.

And the entire day I was on the verge of tears.

That we had, indeed, had a miracle in our lives.

And by prayers and perservance and by taking any and all help we could get to survive intact ... we actually had. Survived.

I know this is not a cure...but each and every day she stays on this path is one day farther away from the life she led.

And we are grateful and overwhelmed with the miracle of this.

I have seen the power of prayer.

I have witness to the amazement of miracles.

And now we are living one.

I listen to so many of your stories and they sadden me and I wonder how you manage to cope with the overflowing troubles you carry. And I admire your courage. I hope you can keep going and keep your head up and work on keeping the music and joy inside of you intact. No matter what.

One of my favorite quotes is "Faith is the bird that feels the light when the dawn is still dark." We have gone through the dark of night to find hope blooming again.

And I wish that for you, too.

No matter how dark it feels.

Keep your faith. There is always possibility. And always hope.

Happy New Year.

Wednesday, December 23, 2009

This is the end...

…of the innocence.

If someone ever made a very, very boring movie of my life that would be the soundtrack for the story I am about to tell you.

I was seven years old.

My sister was eight.

She was worldly and knew what was what. And she knew what she thought I needed to know.

And she thought I needed to know there was no Santa Claus.

Sure, I had heard a few things from kids at school but I was working hard back then at developing the skill of sticking-my-head-in-the-sand which would serve me well even until this day.

To make me pull-my-head-from-the-sand, my sister came up with a plan that was going to prove to me once and for all that “no Jenny. There is no Santa Claus.”

The plan involved a stack of presents that she found in the back of my parents closet.

This stack of presents had our names written on them in ink right on the tape on the wrapping paper.

How my sister figured this out I have no idea.

But she did. And she decided it would be a good thing to show me. Our next younger sister was too little and could be a potential risk of blabbing so she wasn’t included in this momentous plan of anti-Santa revelation.

I have it in my memory that my Mom was busy in the kitchen when my sister and I snuck into her room. From the depths of the closet my sister brought out a bounty of eight boxes. Four with each of our names. She cleverly slit the tape at the end of the package and very, very carefully shook out each shiny, white gift box.

And then she very, very carefully opened each box to reveal the tissue wrapped contents.

I saw a sweater for me. And some socks. And some books. And a Barbie doll with a black and white swimsuit.

And I don’t remember at all what was contained in her four boxes.

And after we looked at each item my sister very, very carefully put each box back into the wrapping paper sleeve and retaped it in the exact same spot and put them back in the closet.

My heart was pounding. I felt sick. And I felt sure that this would only prove that our parents bought SOME of our Christmas presents and that SANTA brought others. My sister laughed at my theory. But I continued to believe this.

Until Christmas morning when the tree had four boxes underneath with my name. I unwrapped each item slowly…with great dread…to see a sweater and some socks and some books and a swimsuit clad Barbie doll. And nothing else.

There were some things in my stocking but I was too heart-broken to care.

All day I felt sad and sick. And my heart hurt with that heavy ache that comes from reality thumping you firmly on top of the head.

This was the first time I felt that ache. And it would certainly not be the last as I discovered that innocence ends and that unsticking-your-head-from-the-sand could sometimes cause a lot of pain.

I don’t remember anything else about that Christmas.

I do remember, though, that the next year I firmly declined my sisters offer to preview presents. I didn’t want to see. I wanted to pretend that everything was the same.

But it wasn’t.

And it really never, ever was again until the day I had my own children and I watched their amazement and joy warm my entire universe as they saw the blazing tree on Christmas morning stacked high with possibilities and promises. That lovely, glittering tree surrounded by boxes containing simple wishes that could make their lives perfect for that single moment of time.

So I learned that filling someones simple wishes brought Christmas to my heart. And the ache was finally gone and Christmas found me once again.

And I found that Christmas always came with the giving.

Whether the giving was filling a wish for a warm coat or whether the giving was merely take the time to listen.

Whether the giving was to my child, or my child’s child, or the child of someone I had never met.

And each year Christmas came and went as it has since the beginning.

And each year it came back, magical and sparkly, as long as I was willing to make the effort to share and give honestly of myself.

Some years I find it hard to give.

I find it hard to step outside of the troubles in my life to look beyond me.

And on those particular years what I have learned is that is the time I need to dig deeper. To reach into the depths of pain or disillusion or illness or fear because it is when it is the hardest to give of myself …

…is always the time when I truly, honestly find Christmas glowing the warmest in my heart.

Monday, December 21, 2009

I wasn’t dreaming of a “White Christmas”…

Probably because we were living in Montana at the time and we already had lots and lots of snow to play in.

My father was stationed at Malmstrom AFB and I was a Brownie.

And even though I wasn’t dreaming about snow I was, however,spending a lot of time dreaming about the Brownie Christmas gift exchange…an exciting concept for almost-seven-year-old-me.

For the gift exchange we were supposed to buy a present for a girl. It was supposed to be a dollar gift, a sum that seemed like a fortune to me at the time.

I shopped for my gift with great and serious intent. I tried to choose but it was so hard. What gift to purchase for this momentous event?

I finally decided on a little doll. She was awfully cute. Little plastic molded on hair, a little plastic heart-shaped stand for her little plastic feet to slide in.

Oh, she was a beauty.

And I could scarcely contain myself in the days leading up to the Brownie meeting.
But finally the day arrived and my Mom left me at the meeting. Our Brownie leader carefully affixed little numbered slips of papers with scotch tape to each gift. I handed her my gift proudly. Did I mention the little molded on high heels the doll was wearing?

I was hoping that Susan would get my little gift in the exchange. I really liked Susan. She had long, curly brown hair and a gap-toothed smile and I was certain we would be best friends forever.

The meeting and the craft and the refreshments dragged on and on and on and on.
It felt like forever to almost-seven-year-old-me.

But the moment finally arrived and we all drew little folded-up pieces of paper from a shiny, green plastic bowl . The number on your slip of paper told you which gift you would receive. I got number 8.

The Brownie leader handed out the gifts. Number 8 was a box wrapped in red Santa Claus paper. There was a little red curling ribbon bow tied jauntily around the box.

I could hardly contain my excitement.

But I did.

I watched each Brownie open up her gift. What riches! There were some Christmas coloring books, one girl got a big box of crayons, there were barrettes and a hairbrush shaped liked Santa Claus. After each gift was opened the giver would proudly say “I picked that out!”

My gift finally got opened and although Susan didn’t get that number, the Brownie who received it opened her eyes wide in excitement. She fingered the little molded on hair and her mouth made a little “O” of enthusiasm. “I picked that out!” I told her proudly.

Finally it was my turn. I was almost last so it seemed like I had been waiting forever.

I carefully un-wrapped the Santa Claus paper.

I lifted the lid off.

Oooh. Tissue paper. I had tissue paper in my box. It was white and rustly.

All the little Brownies gathered around the box to watch me fold the paper back carefully.

And there on the tissue was a set of three little girl white panties.
I looked again.

Surely this could not be correct.

Surely someone did not give me UNDERWEAR for the Brownie gift exchange.

But someone did.

We all just sat and looked at the underwear for a minute. Or ten minutes. I’m not sure but it felt like an eternity. My Brownie leader tried to be enthusiastic, “oh my, now you will have some nice new underwear for Christmas, Jenny!” but I have to be honest that my joy didn’t match her perky, happy voice.

I wanted to cry.

But I didn’t.

No-one spoke up and said “I picked that out!” so I never knew who actually gave the gift of underwear.

The final two girls opened their little gifts and neither of them received underwear. I don’t remember what they got but I’m certain it wasn’t white and stretchy.

And I’m certain that the song “White Christmas” wasn’t written for a brown eyed Brownie who got white underwear in a gift exchange but this is often what pops into my head when I hear this song…

“I'm dreaming of a white Christmas,
with every Christmas card I write
May your days be merry and bright,
and may all your gifts of underwear be white.”

Sigh.

Thursday, November 26, 2009

Thanksgiving on the Farm

It was early morning. It was that tingly cold that makes you put on your warmest slippers and flannel robe. As I headed downstairs I cursed my attraction to century farmhouses. Although we tried mightily to seal old glass windows and run heating vents through almost petrified wood beams, the upstairs was always chilly and even more so in late November with an early cold spell bringing snow and wind to upstate Ohio.

On the way to the kitchen I turned up the thermostat several notches. I turned on the kitchen light and the golden tones of the wooden cabinets and floors glowed. The double window over the kitchen sink reflected a light glittering of snow dusted pink, rose and gold from the first rays of the Eastern sun. The gnarled ancient apple tree branches silhouetted against the pale lavender morning sky cast their charm over me as they always did. The pilot light on my old white enamel stove was out again but I struck a match and the burner glowed warm in the still chilly kitchen. I checked that the oven pilot light was working and turned that on as well. In deference to the early hour I had left my cast iron skillet, biggest roasting pan and a basket of onions out on the counter the night before.

The refrigerator supplied the butter, celery and a fat turkey ready to be stuffed. Very soon chopped onion and celery were simmering away in butter and their savory scents perfumed the kitchen air. This was the smell of every Thanksgiving past in our family. It was the same scent I anticipated each year when my parent rose at dawn to begin the preparation of our childhood feasts. I can remember laying in my cozy bed and smelling Thanksgiving as it drifted through the house. I hoped my children were having those same feelings on this day.

My huge yellow-ware bowl, used only for preparing food in massive quantities, easily held all my bread crumbs, bread cubes and spices - pungent sage and coarse black pepper, the coarse glisten of the kosher salt, the soft, enticing smell of the marjoram. All of the scents combined in that big yellow bowl…ahhh, the fragrance of memories. Soon the onions and celery were tender and the chicken broth warmed and the dressing became moist and aromatic with their addition.

The kitchen had become warm and wonderful and soon the stuffed turkey was in for its long roasting time. The extra stuffing was in its buttered casserole with a scoop saved out inside my little pink stoneware bowl. Now it was time to make some coffee and then to start the dinner roll dough rising, time to make the pie crust dough so it could chill for several hours, time to start chopping vegetables…

But first… a fresh cup of coffee and cream and a small pink bowl filled with stuffing needed to be eaten in front of the big windows overlooking the apple trees and the rosy morning glow of the sky. The house was quiet, the wooly throw was warm on my lap, my children were safely asleep upstairs.

Later the house would fill with relatives and laughter and teasing and conversation. Pies, mashed potatoes, the magnificent turkey, the flavorful stuffing, the yeasty warm dinner rolls, and the homemade jellies glistening like jewels would fill the table.

But for now, my coffee was perfect, the stuffing was savory, memories of all the Thanksgivings that had come before warmed my mind and this moment and this magic was my Thanksgiving.

Sunday, October 11, 2009

A perfect October day

For a perfect October day in Arizona you start by getting up early and watering your seeded winter lawn. (well, actually you listen to your husband complain while he's doing it) Then you look around your house and realize that you missed half of the fine-layer of dust all over everything when the winter lawn was getting put in.

Then you get in your car and head to meet some of your family for breakfast on the patio of an old western town. Where you eat lots of bacon, talk, laugh, listen to guys with guitars sing and eat more bacon.






Then you come home and watch your husband grump around a little bit because it is time to start the sprinklers on the winter lawn AGAIN!

Then you hop into your 1948 Willys Jeepster convertible and head over to the nursery to look at FALL plants wearing your warmest fall foot attire.



And then you get your husband to haul all your boxes of fall decorations inside because you just feel so darn much like Autumn.

And you decorate a little bit and a leave everything else out on your work table so your Granddaughters can help you decorate tomorrow.
And then you make a fire in the fireplace and sip warm cider (NOT!)

But it was still a fabulous fall day...just different then much of the United States right now.

Hope your October day was perfect, too!