We got the call this morning that Grandma Jo left this world. I can just see her, sitting at the breakfast table, looking at another breakfast of rubbery pancakes and limp bacon or lumpy, lukewarm oatmeal ~ remembering the wonderful meals she used to cook for her family and loved ones ~ and deciding that enough was enough. I am told she laid her head down on the table and just.... died.
Grandma Jo was the mother of two of my Dad's best friends and hunting buddies. Even though no blood bound us, she really loved Bro and I. Not the fake kind of affection some folks have for kids. She loved us from way down deep, and her eyes lit up with it when we came tumbling into her house full of hugs and stories and excitement over seeing her. She was always interested in what we had to say, and proud of our accomplishments. I don't ever remember her being impatient or angry, though I'm sure she sometimes was. I just remember great big hugs, the kind that envelope you and surround you with love and a feeling of safe. I remember big smiles, and laughter, and walks by the lake.
Grandma Jo taught me that different birds liked different foods, and different types of feeders. She taught me that good food was an art that came from the heart. She taught me that family wasn't always about blood relationship, but about love.
She was short, and plump, with long dark hair that was always bound up in a bun or braid. I remember seeing her with her hair down one time. I averted my eyes, feeling as if I had somehow seen her naked.
The driveway to their little house on the lake wound down a hill, through trees that seemed a vast forest to me. I remember feeling as if I was entering a magical land when we turned down that drive. Beyond the trees was a shining place, where Bro and I could fish off the pontoon or dock, or watch birds by the hour out the window, or sit at the kitchen table and watch as Jo stirred thickly bubbling pasta sauce and talk about all the important things in a child's life. The little house was it's own little world, where doilies rested on arms and backs of chairs, and stuffed fish lived on the walls. The patio doors looked out to the lake, and we could watch the day go by in a bubble of peace.
She wore bright, muumuu~like tops, and I had never seen anyone wear anything like them. I was sure they were made only for special women like her (maybe hand-made by magical elven folks in that far off land of Italy), and loved the bold flowers and birds that danced on the flowing fabric. I was a fanciful child, what can I say?
I remember staring in awe (and truthfully, a little fear) when she would scold my Uncle Wire or Uncle Arn, using their full name, and actually make them hang their heads and apologize. That such a small woman could hold such power was astonishing! My Uncles are/were tough guys, and Grandma Jo was so.... sweet... and cuddly. And the time when an unfortunate word choice made by Uncle Wire and then repeated by me actually caused her to hit him, and he took it... well, Grandma Jo's reputation reached epic proportions with that.
I can't talk about Grandma Jo without talking about the food. The glorious, amazing food. Oh, could Grandma Jo cook! Pheasant, and goose, and grouse, and duck.... and the pasta! Grandma Jo specialised in Italian cooking (being Italian might have had something to do with that). I remember her letting me "help" her in the kitchen. She patiently explained that 'Mostaccioli' meant 'little moustache', and held the dry little noodle up to her face, making me laugh at the sight of her with her own moustache. I remember the scents of her cooking, and the thickly bubbling pot of sauce she had been working on all day. I remember trips to the grocer to get the "special" olive oil that she used. I remember helping with the stuffing of shells and other pastas with rich, cheesy filling. I remember Pumpernickel bread sopping up the sauce on my plate. I remember eating myself sick too many times to count, and then laying on her couch and crying because my little tummy was distended and hurt. But it never hurt enough for me to resist gorging again the next time I visited!
The down side of loving folks is that they all leave. Some how, some way, some time, they all have to move out of your life and on to whatever comes next. But the up side... the up side is the love. The experience. And the memories. My memories of Grandma Jo and Grandpa Dale are shining golden jewels from my childhood, tucked away in my mind and heart forever.
So goodbye, Grandma Jo. I love you. Say hello to Grandpa Dale and Uncle Arn for me. Tell them I miss them, as much as I will miss you.....
Peace
Showing posts with label Storytime. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Storytime. Show all posts
Friday, February 11, 2011
Saturday, January 01, 2011
Winter Peace
We sit together, Teacher and I, and watch out her dining room windows. At 100 years old, she has looked out these same windows at the same fields for 80 of those years. She never seems to tire of the view, talking of years long gone and watching the birds as they flit from feeder to lilac to tree and back. Teacher has fed her children at this same table, and her grand-children. Now she looks at pictures of great-great-grandchildren from the same chair she sat in for so many meals. She doesn’t really remember who the pictures are of, but she likes to look at the children’s smiles. Sometimes there is enough of a family resemblance that she knows they are her relatives, sometimes she just smiles at the beautiful faces of strangers looking up at her from the album.
Photo credit
Two pheasants come to peck at the sunflower seeds that the raucous jays have spilled on the ground, and even Teacher’s failing eyes can pick out their vibrant colors. The sun peeks out from behind the clouds, and we both “ahhhhh” like the crowds on the Fourth of July. “There’s the sun!” she says, “Isn’t that just beautiful…” I ask if she is warm enough (she never is these days) and offer a blanket to wrap around her shoulders. Teacher smiles her thanks and goes back to watching as the golden sunlight pours over the fields, contrasting deliciously with the purple shadows where the snow has drifted and dimpled.
We spend much of our time in silence. Teacher drifts through the memories of the years she has seen, and I wait for the tidbits she chooses to share. I crochet a lot when I am with her, just sitting and enjoying the silence. I keep an eye on the bird feeder, letting her know when an unusual bird arrives for a visit or commenting on the antics of our “regulars”. I used to ask her to identify some of the different birds for me, but now I get out the bird guide and we look them up together. I like to watch the way Teacher touches the pages of her bird guide. She caresses each page, tracing the colors and outlines of the different birds. There is a tender joy in her movements. Two of her favorite things, birds and books, combined in one object that she can touch.
Today, the snow is blowing across the fields, rising in clouds that blur the stand of pines beyond. I turn on some soothing classical music – she is partial to Debussy – and we let the music drift over us. Teacher asks (again) what project I am working on, and I hold it up, shaking out the wrinkles so she can see the bright colors I am weaving together. “It’s going to be an afghan. I hope Big Sprout will want it when it’s done” I reply (again). This sparks the same conversation we have already had 3 times today. She asks how old the Sprouts are, what grades they are in, and if they are happy. I answer her questions, and tell her a few amusing anecdotes about their behavior. Then we settle into silence again. It never bothers me to answer her questions over and over through the day. Teacher doesn’t remember asking, and I like that she is interested enough to ask.
Sometimes, Teacher will hold the end of my crocheting project while I work. Her hands are still strong, the fingers nimble, and she seems to enjoy the textures of yarn as she traces the loops and swirls of each stitch. Teacher watches as the hook darts in and out of loops of yarn, light flashing off the colored metal. I think she gets a little hypnotized by the motion. I can see her eyelids droop and her eyes lose their focus as she watches. Soon her eyes close altogether, and I stay as quiet as I can to let her nap.
The day will come (probably sooner rather than later) when she will move on to whatever comes after this life. There will be no more afternoons spent in companionable silence, no more pecks on the cheek and promises to “see you soon”. I can’t worry about that. Every day is treated like it is our last day together, and I know that when the time comes for us to part ways, I will be happy for her. I will have the memories of 12 years of her friendship. I will have all the many things she has taught me to keep her with me over the years. And I will cherish every one.
Two pheasants come to peck at the sunflower seeds that the raucous jays have spilled on the ground, and even Teacher’s failing eyes can pick out their vibrant colors. The sun peeks out from behind the clouds, and we both “ahhhhh” like the crowds on the Fourth of July. “There’s the sun!” she says, “Isn’t that just beautiful…” I ask if she is warm enough (she never is these days) and offer a blanket to wrap around her shoulders. Teacher smiles her thanks and goes back to watching as the golden sunlight pours over the fields, contrasting deliciously with the purple shadows where the snow has drifted and dimpled.
We spend much of our time in silence. Teacher drifts through the memories of the years she has seen, and I wait for the tidbits she chooses to share. I crochet a lot when I am with her, just sitting and enjoying the silence. I keep an eye on the bird feeder, letting her know when an unusual bird arrives for a visit or commenting on the antics of our “regulars”. I used to ask her to identify some of the different birds for me, but now I get out the bird guide and we look them up together. I like to watch the way Teacher touches the pages of her bird guide. She caresses each page, tracing the colors and outlines of the different birds. There is a tender joy in her movements. Two of her favorite things, birds and books, combined in one object that she can touch.
Today, the snow is blowing across the fields, rising in clouds that blur the stand of pines beyond. I turn on some soothing classical music – she is partial to Debussy – and we let the music drift over us. Teacher asks (again) what project I am working on, and I hold it up, shaking out the wrinkles so she can see the bright colors I am weaving together. “It’s going to be an afghan. I hope Big Sprout will want it when it’s done” I reply (again). This sparks the same conversation we have already had 3 times today. She asks how old the Sprouts are, what grades they are in, and if they are happy. I answer her questions, and tell her a few amusing anecdotes about their behavior. Then we settle into silence again. It never bothers me to answer her questions over and over through the day. Teacher doesn’t remember asking, and I like that she is interested enough to ask.
Sometimes, Teacher will hold the end of my crocheting project while I work. Her hands are still strong, the fingers nimble, and she seems to enjoy the textures of yarn as she traces the loops and swirls of each stitch. Teacher watches as the hook darts in and out of loops of yarn, light flashing off the colored metal. I think she gets a little hypnotized by the motion. I can see her eyelids droop and her eyes lose their focus as she watches. Soon her eyes close altogether, and I stay as quiet as I can to let her nap.
The day will come (probably sooner rather than later) when she will move on to whatever comes after this life. There will be no more afternoons spent in companionable silence, no more pecks on the cheek and promises to “see you soon”. I can’t worry about that. Every day is treated like it is our last day together, and I know that when the time comes for us to part ways, I will be happy for her. I will have the memories of 12 years of her friendship. I will have all the many things she has taught me to keep her with me over the years. And I will cherish every one.
Sunday, September 12, 2010
The Bakery
There is a bakery in the neighboring town. We call it, simply, The Bakery. You can actually hear the capitals when someone says it, as if it is the only bakery to ever be in existence, or the only bakery worthy of the name. It has another name, but we have never used it… at least not in my family.
It is a simple place. Two storefronts on the main street, with the wall knocked out in between them. One side houses the display counters, the other is outfitted with old laminate café tables and chairs. There are places on the tables where the laminate has been rubbed off through years of rough handling and diligent scrubbing.
The back of the store is where the magic happens. This is where the staff arrives at 4am and begins making the delightfully sweet treats and savory, satisfying soups and sandwiches that are served daily. There are windows looking out from the “bakery” portion onto the hall, so anyone can stand and watch as their favorite sweet is made from scratch. The staff usually keep the door to the kitchen open, as well. It is not unusual to see customers (my family, always) standing in the doorway and talking with the staff as they build sandwiches and cut fresh fruit for the lunch crowd.
They serve the best food at The Bakery. The cinnamon rolls with cream cheese frosting and pecan studded caramel rolls are as big as my hand. Not the palm, the whole hand. The strudels are so flaky they seem to explode in your mouth, and filled with the dreamiest fruit filling imaginable. Their chocolate cupcakes are more like cupcake shaped brownies, topped with the fluffiest frosting.
There are breads and rolls of every sort. Garlic bread, sourdough bread, onion rolls, wild rice bread, cranberry bread, raisin bread, cheese bread, zucchini bread... the list goes on and on...
The lunch menu is my personal favorite: bagel sandwiches, piled high with meats and cheeses; hoagies; homemade, hearty soups; salads and fruit cups. I can feel myself gaining weight just thinking about the delicious offerings they serve every day.
Oddly enough, the food is probably only the smallest part of why The Bakery is so popular.
The Bakery is the kind of place where no one minds if children leave sticky fingerprints and drool on the glass display counters while they search for the cupcake with the most frosting, or that one cookie that has the perfect number of chocolate chips. There are coffee pots out in the eating area, so the local “retired farmers guild” (those gentlemen who have passed on their farming responsibilities to younger generations or sold out to larger corporations, and now spend the morning hours solving all the world’s problems over cinnamon rolls and coffee) can serve themselves as many cups of hot, black java as they would like. Teachers congregate in the mornings, loading up on sugar and caffeine before heading off to face the battle of forcing knowledge onto reluctant (and, sometimes, outright rebellious) youth. Business meetings are held here, folks in uncomfortable looking suits signing papers while wiping gooey frosting off their faces.
I think The Bakery has a bit of a feminine feel, like the best Grandma’s Kitchen in the world. Lacey shelf paper peeks out from under the many cookie jars and teapots on display. It is a place that really captures the best feelings of home. Laughter, safety, good food, friendship. There is always a smile for everyone, and it is never a problem for the staff to pull an entire tray out of the counter to give a customer that perfect roll or sandwich (nope, one to the right. No, not your right, MY right. There you go, that one is perfect!!) People are friendlier in The Bakery. When it's crowded during a rush, folks will scoot over and invite you to pull up a chair at their table. When someone gets up to refill their coffee cup, it isn't unusual for them to walk the table circuit, offering refills to everyone else who has a cup.
When Big Sprout was little, and known as simply Sprout, she and Grandpa used to go up to The Bakery quite regularly. Big Sprout would call it her "date" with Grandpa, and was so proud of her special time with him. We were always astonished when she would eat almost all of a cream cheese cinnamon roll and caramel roll at one sitting. Those things are HUGE! I worked two blocks away from the Bakery for a few years, and it became my favorite lunch spot. Little Sprout has discovered the joys of "dates" with Grandpa, and now requests visits to The Bakery on a regular basis.
I am happy to live somewhere that little places like this still exist. It makes me smile when the gals working behind the counter remember my Sprouts and know what they like best. I love to walk in and smell the delicious scents of baking goodies. It feels good when the members of the Retired Farmers Guild play peek-a-boo with the baby at the next table.
It's a good place.
And that's all I have to say about that...
It is a simple place. Two storefronts on the main street, with the wall knocked out in between them. One side houses the display counters, the other is outfitted with old laminate café tables and chairs. There are places on the tables where the laminate has been rubbed off through years of rough handling and diligent scrubbing.
The back of the store is where the magic happens. This is where the staff arrives at 4am and begins making the delightfully sweet treats and savory, satisfying soups and sandwiches that are served daily. There are windows looking out from the “bakery” portion onto the hall, so anyone can stand and watch as their favorite sweet is made from scratch. The staff usually keep the door to the kitchen open, as well. It is not unusual to see customers (my family, always) standing in the doorway and talking with the staff as they build sandwiches and cut fresh fruit for the lunch crowd.
They serve the best food at The Bakery. The cinnamon rolls with cream cheese frosting and pecan studded caramel rolls are as big as my hand. Not the palm, the whole hand. The strudels are so flaky they seem to explode in your mouth, and filled with the dreamiest fruit filling imaginable. Their chocolate cupcakes are more like cupcake shaped brownies, topped with the fluffiest frosting.
There are breads and rolls of every sort. Garlic bread, sourdough bread, onion rolls, wild rice bread, cranberry bread, raisin bread, cheese bread, zucchini bread... the list goes on and on...
The lunch menu is my personal favorite: bagel sandwiches, piled high with meats and cheeses; hoagies; homemade, hearty soups; salads and fruit cups. I can feel myself gaining weight just thinking about the delicious offerings they serve every day.
Oddly enough, the food is probably only the smallest part of why The Bakery is so popular.
The Bakery is the kind of place where no one minds if children leave sticky fingerprints and drool on the glass display counters while they search for the cupcake with the most frosting, or that one cookie that has the perfect number of chocolate chips. There are coffee pots out in the eating area, so the local “retired farmers guild” (those gentlemen who have passed on their farming responsibilities to younger generations or sold out to larger corporations, and now spend the morning hours solving all the world’s problems over cinnamon rolls and coffee) can serve themselves as many cups of hot, black java as they would like. Teachers congregate in the mornings, loading up on sugar and caffeine before heading off to face the battle of forcing knowledge onto reluctant (and, sometimes, outright rebellious) youth. Business meetings are held here, folks in uncomfortable looking suits signing papers while wiping gooey frosting off their faces.
I think The Bakery has a bit of a feminine feel, like the best Grandma’s Kitchen in the world. Lacey shelf paper peeks out from under the many cookie jars and teapots on display. It is a place that really captures the best feelings of home. Laughter, safety, good food, friendship. There is always a smile for everyone, and it is never a problem for the staff to pull an entire tray out of the counter to give a customer that perfect roll or sandwich (nope, one to the right. No, not your right, MY right. There you go, that one is perfect!!) People are friendlier in The Bakery. When it's crowded during a rush, folks will scoot over and invite you to pull up a chair at their table. When someone gets up to refill their coffee cup, it isn't unusual for them to walk the table circuit, offering refills to everyone else who has a cup.
When Big Sprout was little, and known as simply Sprout, she and Grandpa used to go up to The Bakery quite regularly. Big Sprout would call it her "date" with Grandpa, and was so proud of her special time with him. We were always astonished when she would eat almost all of a cream cheese cinnamon roll and caramel roll at one sitting. Those things are HUGE! I worked two blocks away from the Bakery for a few years, and it became my favorite lunch spot. Little Sprout has discovered the joys of "dates" with Grandpa, and now requests visits to The Bakery on a regular basis.
I am happy to live somewhere that little places like this still exist. It makes me smile when the gals working behind the counter remember my Sprouts and know what they like best. I love to walk in and smell the delicious scents of baking goodies. It feels good when the members of the Retired Farmers Guild play peek-a-boo with the baby at the next table.
It's a good place.
And that's all I have to say about that...
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Memory
I remember, when Mr. Barefoot and I first moved into that drafty and charming house that was to become our first home, how I used to get home with Big Sprout (then just Sprout) before anyone else was home. I would light all the candles I had around the living room, put on the classical music station, and Big Sprout and I would cuddle on the couch. Sometimes we would talk about her day, but mostly we would be quiet. We would watch the shadows flicker on the walls and think our separate thoughts, or not think at all.
Those were good times. I wonder if she will remember them when she is grown and has her own little Sprouts. Will she sit with them in the quiet and enjoy the way they fit so snugly up under her chin? Will she listen to them tell rambling stories about their daycare friends and the oh-so-important goings on in a 3 year old's life? I hope so.
If she forgets, maybe I will have to take my little grandsprouts and teach them the wonders of Chopin and candlelight, while dusk falls outside the windows and the first stars peek out of the darkness.
Until then, I think I will just go outside and see how my bare toes look in the moonlight. You are welcome to join me, if you want...
Those were good times. I wonder if she will remember them when she is grown and has her own little Sprouts. Will she sit with them in the quiet and enjoy the way they fit so snugly up under her chin? Will she listen to them tell rambling stories about their daycare friends and the oh-so-important goings on in a 3 year old's life? I hope so.
If she forgets, maybe I will have to take my little grandsprouts and teach them the wonders of Chopin and candlelight, while dusk falls outside the windows and the first stars peek out of the darkness.
Until then, I think I will just go outside and see how my bare toes look in the moonlight. You are welcome to join me, if you want...
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Childhood Games
I was discussing childhood games with a gal at work the other night. At some point during the discussion, I realised that the games my parents played with Bro and I are not exactly what the child-rearing experts (do any of them actually have kids?) would call "games".
I am not complaining at all. I think I had a wonderful childhood, and am immensely grateful that I had the amazing parents that I did. It was actually kind of reassuring. See, I have been beating myself up for not being the kind of person who is comfortable getting down on the floor with the Sprouts and playing tea party or kicking a ball around in the backyard. I can do it for a little while, and not every day, but for the most part "play" is not something I am good at.
Just for fun, I thought I would share some of the "games" my folks played with Bro and I. Let's see.... there was:
~ Let's-Go-Weed-The-Garden (played on our hands and knees in the garden)
~ The Berry Picking Game (played in the summer berry brambles with ice cream buckets)
~ Who-Can-Spot-The-Most-Deer-Sign (played while Dad was scouting for a good place to put his deer stand, usually during a berry picking mission)
~ What-Is-That-Plant/Animal/Mineral (usually played with our favorite toy - a Reader's Digest Field Guide)
~ Let's-Hold-Down-The-Board-Dad-Is-Cutting (played while Dad worked on his many home improvement projects)
~ Let's-Hold-The-Board-Dad-Is-Nailing-Perfectly-Still (another home improvement game)
~ Find-The-Fallen-Nail (played with a gigantic industrial magnet on a shoe string during Dad's home improvement projects)
~ Singing-In-The-Woods (a fun game played while berry picking when bears were sharing the woods with us)
~ Pile-Up-Snow-For-A-Snow-Fort (conveniently, the snow we always moved was from the driveway)
~ Pack-Mule (this super-fun game was played whenever Dad needed things like his hammer or tape measure brought to him)
~ Pick-Up-Sticks (contrary to popular belief, this game is played outside in the yard, right before Dad mows the lawn)
~ Look-It-Up (best played with a good encyclopedia or dictionary and a lot of questions)
Now, if an "expert" saw this list they might think that Bro and I had a terrible childhood. The thing is, we didn't. Our childhood was bright and fun and carefree. Believe it or not, these activities are fun! Especially if you are 6 years old with boundless energy and more questions than any parent can answer. To soothe those "experts", we did spend a lot of days running in the woods by ourselves, building forts with nails stolen from Dad's stash, sharpening wooden "arrows" on the concrete front steps (to play Cowboys and Indians, of course! And, in our world, the Natives always beat the wimpy white man...), and playing war with spiny wild cucumbers. Oh, wait, that isn't safe play, either? Oh, well...
I have definitely kept up some of these games with my own Sprouts. Little Sprout absolutely loves Let's-Go-Weed-The-Garden, and Big Sprout is an absolute whiz at Find-The-Fallen-Nail.
I wonder what they will think when they look back as adults at the "games" I played with them....
I am not complaining at all. I think I had a wonderful childhood, and am immensely grateful that I had the amazing parents that I did. It was actually kind of reassuring. See, I have been beating myself up for not being the kind of person who is comfortable getting down on the floor with the Sprouts and playing tea party or kicking a ball around in the backyard. I can do it for a little while, and not every day, but for the most part "play" is not something I am good at.
Just for fun, I thought I would share some of the "games" my folks played with Bro and I. Let's see.... there was:
~ Let's-Go-Weed-The-Garden (played on our hands and knees in the garden)
~ The Berry Picking Game (played in the summer berry brambles with ice cream buckets)
~ Who-Can-Spot-The-Most-Deer-Sign (played while Dad was scouting for a good place to put his deer stand, usually during a berry picking mission)
~ What-Is-That-Plant/Animal/Mineral (usually played with our favorite toy - a Reader's Digest Field Guide)
~ Let's-Hold-Down-The-Board-Dad-Is-Cutting (played while Dad worked on his many home improvement projects)
~ Let's-Hold-The-Board-Dad-Is-Nailing-Perfectly-Still (another home improvement game)
~ Find-The-Fallen-Nail (played with a gigantic industrial magnet on a shoe string during Dad's home improvement projects)
~ Singing-In-The-Woods (a fun game played while berry picking when bears were sharing the woods with us)
~ Pile-Up-Snow-For-A-Snow-Fort (conveniently, the snow we always moved was from the driveway)
~ Pack-Mule (this super-fun game was played whenever Dad needed things like his hammer or tape measure brought to him)
~ Pick-Up-Sticks (contrary to popular belief, this game is played outside in the yard, right before Dad mows the lawn)
~ Look-It-Up (best played with a good encyclopedia or dictionary and a lot of questions)
Now, if an "expert" saw this list they might think that Bro and I had a terrible childhood. The thing is, we didn't. Our childhood was bright and fun and carefree. Believe it or not, these activities are fun! Especially if you are 6 years old with boundless energy and more questions than any parent can answer. To soothe those "experts", we did spend a lot of days running in the woods by ourselves, building forts with nails stolen from Dad's stash, sharpening wooden "arrows" on the concrete front steps (to play Cowboys and Indians, of course! And, in our world, the Natives always beat the wimpy white man...), and playing war with spiny wild cucumbers. Oh, wait, that isn't safe play, either? Oh, well...
I have definitely kept up some of these games with my own Sprouts. Little Sprout absolutely loves Let's-Go-Weed-The-Garden, and Big Sprout is an absolute whiz at Find-The-Fallen-Nail.
I wonder what they will think when they look back as adults at the "games" I played with them....
Monday, March 29, 2010
An Answer For Fr. Peter... (or)... The Story of the House Next Door
Soon after moving into Barefoot Manor, we noticed that the house next to us seemed to be empty. It was a little strange, because I remember noticing folks peeking at us out the windows when we came to tour our house before buying. We asked around the neighborhood, and heard that the folks living there had just disappeared between one day and the next, and the general feeling was that they had lost the house and just walked away from it. Within a couple of months, there was a for sale sign and that familiar paper we had seen on so many foreclosed homes taped to the front door.
I talked to Mom and Dad about the possibility of them purchasing it, since I couldn't at that time. We went over to look, and it was really kind of sad. The house was an old two story "farmhouse" style place. It had probably been built around 100 yrs ago, and it looked it. The former owners (and I mean the former owners for the last 50 years or so, not just the ones who left most recently) had not really taken care of the place. The foundation was crumbling, there were holes in the walls at every corner, the roof was falling apart. The chimney was falling apart, the back porch looked ready to fall right off the hosue, and you could see where rodents had been going in and out of the attic. Mr. Barefoot got to talk to the guys hired to clean out all the junk left inside the house, and they told him that it didn't have electricity upstairs and that the house had obviously been hard-used. The house had been adorable and charming once upon a time, but we quickly realized that it was beyond our resources to fix this one up.
So the house sat empty for another year.
The city finally bought it, and I got all excited thinking that they would possibly just knock the house down and make a small park on the lot. They have done that on a couple other lots here in town where there had been empty houses falling down, and I thought it would be wonderful to have that empty lot with some picnic benches and some pretty grass.
Then the city gave it to the Historical Society. So I started hoping that it would be restored, or at least dismantled and the bits salvaged.
That was not to be. They eventually condemned the house and donated the site to Habitat for Humanity.
The local fire dept used the house for drills for months. They practiced rescues and how to put out fires in different locations. It was noisy, but kind of fun to watch. Finally, this past Saturday, they burned it to the ground. I wasn't there to see it, but Mr. Barefoot sat outside most of the day watching the show. He said they set it on fire several times, and then practiced putting it out. I am sure it was a wonderful opportunity for the local firemen to practice, and it has inspired Little Sprout to be a fireman when she grows up. It seems the whole neighborhood showed up to watch, and Mr. Barefoot was kept very busy keeping them out of my flower beds. Rude people! Now the plan is for Habitat to build two homes on the same lot (ask me how I feel about THAT grrrrr...), and for local families to move in.
I know that several folks approached both the city and Habitat about salvaging some of the historic wood trim and other things from the home before they burned it, but I don't know what the result of that was.
So that is the story of the house next door. Right now I can look out my kitchen window and see the pile of (still smoking) rubble left behind. Soon crews will start cleaning up the mess, and building the new homes. I don't look forward to the noise while I am trying to sleep, or the people looking over my fence at me while I garden. Hopefully nice families will move in, and there won't be too many windows overlooking my yard.
Who says I am not an optimist?
Now, Fr. Peter, I am curious... what do they do with condemned homes over in your area? Or is allowing a home to get that run-down just not an option? I know that Americans do not have the same sense of national history that most other countries have, and that (especially in Europe) there are many MANY more historic buildings in wonderful condition than here. It seems, from what I have seen on the TV and in magazines, that many of the very old buildings I have seen are built with stone or brick. Does that make a difference? I know that in the U.S. (at least in MN), stone or brick is hard to come by and most homes are timber frame. We tend to let old homes fall apart and then replace them (atrocious behavior, but true). I am curious how things work in other parts of the world, so would you be willing to share? Thanks!
I talked to Mom and Dad about the possibility of them purchasing it, since I couldn't at that time. We went over to look, and it was really kind of sad. The house was an old two story "farmhouse" style place. It had probably been built around 100 yrs ago, and it looked it. The former owners (and I mean the former owners for the last 50 years or so, not just the ones who left most recently) had not really taken care of the place. The foundation was crumbling, there were holes in the walls at every corner, the roof was falling apart. The chimney was falling apart, the back porch looked ready to fall right off the hosue, and you could see where rodents had been going in and out of the attic. Mr. Barefoot got to talk to the guys hired to clean out all the junk left inside the house, and they told him that it didn't have electricity upstairs and that the house had obviously been hard-used. The house had been adorable and charming once upon a time, but we quickly realized that it was beyond our resources to fix this one up.
So the house sat empty for another year.
The city finally bought it, and I got all excited thinking that they would possibly just knock the house down and make a small park on the lot. They have done that on a couple other lots here in town where there had been empty houses falling down, and I thought it would be wonderful to have that empty lot with some picnic benches and some pretty grass.
Then the city gave it to the Historical Society. So I started hoping that it would be restored, or at least dismantled and the bits salvaged.
That was not to be. They eventually condemned the house and donated the site to Habitat for Humanity.
The local fire dept used the house for drills for months. They practiced rescues and how to put out fires in different locations. It was noisy, but kind of fun to watch. Finally, this past Saturday, they burned it to the ground. I wasn't there to see it, but Mr. Barefoot sat outside most of the day watching the show. He said they set it on fire several times, and then practiced putting it out. I am sure it was a wonderful opportunity for the local firemen to practice, and it has inspired Little Sprout to be a fireman when she grows up. It seems the whole neighborhood showed up to watch, and Mr. Barefoot was kept very busy keeping them out of my flower beds. Rude people! Now the plan is for Habitat to build two homes on the same lot (ask me how I feel about THAT grrrrr...), and for local families to move in.
I know that several folks approached both the city and Habitat about salvaging some of the historic wood trim and other things from the home before they burned it, but I don't know what the result of that was.
So that is the story of the house next door. Right now I can look out my kitchen window and see the pile of (still smoking) rubble left behind. Soon crews will start cleaning up the mess, and building the new homes. I don't look forward to the noise while I am trying to sleep, or the people looking over my fence at me while I garden. Hopefully nice families will move in, and there won't be too many windows overlooking my yard.
Who says I am not an optimist?
Now, Fr. Peter, I am curious... what do they do with condemned homes over in your area? Or is allowing a home to get that run-down just not an option? I know that Americans do not have the same sense of national history that most other countries have, and that (especially in Europe) there are many MANY more historic buildings in wonderful condition than here. It seems, from what I have seen on the TV and in magazines, that many of the very old buildings I have seen are built with stone or brick. Does that make a difference? I know that in the U.S. (at least in MN), stone or brick is hard to come by and most homes are timber frame. We tend to let old homes fall apart and then replace them (atrocious behavior, but true). I am curious how things work in other parts of the world, so would you be willing to share? Thanks!
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Spring in Minnesota
Spring in Minnesota is both beautiful and strange. In the course of a day, you can watch the leaves of your tulips and daffodils rise inches from the ground; you go to bed one night and the world is shades of brown and grey, only to walk outside on your lunch break the next day and see a haze of green covering every tree and bush in sight. Spring comes quickly and quietly sneaking up on you and then knocking you over the head with its brilliant colors and vivacious personality.
The first truly warm weekend of spring in Minnesota is always a little like a circus sideshow. There are the "beautiful people" out biking or walking, children running and riding their bikes all over the neighborhood (no doubt assuring themselves that all their "secret places" are still there from last year), elderly folks sweeping the last of the oak leaves off their immaculately tended front walks. There are also flabby, Minnesota-fish-belly-white legs hanging out of shorts and capri pants. There are floppy, equally pallid upper arms jiggling in the breeze as folks bare their skin in attempts to soak up every last ray of spring sun.
The sounds are just as mixed. Joyous birdsong is a bright counterpart to the desperate groans of women trying to fit into summer clothes that 'somehow shrunk while they were stored' in the back of the closet or the garage all winter long. The evening song of peeping frogs and re-emerging crickets is drowned out by the outraged shouts as folks find out what a gym membership (needed to get back into swimsuit shape after a winter of layers and hot coco) is going to cost them. Children's shouts of glee at being able to play outside again rise into the air alongside the pained moans of gardeners who forgot to 'start slow' and worked winter-weakened muscles too hard.
It is a wonderful time, and I am proud to be a part of it....
What is Spring like where you live?
The first truly warm weekend of spring in Minnesota is always a little like a circus sideshow. There are the "beautiful people" out biking or walking, children running and riding their bikes all over the neighborhood (no doubt assuring themselves that all their "secret places" are still there from last year), elderly folks sweeping the last of the oak leaves off their immaculately tended front walks. There are also flabby, Minnesota-fish-belly-white legs hanging out of shorts and capri pants. There are floppy, equally pallid upper arms jiggling in the breeze as folks bare their skin in attempts to soak up every last ray of spring sun.
The sounds are just as mixed. Joyous birdsong is a bright counterpart to the desperate groans of women trying to fit into summer clothes that 'somehow shrunk while they were stored' in the back of the closet or the garage all winter long. The evening song of peeping frogs and re-emerging crickets is drowned out by the outraged shouts as folks find out what a gym membership (needed to get back into swimsuit shape after a winter of layers and hot coco) is going to cost them. Children's shouts of glee at being able to play outside again rise into the air alongside the pained moans of gardeners who forgot to 'start slow' and worked winter-weakened muscles too hard.
It is a wonderful time, and I am proud to be a part of it....
What is Spring like where you live?
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Small Town Living
I have lived in or around the same small town almost all my life. I hated it when I was a teen, thinking that there was nothing to do and nowhere to go, but I really love my town.
It isn't really anything special, just a few shops and a post office. There is one grocery store, a Subway, and a McDonald's. Of course, neither Subway nor McD's were there when I was growing up. It's home, though.
On Friday, I went to pick up Little Sprout from my folks' place and we all decided to walk up to the bank to get our weekly banking done. It is only a quarter mile from my folks' place to the bank, so Little Sprout walked and we just took the stroller as 'insurance' in case she got tired or cold and wanted to ride.
We got to the bank, and Little Sprout giggled madly as she pushed the 'handicapped access' button to make the doors open automatically. We all hurried through the doors in an attempt to let as little cold wind in the building as possible, and were immediately greeted by the 'Bank Ladies' laughing at Little Sprout's antics. They asked how Big Sprout was doing, and how Dad and I were handling our strange work schedules.
Little Sprout ran to the corner where the toys are (yes, they have a toy corner at the BANK. How cool is that?!) and made herself comfortable while Dad and I took care of our business. As I was finishing my transaction with the teller, she sifted through the stickers she keeps in her drawer and picked out a special sticker for Little Sprout. Then she sifted through again, and sent one home for Big Sprout - "so she won't feel left out".
The teller at the next window shared stories of her grandson getting his hair cut, and gave me some pointers on how to get Little Sprout to hold still. We all chatted back and forth, and the whole bank seemed to get involved in our visit. It was good. It felt right.
A little later, I went to the post office to pick up my folks' mail on the way to run a few other errands. I made small talk with the folks working there, chatting about Big Sprout (they all remember her fondly) and laughing over Little Sprout's morning routine of 'getting Gunka's MAIL!". I ran into a woman that I worked with 10 years ago, and we got caught up on her family and how things are going at the old company. It took a lot longer to get the mail than it would have if I didn't know the folks there, but it was good.
The thing about small towns is that everything takes a little longer. Everyone waves as they drive past you walking up the street. You chit-chat with the cashier at the grocery store, and find out that her kid is having trouble in math. You mention that your friends' kid is involved in the math tutoring program, so phone numbers are exchanged to set up some tutoring sessions. You hear that your elderly neighbor has been struggling with health problems, so when you are mowing your lawn you just hop over the property line and mow theirs as well. In turn, when they are canning up their famous salsa they send over a couple of jars because they know that nothing makes you happier in a January blizzard than tortilla chips and spicy-hot salsa.
Small town living is good. Of course, there are the times when you would rather that everyone NOT know everything about your life, but all in all it is wonderful to feel like you have a place. It is so comforting to know that when you walk into the local cafe they know what your drink order will be, and don't raise their eyebrows over your desire to have mashed potatoes with your eggs in the morning. It's nice to know that the waitress will automatically take the ranch from Dad's order and put it on my plate, even though I forgot to order it, knowing that Dad never touches his.
I like my town. I like the people there. I like knowing that I am a part of something, even with all my little oddities...
It isn't really anything special, just a few shops and a post office. There is one grocery store, a Subway, and a McDonald's. Of course, neither Subway nor McD's were there when I was growing up. It's home, though.
On Friday, I went to pick up Little Sprout from my folks' place and we all decided to walk up to the bank to get our weekly banking done. It is only a quarter mile from my folks' place to the bank, so Little Sprout walked and we just took the stroller as 'insurance' in case she got tired or cold and wanted to ride.
We got to the bank, and Little Sprout giggled madly as she pushed the 'handicapped access' button to make the doors open automatically. We all hurried through the doors in an attempt to let as little cold wind in the building as possible, and were immediately greeted by the 'Bank Ladies' laughing at Little Sprout's antics. They asked how Big Sprout was doing, and how Dad and I were handling our strange work schedules.
Little Sprout ran to the corner where the toys are (yes, they have a toy corner at the BANK. How cool is that?!) and made herself comfortable while Dad and I took care of our business. As I was finishing my transaction with the teller, she sifted through the stickers she keeps in her drawer and picked out a special sticker for Little Sprout. Then she sifted through again, and sent one home for Big Sprout - "so she won't feel left out".
The teller at the next window shared stories of her grandson getting his hair cut, and gave me some pointers on how to get Little Sprout to hold still. We all chatted back and forth, and the whole bank seemed to get involved in our visit. It was good. It felt right.
A little later, I went to the post office to pick up my folks' mail on the way to run a few other errands. I made small talk with the folks working there, chatting about Big Sprout (they all remember her fondly) and laughing over Little Sprout's morning routine of 'getting Gunka's MAIL!". I ran into a woman that I worked with 10 years ago, and we got caught up on her family and how things are going at the old company. It took a lot longer to get the mail than it would have if I didn't know the folks there, but it was good.
The thing about small towns is that everything takes a little longer. Everyone waves as they drive past you walking up the street. You chit-chat with the cashier at the grocery store, and find out that her kid is having trouble in math. You mention that your friends' kid is involved in the math tutoring program, so phone numbers are exchanged to set up some tutoring sessions. You hear that your elderly neighbor has been struggling with health problems, so when you are mowing your lawn you just hop over the property line and mow theirs as well. In turn, when they are canning up their famous salsa they send over a couple of jars because they know that nothing makes you happier in a January blizzard than tortilla chips and spicy-hot salsa.
Small town living is good. Of course, there are the times when you would rather that everyone NOT know everything about your life, but all in all it is wonderful to feel like you have a place. It is so comforting to know that when you walk into the local cafe they know what your drink order will be, and don't raise their eyebrows over your desire to have mashed potatoes with your eggs in the morning. It's nice to know that the waitress will automatically take the ranch from Dad's order and put it on my plate, even though I forgot to order it, knowing that Dad never touches his.
I like my town. I like the people there. I like knowing that I am a part of something, even with all my little oddities...
Sunday, January 18, 2009
Nostalgia is a Great Birthday Present
This, my dear friends, is the Baked Bean Crock. Oh, and ignore the crumbs on my counter. I have kids, and Big Sprout doesn't believe in wiping counters after she uses them. I will beat her later, I promise.
Where was I....Oh, yes.
This is the Baked Bean Crock. I am not sure if Mom made it, bought it, or received it as a gift, but she has had it for all my memory. This is the crock that Mom served Baked Beans in up until I was probably 12 or 13 yrs old. She never used anything else....at least that I remember.
At one point we were talking, and I mentioned how much I loved this thing. It isn't really pretty, it isn't fancy, it isn't stylish. But it says "home" to me. It is something that makes me think of family meals around the old (ugly as sin) kitchen table, of winter days full of play and a warm meal waiting. It makes me think of all the good things that come from long traditions and simple values.
I love it, chips and scratches and all.
Thanks, Mom.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
Flylady Gone Wrong
Sunny is just going to have to forgive me for sharing this story, because it is just too funny not to.
K, so some of you know that I am a great fan of the Flylady system. Basically, you set up routines that help you to manage your home (the cleaning, bill paying, meal making) easily and efficiently. It really works. Honest.
So, I have been telling my good friend Sunny about it for a few years. She is overwhelmed a lot of the time. A SAHM with 3 Sprouts, a large garden that needs attention, dance classes, church obligations, piano lessons, and a million other things distract her from having the sparkling clean and stress free home that she dreams of.
She decided to give it a whirl just recently (after I loaned her the Flylady book "Sink Reflections"). The very FIRST thing that Flylady asks you to do is Shine Your Sink. She believes that "as the kitchen goes, so does the rest of the house", so it is important that your sink be empty and sparkling every night before you go to bed.
Sunny was doing really well this particular day. She had laundry in the machine, all the dishes from the sink in the dishwasher and that running, she had showered and was dressed to the shoes. Next on the list came the actual "Cleaning of the Sink". This is where you scrub out the sink and then fill it to the top with hot bleach water to disinfect and really shine it up.
Well, Sunny has a well, and that water pressure was not doing so well with the laundry AND dishwasher going at the same time. The sink was filling really, really slowly. Well, while Sunny was waiting, the dryer buzzed. Sunny figured that she had plenty of time to go switch loads in the laundry and get back in time to shut off the water in her sink.
Sunny went into the laundry room and did the whole switching of laundry thing. Of course, since she is trying to get a handle on the household chores, she folded the laundry right away. Then she got distracted by sorting piles of laundry and setting aside torn or terribly stained items to be made into rags.
After quite a while, the smell of bleach wafted into the laundry room, waking Sunny to the realisation that she had been in there for a LONG TIME, and had left the water running in the sink.
She ran into the kitchen to find the floor 3 inches deep in bleachy water, the counters flooded and everything on them soaked, the lower cupboards full of water, even the drawer that holds her hot pads and oven mitts full of several inches of bleachy, stinky water.
Poor Sunny. She called me, and the first words out of her mouth were "This Flylady thing does NOT work!" It took her the rest of the day to clean it up and sort through everything that had been on the counters.
Of course, the up-side to all this is that when Mr. Sunny came home that night Sunny was showered in compliments on how hard she must have worked to get the kitchen so sparkling clean that day. Mr. Sunny was very impressed!
K, so some of you know that I am a great fan of the Flylady system. Basically, you set up routines that help you to manage your home (the cleaning, bill paying, meal making) easily and efficiently. It really works. Honest.
So, I have been telling my good friend Sunny about it for a few years. She is overwhelmed a lot of the time. A SAHM with 3 Sprouts, a large garden that needs attention, dance classes, church obligations, piano lessons, and a million other things distract her from having the sparkling clean and stress free home that she dreams of.
She decided to give it a whirl just recently (after I loaned her the Flylady book "Sink Reflections"). The very FIRST thing that Flylady asks you to do is Shine Your Sink. She believes that "as the kitchen goes, so does the rest of the house", so it is important that your sink be empty and sparkling every night before you go to bed.
Sunny was doing really well this particular day. She had laundry in the machine, all the dishes from the sink in the dishwasher and that running, she had showered and was dressed to the shoes. Next on the list came the actual "Cleaning of the Sink". This is where you scrub out the sink and then fill it to the top with hot bleach water to disinfect and really shine it up.
Well, Sunny has a well, and that water pressure was not doing so well with the laundry AND dishwasher going at the same time. The sink was filling really, really slowly. Well, while Sunny was waiting, the dryer buzzed. Sunny figured that she had plenty of time to go switch loads in the laundry and get back in time to shut off the water in her sink.
Sunny went into the laundry room and did the whole switching of laundry thing. Of course, since she is trying to get a handle on the household chores, she folded the laundry right away. Then she got distracted by sorting piles of laundry and setting aside torn or terribly stained items to be made into rags.
After quite a while, the smell of bleach wafted into the laundry room, waking Sunny to the realisation that she had been in there for a LONG TIME, and had left the water running in the sink.
She ran into the kitchen to find the floor 3 inches deep in bleachy water, the counters flooded and everything on them soaked, the lower cupboards full of water, even the drawer that holds her hot pads and oven mitts full of several inches of bleachy, stinky water.
Poor Sunny. She called me, and the first words out of her mouth were "This Flylady thing does NOT work!" It took her the rest of the day to clean it up and sort through everything that had been on the counters.
Of course, the up-side to all this is that when Mr. Sunny came home that night Sunny was showered in compliments on how hard she must have worked to get the kitchen so sparkling clean that day. Mr. Sunny was very impressed!
Wednesday, December 03, 2008
Ghosts of Christmas Past
Remember.....
The dreaded lace table cloth. At Grandma's house, this is one of the terrors I face. Combined with the wobbly cranberry dish, I am guaranteed to spill something and ruin it. This is our Formal Christmas. Everyone sits in their assigned places at the long dining room table, and the young ones are expected to be seen and not heard. The best part of the meal is the fancy goblet that my milk is served in and the pretty little salt and pepper shakers at every place setting. I feel just like a princess sipping from such a fancy glass. Bro and I fight over who gets to put all the salt and pepper shakers away after the meal. It is so fun to line them all up pretty in the china cabinet.
After the meal, the children are excused to the living room while the adults linger over coffee. We are not allowed to open gifts until after all the dishes are done and put away, so we spend our time looking at the tree. Grandma has wonderful ornaments. My favorites are like jewels dripping from the branches. Each has an opening cut in the front revealing a view into a miniature little world. There is one with a little house, another shows a couple of deer sitting on a woodland hilltop. I love those ornaments. I imagine all sorts of stories about the inhabitants of that tiny land....
Remember...
We are at the other Grandma's house now. Funny how I always think of my Grandparent's homes as belonging to Grandma instead of both of them.
It is amazing that we all fit in this little house. I wonder how Grandma managed to raise 4 boys here. Books line the walls of every room, and views from every window are blocked by a forest of houseplants. Grandpa leans into the TV, his bald head shining through the few strands of hair he has combed over the top of his head and secured with Brylcream (a little dab'll do ya).
Here the children are allowed to be as loud as they want. I suppose it helps drown out the sounds of Grandpa's wrestling program and the Traditional Holiday Argument. The Uncles always argue at every family gathering. It is a Family Tradition.
The food is all laid out on the dining room table. There is no room for anyone to sit there, so we all take turns filling plates and finding places to sit. The kids get to sit at a card table in the front room, and the adults sit wherever there is a little room. Things are cheerfully chaotic, with presents spilling out from under the tree and filling the living room floor....
Remember...
We are decorating the tree at home. The tree is so huge, it seems to touch the ceiling and fill the room. I love all the beautiful ornaments that Mom and Dad have made over the years. They even let Bro and I hang all the ornaments that we have made. This year, I get to hang Mom's "12 Days of Christmas" ornaments. She made them herself, and their pearly green glaze is so elegant looking. There are ball ornaments that have been made with ribbon and beaded pins. I think they would not be out of place in some royal treasury. I always make sure to hang my star ornament as near the top of the tree as possible. I made it in Nursery School (or somewhere). It is just a little salt dough star with an "A" written on it in glitter. The "A" is for Angel, and I am always a little embarrassed by it. Mom was puzzled when I brought it home, thinking (like most folks) that it would have been more appropriate for me to write my own initial on the ornament. The truth is, it never occurred to me...
Remember...I wait, breathless, as Grandma Jo opens the gift I have brought her. My great aunt taught me how to make beaded ornaments, and I have made some to give to each of my Grandmas. The package is opened, and Grandma Jo lifts out the blindingly colorful candles, candy canes, and wreaths that I have made her. She smiles in that special way that makes you know deep down that she really means it, and my world lights up with joy....
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
The Music of the Night
photo cheerfully stolen from Andy Martin on Flickr....
Night has always played a big part in my life. As a child, it signaled the end of a day of play. Dad worked nights, and there was a pesty wolf~man that lived under my bed just waiting for my little feet to hit the floor so he could grab my ankles and drag me down into the Underworld. Night was not a good time. On the other hand, Dad used to take us out to look at the stars at night. That was always fun.
When I got a little older, I realised that night could be a lot of fun. Bonfires were at night, and most parties, too. I always met the most interesting people at night. I suppose they were all losers, since very few of them had jobs or anything useful to do with the daylight hours, but they were all so different from the folks I met during the day. I found beauty in the soft darkness, in the way the world seemed to slow down at night. I loved the glittery twinkle of stars and the surprisingly bright light of a full moon. It seemed that so many wonderful things were possible at night, and the air shimmered with magic. When I graduated, I purposely got a job working second shift so that I could enjoy the silence of the hours between dusk and dawn.
When I got a little older, I realised that night could be a lot of fun. Bonfires were at night, and most parties, too. I always met the most interesting people at night. I suppose they were all losers, since very few of them had jobs or anything useful to do with the daylight hours, but they were all so different from the folks I met during the day. I found beauty in the soft darkness, in the way the world seemed to slow down at night. I loved the glittery twinkle of stars and the surprisingly bright light of a full moon. It seemed that so many wonderful things were possible at night, and the air shimmered with magic. When I graduated, I purposely got a job working second shift so that I could enjoy the silence of the hours between dusk and dawn.
Then my depression reared its ugly head, and night became my security blanket. I would spend my days counting the seconds until the sun would drop below the horizon and the world would sleep. Once night fell, I felt safe. It was a time of peace, of silence. It was the only time I could relax even the slightest bit. There was no way I could disappoint anyone or mess anything up while I was alone in the dark. Many nights I would lie awake, sure that if I just kept my eyes open the next day would not be able to come. I lived in terror of the dawn and all the expectations each day brought.
Thankfully, nothing lasts forever. As my life changed, so did my relationship with the night. I got a job working during the day, and suddenly night time became desirable because it was the time when I could finally rest. At this point I was a single mom, and though my folks were an amazing help (I seriously wouldn't have been able to do it without them) I was beyond exhausted every day. Eventually, I got to the point where I was in bed by 9pm and would sleep until 6am. I didn't see much of the night hours, but I still loved them. Big Sprout was asleep at night, and the silence was a balm on my frazzled nerves. Weekends were my time to enjoy the darkness, sitting by the light of a single candle and writing in one of my many journals. Night became the time when I was allowed to dream, to plan, to believe in hope.
Eventually, I met and married Mr. Barefoot. I needed to change jobs for financial reasons, and got my position at the present Job #1. Once again, I found myself living my life in darkness and my relationship with the night changing. I both dread and look forward to it. I still enjoy the silence when all the world sleeps, and on nights like last night I am still awed by the beauty of bare trees in the moonlight. But the isolation of living my life in the shadows can be oppressive. I also find that my mind works overtime after dark. Without the distractions provided by other people being around, the voices in my head quickly overpower me. I often find myself wallowing in self~pity. I do my best to provide my own distractions, but nothing works so well as children needing constant attention and household chores that never seem to be done. On the other hand, being alone all night also gives me the opportunity to really think things through. I tend to react all out of proportion to issues in my life, and having many uninterrupted hours during the night allows me to do "reality checks" to see if I am really justified in my feelings. I have the unusual honor of being awake for both sunset and sunrise every day all year long. Not too many folks can say that, and I can honestly say that I have seen some of the most breathtaking "sky~scenes" because of this. I can watch the deer graze out the back door at work, and know intimately the call of every owl in the neighborhood.
There isn't a point to this story, in case you are waiting for it. These are just the thoughts I had last night while I was shivering out on the front stoop at work and watching the moon glide across the sky.
Friday, July 18, 2008
Barefoot's Exciting Day
It had already been a rough morning. One of my clients went a little berserk, and it took three of us to get him off to work. I was sweaty, hot, and tired. I had also developed one of those annoying eye-twitches that no one else can see but you can feel.
I arrived at my folks' place praying that the Sprouts would be okay with just a mellow day spent in the air conditioning. They were both really tired, but Little Sprout was not willing to go home without her "Gunka Walk". We decided that I would go home with Big Sprout (who desperately wanted a nap) while Grandpa Barefoot took Little Sprout up to the Post Office, and that he would walk her over to our place when they were done.
Big Sprout and I arrived at home, unloaded the van, and started walking up to the building. I reached for my keys and my stomach dropped down to my shoes. I had my van key....I had my work keys.....my apartment keys were missing. I distinctly remembered checking the mail on my way to work the night before, so I knew I had taken them with me to work. Where were they?
I looked in my purse, the canvas bag that I carry all my goodies in, my overnight bag, under the van seats, everywhere. I even checked my mailbox to see if I had somehow left them in the mailbox overnight. No luck. So I started at the beginning and checked all those places again.
Big Sprout was near tears at this point, trying to be helpful but not knowing what to do. I packed everything back in the car and we headed off looking for Grandpa B and Little Sprout. It took us two circuits of town to find them, which didn't help my mood at all.
Finally, I collected my Sprout and with Grandpa Barefoot in tow we headed off to my work to see if I had left them there. I looked in the fridge, in the freezer, in every drawer and cabinet. I looked in the driveway and in the beds I had made....I even poked around in the garbage just on the off chance that one of my clients had decided they belonged there. No Keys.
I went back outside, where Big Sprout was contentedly playing with the local stray, Pretty Kitty. I looked in my purse, in my bags, under the seats. Everywhere. No keys.
I went BACK into the house and looked in all the nooks and crannies. I even took the cushions out of the couch and moved it to see if they had fallen in there.
No keys.
Well, there was only one place left to check....the grocery store where I had picked up my supper the night before. I drove there, trying so hard to remember what I could have possibly done with those keys. Dad, of course, was chatting about this and that, totally unconcerned.
I left Dad and the Sprouts in the van while I ran in to ask anyone had turned in lost keys. The woman behind the counter asked for a description, and when I gave it to her she beamed a big smile at me.
"You mean THESE keys?" she asked, waving my keys in the air.
I have never, ever been so close to kissing a perfect stranger in my life. So I got to come home after an hour and a half with my very own keys.
Of course I shortly had to leave for the Traditional Friday Lunch with Bro and Dad, during which I was treated to the sight of Little Sprout dipping a pickle in au jous and devouring the resulting mess, but that is another story.
I arrived at my folks' place praying that the Sprouts would be okay with just a mellow day spent in the air conditioning. They were both really tired, but Little Sprout was not willing to go home without her "Gunka Walk". We decided that I would go home with Big Sprout (who desperately wanted a nap) while Grandpa Barefoot took Little Sprout up to the Post Office, and that he would walk her over to our place when they were done.
Big Sprout and I arrived at home, unloaded the van, and started walking up to the building. I reached for my keys and my stomach dropped down to my shoes. I had my van key....I had my work keys.....my apartment keys were missing. I distinctly remembered checking the mail on my way to work the night before, so I knew I had taken them with me to work. Where were they?
I looked in my purse, the canvas bag that I carry all my goodies in, my overnight bag, under the van seats, everywhere. I even checked my mailbox to see if I had somehow left them in the mailbox overnight. No luck. So I started at the beginning and checked all those places again.
Big Sprout was near tears at this point, trying to be helpful but not knowing what to do. I packed everything back in the car and we headed off looking for Grandpa B and Little Sprout. It took us two circuits of town to find them, which didn't help my mood at all.
Finally, I collected my Sprout and with Grandpa Barefoot in tow we headed off to my work to see if I had left them there. I looked in the fridge, in the freezer, in every drawer and cabinet. I looked in the driveway and in the beds I had made....I even poked around in the garbage just on the off chance that one of my clients had decided they belonged there. No Keys.
I went back outside, where Big Sprout was contentedly playing with the local stray, Pretty Kitty. I looked in my purse, in my bags, under the seats. Everywhere. No keys.
I went BACK into the house and looked in all the nooks and crannies. I even took the cushions out of the couch and moved it to see if they had fallen in there.
No keys.
Well, there was only one place left to check....the grocery store where I had picked up my supper the night before. I drove there, trying so hard to remember what I could have possibly done with those keys. Dad, of course, was chatting about this and that, totally unconcerned.
I left Dad and the Sprouts in the van while I ran in to ask anyone had turned in lost keys. The woman behind the counter asked for a description, and when I gave it to her she beamed a big smile at me.
"You mean THESE keys?" she asked, waving my keys in the air.
I have never, ever been so close to kissing a perfect stranger in my life. So I got to come home after an hour and a half with my very own keys.
Of course I shortly had to leave for the Traditional Friday Lunch with Bro and Dad, during which I was treated to the sight of Little Sprout dipping a pickle in au jous and devouring the resulting mess, but that is another story.
Saturday, July 05, 2008
Games I Have Played
Well, Mom and I got into the best giggle~fit tonight over all the things I used to do as a kid that folks would think were a little "ghetto". Here is a partial list:
~sharpen sticks on the cement steps and have imaginary "mammoth hunts" or play "Indian Wars" (I suppose that should be "Native American Conflict", huh?)
~bang rocks together to make dust. I think originally we had planned on making arrowheads or bowls or something, but after a few hours you were just banging to bang
~sitting in fairy rings and singing in hopes that the fairies would take me to their world
~Stick Soup and Mud Pies
~climbing up into trees to take a nap and pretend I was a jaguar
~trying to make leaf and bark bowls (for serving the Stick Soup and Mud Pies, of course)
~drinking out of the hose
~having rhubarb straight from the ground as a snack
~using fallen branches etc to make shelters in the woods
~giving guided tours of the patch of woods behind the house
~raiding the edges of the cornfield for ears of feed corn that we would then shuck and use the kernels to "grind us up some corn meal" This went along with the shelters and the rock bowls
~digging holes....for no particular reason
~hiding in the lilac bushes and spying on the squirrels and birds
~snow forts, tunnels, and snowball fights
~snow sharks....these were very dangerous creatures that could attack a full grown man if he didn't stay to the shoveled paths
~fishing for ice fish
~making gigantic nests in the tall grass
~piling up rocks....no particular reason
~of course, the home made slip n slide
~climbing fire hydrants and jumping off (this was prohibited after Bro almost cut his nose off)
~build things with scraps of wood from my Dad's scrap stash
~filling my shoes with nightcrawlers (I figured if I had bait, Dad would take me fishing)
* * * * * * * * *
As you can see, my life was awful as a child. Of course, I did do some normal things like ride my bike and play with Barbies. But they were nowhere near as fun as a good rock-banging session. ;)
~sharpen sticks on the cement steps and have imaginary "mammoth hunts" or play "Indian Wars" (I suppose that should be "Native American Conflict", huh?)
~bang rocks together to make dust. I think originally we had planned on making arrowheads or bowls or something, but after a few hours you were just banging to bang
~sitting in fairy rings and singing in hopes that the fairies would take me to their world
~Stick Soup and Mud Pies
~climbing up into trees to take a nap and pretend I was a jaguar
~trying to make leaf and bark bowls (for serving the Stick Soup and Mud Pies, of course)
~drinking out of the hose
~having rhubarb straight from the ground as a snack
~using fallen branches etc to make shelters in the woods
~giving guided tours of the patch of woods behind the house
~raiding the edges of the cornfield for ears of feed corn that we would then shuck and use the kernels to "grind us up some corn meal" This went along with the shelters and the rock bowls
~digging holes....for no particular reason
~hiding in the lilac bushes and spying on the squirrels and birds
~snow forts, tunnels, and snowball fights
~snow sharks....these were very dangerous creatures that could attack a full grown man if he didn't stay to the shoveled paths
~fishing for ice fish
~making gigantic nests in the tall grass
~piling up rocks....no particular reason
~of course, the home made slip n slide
~climbing fire hydrants and jumping off (this was prohibited after Bro almost cut his nose off)
~build things with scraps of wood from my Dad's scrap stash
~filling my shoes with nightcrawlers (I figured if I had bait, Dad would take me fishing)
* * * * * * * * *
As you can see, my life was awful as a child. Of course, I did do some normal things like ride my bike and play with Barbies. But they were nowhere near as fun as a good rock-banging session. ;)
Thursday, July 03, 2008
Oooh, I forgot to tell you!
I have another Little Sprout/Belly Button story!
The other day when we went to Wild Mountain, I had laid one of our sleeping bags on the ground in hopes that Little Sprout would take a nap. Grandpa Barefoot's feet were hurting him, so he laid down with her.
Little Sprout, having no intention of taking a nap no matter how tired she was, started picking all the linty little "pills" off the sleeping bag.
Guess where she thought she should store them?
Uh-huh. Grandpa Barefoot's belly-button was just hanging out right there looking empty, so she decided to fill it! It is so funny that big manly men make totally girly sounds when someone is playing with their belly button.....
The other day when we went to Wild Mountain, I had laid one of our sleeping bags on the ground in hopes that Little Sprout would take a nap. Grandpa Barefoot's feet were hurting him, so he laid down with her.
Little Sprout, having no intention of taking a nap no matter how tired she was, started picking all the linty little "pills" off the sleeping bag.
Guess where she thought she should store them?
Uh-huh. Grandpa Barefoot's belly-button was just hanging out right there looking empty, so she decided to fill it! It is so funny that big manly men make totally girly sounds when someone is playing with their belly button.....
Sunday, June 29, 2008
Just As Good
The Sarge has teased me now and again that I grew up "ghetto".
My folks, hardworking individuals that they are, didn't have lots of money when I was growing up. Not that we ever worried about going hungry or anything, we just couldn't have the trendy clothes or the coolest new toys. My folks didn't want to spend their hard-earned cash on trash that would need replacing in just a few weeks.
I don't even remember being too upset about it as a kid. They were always pretty open about their priorities and that if it was a choice between having money to take us to a museum/zoo/educational outing or having the money to buy us the latest brand of $150 shoes, they would much prefer the outing.
One of the things I remember wanting and not getting was a "slip and slide". You all know what I am talking about. The plastic sheets that you laid out on your lawn and hooked a hose up to. Oh, the commercials made them seem like heaven. Hordes of children hurdling down a slippery runway of refreshing delight, great big grins on their faces. I wanted one sooo bad.
Well, my Dad was in no way going to shell out the cash for such a thing but he was willing to help us kids out. He rummaged around in his "stash" (the pile of leftover goodies from years of DIY home-improvement projects) and came up with a whole roll of construction plastic.
Ah ha! you all say. Yup, we rolled that plastic out in the yard pleased as punch with our super-smart Daddy who could figure out such a wonderful thing. We searched the yard and the woods around the yard for enough "perfect" rocks to weigh down the corners (and edges) of the plastic while Dad hooked up the hose. The neighbor kids came over, eager to join in the wet and wild fun that plastic and a garden hose promised.
We must have had the biggest "slip'n'slide" in all of creation. Seriously, the thing had to be 5' wide and 30' long. We sprayed it with the hose, then set the sprinkler up so that it would spray on the plastic. Several test runs and slight adjustments later, we were ready to roll. That summer and several after were filled with the squeals of joy and howls of pain that only such a toy can provide. Have you ever gotten a real good skid going only to slide face first into a rock? Or how about sliding right off the edge into a thistle? Ouch! But none of that kept us from our beloved toy.
But that's not what I am here to talk about.
Hehe, shades of Arlo there. Didja catch it?
What I am here to talk about is how much BETTER that homemade waterslide was than the storebought kind. See, Big Sprout followed in her Mommy's bare footsteps and started hounding Dad for a Slip'n'Slide. The commercials still make it look like a little piece of kid heaven, you know.
Well Grandpa Barefoot either couldn't find the old plastic sheet (Hmm, I wonder why? it's only been 20 years since he needed it) or decided that his grandsprout deserved better and he went out and bought the real thing.
All I gotta say is, what a piece of junk! It is small, only a couple of feet wide and maybe 15 long. It does have the super cool channel all along the side for the water to spray out of, and a nice little area at the end for the water to pool in. But the Thing was broke when it came out of the box. Seriously. It had a hole in it that Grandpa Barefoot had to patch the very first day.Also, it isn't as slippery as our old one. Big Sprout regularly gets friction burns on her elbows from the texture of the plastic.
Hmph.
As far as I am concerned, this is just one more illustration proving that growing up "ghetto" is just as good ~~ no BETTER ~~ than having all the goodies you could want.
Excuse me, I am off to buy a roll of construction plastic....
My folks, hardworking individuals that they are, didn't have lots of money when I was growing up. Not that we ever worried about going hungry or anything, we just couldn't have the trendy clothes or the coolest new toys. My folks didn't want to spend their hard-earned cash on trash that would need replacing in just a few weeks.
I don't even remember being too upset about it as a kid. They were always pretty open about their priorities and that if it was a choice between having money to take us to a museum/zoo/educational outing or having the money to buy us the latest brand of $150 shoes, they would much prefer the outing.
One of the things I remember wanting and not getting was a "slip and slide". You all know what I am talking about. The plastic sheets that you laid out on your lawn and hooked a hose up to. Oh, the commercials made them seem like heaven. Hordes of children hurdling down a slippery runway of refreshing delight, great big grins on their faces. I wanted one sooo bad.
Well, my Dad was in no way going to shell out the cash for such a thing but he was willing to help us kids out. He rummaged around in his "stash" (the pile of leftover goodies from years of DIY home-improvement projects) and came up with a whole roll of construction plastic.
Ah ha! you all say. Yup, we rolled that plastic out in the yard pleased as punch with our super-smart Daddy who could figure out such a wonderful thing. We searched the yard and the woods around the yard for enough "perfect" rocks to weigh down the corners (and edges) of the plastic while Dad hooked up the hose. The neighbor kids came over, eager to join in the wet and wild fun that plastic and a garden hose promised.
We must have had the biggest "slip'n'slide" in all of creation. Seriously, the thing had to be 5' wide and 30' long. We sprayed it with the hose, then set the sprinkler up so that it would spray on the plastic. Several test runs and slight adjustments later, we were ready to roll. That summer and several after were filled with the squeals of joy and howls of pain that only such a toy can provide. Have you ever gotten a real good skid going only to slide face first into a rock? Or how about sliding right off the edge into a thistle? Ouch! But none of that kept us from our beloved toy.
But that's not what I am here to talk about.
Hehe, shades of Arlo there. Didja catch it?
What I am here to talk about is how much BETTER that homemade waterslide was than the storebought kind. See, Big Sprout followed in her Mommy's bare footsteps and started hounding Dad for a Slip'n'Slide. The commercials still make it look like a little piece of kid heaven, you know.
Well Grandpa Barefoot either couldn't find the old plastic sheet (Hmm, I wonder why? it's only been 20 years since he needed it) or decided that his grandsprout deserved better and he went out and bought the real thing.
All I gotta say is, what a piece of junk! It is small, only a couple of feet wide and maybe 15 long. It does have the super cool channel all along the side for the water to spray out of, and a nice little area at the end for the water to pool in. But the Thing was broke when it came out of the box. Seriously. It had a hole in it that Grandpa Barefoot had to patch the very first day.Also, it isn't as slippery as our old one. Big Sprout regularly gets friction burns on her elbows from the texture of the plastic.
Hmph.
As far as I am concerned, this is just one more illustration proving that growing up "ghetto" is just as good ~~ no BETTER ~~ than having all the goodies you could want.
Excuse me, I am off to buy a roll of construction plastic....
Monday, June 09, 2008
My Treasure Chest
Big Sprout now has an official PenPal. She sent her first letter a little over a week ago, and today she received her first response.
Watching her excitement about getting a real live letter in the mail from someone near her age ~~ someone that she has never met before in real life ~~ brought me back to my younger days when I had PenPals of my own.
So I pulled out my "Treasure Chest"
Watching her excitement about getting a real live letter in the mail from someone near her age ~~ someone that she has never met before in real life ~~ brought me back to my younger days when I had PenPals of my own.
So I pulled out my "Treasure Chest"
In this box are a thousand memories. I got my first letter in the fourth grade as an English project. We had a student teacher that year who had done some student teaching in Costa Rica. The students there had each written a letter to practice their English grammar, and our assignment was to write back for the same reason.
My PenPal and I wrote back and forth for 10 years, give or take. That was my first exposure to how different life was for kids in other countries. My PenPal must have come from a fairly wealthy family, as she and her friends were always taking trips to England, Spain, and other exotic places. Every letter contained a request for me to call her so she could practice her speaking English.
Yeah, right. Like my folks were going to let me call long distance to Costa Rica.
When I got into high school, I had a few friends whose parents were missionaries. Imagine, me friends with MKs (Missionary Kids). They were some of the best friends I have ever had, but the downfall of these friendships was that their parents took calls in other countries.
Soon I had PenPals in Kenya and the Philippines. Again, I was exposed to how different life could be in another country. I had two friends (sisters) who went to a boarding school in Kenya while their parents worked in a dangerous area of South Africa (at least I think it was South Africa). edit: Now that I think about it, it might have been Zimbabwe.... oh, I don't remember! Their tales of Rugby matches (something we don't get a lot of in rural MN) and attending a Christian boarding school were fascinating. They would send me little trinkets they thought I would like.
The most memorable of these was when my friend sent a little hand carved warthog because it reminded her of me. Have you ever seen a picture of a warthog? That gift was (though precious) not very good for my teenage self esteem.
My other friend moved to the Philippines with her parents. She was homeschooled, because her parents couldn't stand to send her to boarding school as far away as she would have had to go. She sent fascinating stories of the village she lived in and all the differences between their culture and ours.
The result is that now, years later, I have a treasure worth more to me than it's weight in gold. In this box are memories of friendship, adventure, and even a little teenage romance. I am so glad that my friends moved away before the time of email and text messaging, because all of those messages would have been lost in the Techno-Void. I am very lucky to be (probably) one of the last folks in my generation to actually have a stack of letters in a box. I got to experience the thrill of saving my pennies to go shopping for the "perfect" note card or stationary to send off to my friends, and the joy of receiving their carefully chosen paper and cards.
There is a certain romance to having a box of letters saved over the years from dear friends or even the odd beau. I like to think of my children or grandchildren finding them after I am gone and being able to see in a very real way that I wasn't always old and cranky. I like the idea that there is a record of my younger days.
Someday I hope that Big Sprout will have a similar treasure box of memories from her new PenPal and the many others that I hope she will have in her lifetime. I will have to keep my eye out for a pretty box like the one I was able to find for her to store her treasures.
I will just have to convince her not to store her other crap in there....
Friday, June 06, 2008
Memories
When I was a kid, my Dad entertained us kids in the strangest of all ways (at least for my generation). He took us out into the woods and just wandered. Usually we would have a specific purpose, such as picking berries or scouting out a good hunting spot, but sometimes it was just walking for the sake of being outside and walking. It was actually a rare treat to go to a manicured park with playground equipment and such. We were so used to just wandering in the woods and making fun out of that.
I remember these trips as a sort of delicious torture. MN summers are the polar opposite of MN winters. Hot, humid, full of bloodsucking critters that seem to come from nowhere by the millions. There were desperately bad cases of sunburn, scratches from raspberry and blackberry bushes, sore hands from picking the wild hazelnuts, and the dreaded "itch-weed" that seemed to lurk everywhere that there was good foraging.
In my memory (though not necessarily in fact) we would go on these trips every weekend for much of the summer.
I DO remember how almost every trip would go, though. First, Dad would pile us kids in the car long before I was ready to be functional in the morning. When I was younger, provisions would be bottles of water and a package of bratwurst or "hobo meals" but after I got into a heated discussion (at the ripe old age of 5 or 6) with one of the park employees over the difference between a "campfire" and a "cooking fire" in a fire restricted area that had to change. For the record, a cooking fire is very small and mostly coals. A campfire is big with lots of flame. Still, a fire is a fire and when you are in a drought and there are "no fire" signs posted everywhere, it probably isn't the wisest course to make one in the middle of a "minimum maintenance" DNR access road. No matter how hungry your kids are.
After that, we started stopping at the local gas station and picking up what (for my brother and I) was the ultimate of treats. We would get Chuckwagon sandwiches and Clearly Canadian water. This was back when Clearly Canadian came in the cool glass bottles. I loved how cold they were when I was all hot and sticky from running in the woods. The bottles would get so slippery from the condensation, and my poor little hands could hardly hold on to them. Many times I would end up using Dad's shirt to clean the mud off my bottle after dropping it in the dust. Poor Dad couldn't keep a shirt clean.
We would start our walk with an ice cream bucket each, wandering along the edges of the woods where the berries liked to grow best. I usually munched the first few handfuls of berries in an attempt to get the taste of bug spray out of my mouth. This was before the "Unscented" varieties of bug spray, and my father believed that the stinkier it was the better it worked. I never could hold my breath long enough, and always ended up with a mouthful of that bitter spray.
To my credit, after that I usually settled into filling my bucket. Really, I only ate the overripe ones that crushed in my hands. Ummm, yeah. There I would stand in my long sleeves and long pants (protection from the sun and horseflies, but not from the heat) and pick away at the bushes of berries, listening to the symphony of bird calls and insect buzzes that plays in any undeveloped area. My brother was younger, and didn't care so much about filling his bucket. One of my favorite quotes from him was a time when he became jealous of the inch or two of berries in the bottom of my bucket. He ran up to Dad and said "I just keep pickin' and pickin' and my bucket keeps getting emptier and emptier!". Dad covered the bottom of his bucket with berries, but it didn't really help. Bro's bucket was empty again before we had gone 1/4 mile.
Dad usually worked it so that we had lunch at some beaver dam (so us kids would be distracted watching the beavers) or a sandy area (where he could look for rocks). He was either a genius at figuring out just when our little legs would demand a rest or he was much more patient about dealing with whiny comments of "I'm tired" and "I'm hungry" than I will ever be.
After lunch, my Bro and I would be tired (remember, we were just little kids), and whine until Dad consented to walk us back to the car and head home. Bro and I would gratefully sink into our seats and start munching on the berries we had in our buckets, cheerfully ignoring Dad's warnings that Mom would be "awful mad" if we got home with no berries for her. I don't think I remember any of the drives home. I am sure we would both be sound asleep before we hit the main road, and slept dreamlessly till Dad woke us at home.
When we got home, Mom would dutifully exclaim over the few bug~ridden berries that managed to make it home before whisking us each off to the bathroom for a shower and the dreaded "tick check". If any of you parents out there ever need a way to encourage your children to bathe, find a wood tick attached to them somewhere. They will feel those creepy crawlies until they have scrubbed off at least two layers of skin. I think the worst part, for me, was when Mom would check through my hair. It is impossible to remove a tick from the head of a child with waist length hair without pulling some of it out. I know that now, but at the time I was sure I was being tortured to death. My poor Mom.
I remember evenings after "walk days" being very mellow. I think mostly my Bro and I would hang around the house telling Mom over (and OVER) about all the animals we saw and how fast we ran, etc until she would finally order us to bed after our "busy day".
Years later, some of my best childhood memories are from these "nature walks" with my Dad. When Big Sprout was younger, he would take her on the same kind of walks. I think the best birthday gift I ever gave him was a plastic bin for his truck with the words "Grandpa's Nature Walk Kit" on it. Inside I put all the necessities of a good walk in the woods. Bug spray, sunblock, first aid kit, rain ponchos for those unexpected showers, one of those collapsible coolers for beverages, the whole works. I even wrote him a letter about all the things those walks taught me. I wish I would have kept a copy, it was one of the best things I have ever written.
The walks don't happen as much anymore, I think age has finally caught up with all of us. We don't handle the bugs and the heat as well as we once did, and our lives have become more and more busy. When I have time to think about it, I am sorry that this has happened. I think those walks were a big part of what made me grow up to be the person I am, and I would like that for my own Sprouts. Maybe this summer will be the summer that I can make it happen. I can always hope.
I remember these trips as a sort of delicious torture. MN summers are the polar opposite of MN winters. Hot, humid, full of bloodsucking critters that seem to come from nowhere by the millions. There were desperately bad cases of sunburn, scratches from raspberry and blackberry bushes, sore hands from picking the wild hazelnuts, and the dreaded "itch-weed" that seemed to lurk everywhere that there was good foraging.
In my memory (though not necessarily in fact) we would go on these trips every weekend for much of the summer.
I DO remember how almost every trip would go, though. First, Dad would pile us kids in the car long before I was ready to be functional in the morning. When I was younger, provisions would be bottles of water and a package of bratwurst or "hobo meals" but after I got into a heated discussion (at the ripe old age of 5 or 6) with one of the park employees over the difference between a "campfire" and a "cooking fire" in a fire restricted area that had to change. For the record, a cooking fire is very small and mostly coals. A campfire is big with lots of flame. Still, a fire is a fire and when you are in a drought and there are "no fire" signs posted everywhere, it probably isn't the wisest course to make one in the middle of a "minimum maintenance" DNR access road. No matter how hungry your kids are.
After that, we started stopping at the local gas station and picking up what (for my brother and I) was the ultimate of treats. We would get Chuckwagon sandwiches and Clearly Canadian water. This was back when Clearly Canadian came in the cool glass bottles. I loved how cold they were when I was all hot and sticky from running in the woods. The bottles would get so slippery from the condensation, and my poor little hands could hardly hold on to them. Many times I would end up using Dad's shirt to clean the mud off my bottle after dropping it in the dust. Poor Dad couldn't keep a shirt clean.
We would start our walk with an ice cream bucket each, wandering along the edges of the woods where the berries liked to grow best. I usually munched the first few handfuls of berries in an attempt to get the taste of bug spray out of my mouth. This was before the "Unscented" varieties of bug spray, and my father believed that the stinkier it was the better it worked. I never could hold my breath long enough, and always ended up with a mouthful of that bitter spray.
To my credit, after that I usually settled into filling my bucket. Really, I only ate the overripe ones that crushed in my hands. Ummm, yeah. There I would stand in my long sleeves and long pants (protection from the sun and horseflies, but not from the heat) and pick away at the bushes of berries, listening to the symphony of bird calls and insect buzzes that plays in any undeveloped area. My brother was younger, and didn't care so much about filling his bucket. One of my favorite quotes from him was a time when he became jealous of the inch or two of berries in the bottom of my bucket. He ran up to Dad and said "I just keep pickin' and pickin' and my bucket keeps getting emptier and emptier!". Dad covered the bottom of his bucket with berries, but it didn't really help. Bro's bucket was empty again before we had gone 1/4 mile.
Dad usually worked it so that we had lunch at some beaver dam (so us kids would be distracted watching the beavers) or a sandy area (where he could look for rocks). He was either a genius at figuring out just when our little legs would demand a rest or he was much more patient about dealing with whiny comments of "I'm tired" and "I'm hungry" than I will ever be.
After lunch, my Bro and I would be tired (remember, we were just little kids), and whine until Dad consented to walk us back to the car and head home. Bro and I would gratefully sink into our seats and start munching on the berries we had in our buckets, cheerfully ignoring Dad's warnings that Mom would be "awful mad" if we got home with no berries for her. I don't think I remember any of the drives home. I am sure we would both be sound asleep before we hit the main road, and slept dreamlessly till Dad woke us at home.
When we got home, Mom would dutifully exclaim over the few bug~ridden berries that managed to make it home before whisking us each off to the bathroom for a shower and the dreaded "tick check". If any of you parents out there ever need a way to encourage your children to bathe, find a wood tick attached to them somewhere. They will feel those creepy crawlies until they have scrubbed off at least two layers of skin. I think the worst part, for me, was when Mom would check through my hair. It is impossible to remove a tick from the head of a child with waist length hair without pulling some of it out. I know that now, but at the time I was sure I was being tortured to death. My poor Mom.
I remember evenings after "walk days" being very mellow. I think mostly my Bro and I would hang around the house telling Mom over (and OVER) about all the animals we saw and how fast we ran, etc until she would finally order us to bed after our "busy day".
Years later, some of my best childhood memories are from these "nature walks" with my Dad. When Big Sprout was younger, he would take her on the same kind of walks. I think the best birthday gift I ever gave him was a plastic bin for his truck with the words "Grandpa's Nature Walk Kit" on it. Inside I put all the necessities of a good walk in the woods. Bug spray, sunblock, first aid kit, rain ponchos for those unexpected showers, one of those collapsible coolers for beverages, the whole works. I even wrote him a letter about all the things those walks taught me. I wish I would have kept a copy, it was one of the best things I have ever written.
The walks don't happen as much anymore, I think age has finally caught up with all of us. We don't handle the bugs and the heat as well as we once did, and our lives have become more and more busy. When I have time to think about it, I am sorry that this has happened. I think those walks were a big part of what made me grow up to be the person I am, and I would like that for my own Sprouts. Maybe this summer will be the summer that I can make it happen. I can always hope.
Friday, January 04, 2008
Grandma's Magic Powder
No, it's not a drug reference.
It is, quite simply, baking soda.
When Big Sprout was a baby, her skin was terribly sensitive. She was allergic (I think) to most brands of diapers. She would get so sore, and sometimes her rashes would get to the point she bled. It was heartbreaking, to say the least.
We finally found diapers that worked well for her, and a friend introduced us to a miraculous cream that cleared up diaper rash quickly and painlessly. The thing she liked best, though, was baking soda baths. Baking soda is something my Mom has used for both my Bro and I, as I am sure her Mom used it for her and her sister. I suppose it has been used for similar uses since baking soda was invented.
Big Sprout loved it. Soon she started requesting "the Magic Powder" for every little thing. She put it on sunburn, rashes, bruises and scrapes. As she got older, she even learned to make a paste of it to put on troublesome bug bites to take the itch away.
When we moved to live with DH, I tried giving her baking soda for her bath when she was sore, but she would never take it from me. After a few months of this, I finally realised that the reason she wouldn't take it was that it didn't look the same as "Grandma's Magic Powder". See, my Mom kept hers in this awful harvest gold Tupperware canister. Big Sprout just couldn't believe that good old Arm and Hammer was anywhere near as good as the stuff that Grandma got out of that yellow tub.
Here is where it gets good...
That year, as a gift, my Mom found a harvest gold canister just like the one at her house, filled it with baking soda, put a cute label on it that said "Grandma's Magic Powder" and gave it to Big Sprout as a gift. Mom even put a special scoop in the canister. I have never seen a child so happy over something so simple! Big Sprout would gleefully put "Magic Powder" in every bath she took. Quite often she put in too much, but she was so happy. My job was to sneak into the bathroom every night to make sure that the canister was full.
It was a sad day when Big Sprout told us she had figured out the secret of "Grandma's Powder". In time, she outgrew baths and the canister is now stored away for Little Sprout to use when she gets a little older. After all, every kid needs a little bit of "Grandma Love" of their very own.
It is, quite simply, baking soda.
When Big Sprout was a baby, her skin was terribly sensitive. She was allergic (I think) to most brands of diapers. She would get so sore, and sometimes her rashes would get to the point she bled. It was heartbreaking, to say the least.
We finally found diapers that worked well for her, and a friend introduced us to a miraculous cream that cleared up diaper rash quickly and painlessly. The thing she liked best, though, was baking soda baths. Baking soda is something my Mom has used for both my Bro and I, as I am sure her Mom used it for her and her sister. I suppose it has been used for similar uses since baking soda was invented.
Big Sprout loved it. Soon she started requesting "the Magic Powder" for every little thing. She put it on sunburn, rashes, bruises and scrapes. As she got older, she even learned to make a paste of it to put on troublesome bug bites to take the itch away.
When we moved to live with DH, I tried giving her baking soda for her bath when she was sore, but she would never take it from me. After a few months of this, I finally realised that the reason she wouldn't take it was that it didn't look the same as "Grandma's Magic Powder". See, my Mom kept hers in this awful harvest gold Tupperware canister. Big Sprout just couldn't believe that good old Arm and Hammer was anywhere near as good as the stuff that Grandma got out of that yellow tub.
Here is where it gets good...
That year, as a gift, my Mom found a harvest gold canister just like the one at her house, filled it with baking soda, put a cute label on it that said "Grandma's Magic Powder" and gave it to Big Sprout as a gift. Mom even put a special scoop in the canister. I have never seen a child so happy over something so simple! Big Sprout would gleefully put "Magic Powder" in every bath she took. Quite often she put in too much, but she was so happy. My job was to sneak into the bathroom every night to make sure that the canister was full.
It was a sad day when Big Sprout told us she had figured out the secret of "Grandma's Powder". In time, she outgrew baths and the canister is now stored away for Little Sprout to use when she gets a little older. After all, every kid needs a little bit of "Grandma Love" of their very own.
Monday, November 12, 2007
The Best Toy in All Creation...
As a child, I LOVED this toy. I remember playing with it at my father's parent's house. When Big Sprout was born, she played with it when we went to visit, as well. Then, when Little Sprout was born, my grandmother gave it to her (there are no more grandkids or great-grandkids to play with it). I am so excited to finally have my Happy Apple here with me. Even better is the fact that Little Sprout likes it, too. It was one of the first toys she could play with.
See? She even had the right idea from day one!
And she still loves it
I like that this is not a toy that is going to rot my child's brain. It may sound silly to worry about such things, but I do. I even like the little chime it makes when she shakes it. It is a soothing, quiet ding-ding-dong that is so refreshing after all the electronic beeping and buzzing from most of her toys. It is even better than blocks, because what do kids do with blocks? They make towers and then knock them down, causing lots and lots of noise. This wonderful little apple just chimes away quietly, very much like good quality wind chimes will.
Too bad they don't make toys like this very often anymore...
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