We lost my husband’s brother yesterday. It was unexpected in nature, yet after a month in ICU with no physician being able to really give us a definitive answer as to why, it was not all that unexpected. My ramblings today are not about doctors, hospitals, nurses, or family, but random thoughts about Bob after knowing him since 1976 when I first went to work for his father.
Bob was Bob. If you knew him, you’re probably grinning after that statement and know exactly what I am saying. He was an extremely unique individual. He was in his early 20’s when I first met him, and honestly, I had no idea how to read him. He could be funny. He could be maddening. He could be irresponsible. He could be the one you counted on when the chips were down. No matter what he could be, he was always fiercely loyal to his family, and an ardent protector of his brother and sisters.
He doodled little German helmets with spikes sticking up
He loved to barbeque. In the eighties, Tom and I would receive an invitation for 6pm in the evening to grill out. We’d get there, and no one would be home. Twenty minutes later, he would arrive, and then say, let’s go to the grocery store. He preferred the indirect grilling method and we’d be sitting down to half raw chicken at 11:30pm while listening to Richard Pryor albums. Indirect and method are now two words fondly used in quotes within the family
No one could do a better impression of Grandma Heitz – “You vill do dis MY vay!” I can still see him performing.
When my son was a toddler, he’d giggle when he knew Unc Bob was coming because it meant two things – Unc Bob would say “Give me a dollar” and then he would throw the kid on the sofa and proceed to use the bottom cushion to press him into the back cushion, amidst Eric’s protesting and laughing. He never would tell Unc Bob to stop.
He lost things. Frequently and without care.
If you smoked, your lighter was not safe. He’d lose his, then walk off with yours and lose it too. Once, Tom and Bob were at the airport heading off to ( or returning from) a sales meeting. They had quite a bit of time before the plane was to board, so they stepped outside for a smoke. Bob reached in his pocket and pulled out his cigarettes, then started looking for his lighter. He looked again. And again. "I just had it," he said. "It's like traveling with a monkey."
At one time, we had five pairs of sunglasses on top of our refrigerator – all Bob’s.
When he left your house, you'd find every beer can he abandoned had 1/4" to 1/2" of beer left in it. We don't know why.
Back in the days when he had been working with his dad for a few years, one of their lines was Beneke, who make toilet seats. There was also a Woody Allen film at the time in which his characters childhood was examined in flashbacks. One such was in the schoolroom of maybe 8 to 10 year olds, where they each got up and announced to the camera what they ended up doing 30-35 years hence. The 'now' careers were impressive: neurosurgeons, Nobel prize winner, cure for cancer - a true class of geniuses. When Woody Allen's childhood self stood up, he announced, "I sell toilet seats." Bob loved that line. LOVED it. He was also into dark humor, so based on that, we had a mock newspaper made with the headline that said something like "Toilet Seat Salesman Slays Four But Does Not Take Own Life." He about split a gut laughing.
Kids loved him. His kids. His step kids. His grandkids. His nieces and his nephews. They knew that deep down inside, Bob was one of them. A couple of Christmases ago, he took all the kids somewhere in the house and taught them some goofy song, then lined then up on the stairs and directed his choir. Typical Bob.
Tom's words (borrowed from Churchill) on understanding Bob: "He was a mystery, wrapped in an enigma, wrapped in a conundrum. "That's my brother."
Fly high, Bob. Have a beer with your dad. Watch out for your mom and the garden hose. Tell hello and give our love to all who are waiting for us Yesterday, I took your brother to a pub, bought him a few rounds of beer and whiskey, put some bucks into Touch Tunes and we played music you would love as we toasted your life. You made an impact, and we will always love and miss you.
Wednesday, March 26, 2014
Thursday, March 6, 2014
Make the World a Little Better This Lenten Season
Lent began yesterday.
Lent, the tradition being the six weeks leading up to Easter weekend where Christians observe the crucifixion, burial, and resurrection of Jesus. They do this through prayer, penance, self-denial, etc.. My question is why do we focus on the negative? Yes, denying ourselves and taking a good look at the flaws in our lives is always good, but why should that be an emphasis during Lent? All of us are works in progress and should be striving to eliminate the negativity just as a matter of point. Instead, why can’t the focal point of Lent concentrate on the teachings of forgiveness, love, tolerance, and redemption, then carried over all year, becoming a normal part of our lives?
Hence my challenge to all my friends, religious or not.
Instead of giving up Coke, or chocolate, or whatever for Lent, consider this. For the next six weeks, pay forward the good in your life. Do one unexpected good deed a day. Genuinely smile and say hello to someone you don’t know in the grocery store. Send someone in your life a text, just to say I love you or I appreciate you. For families, each of you write on a small slip of paper the name of each member in your household, and one good thing about them. Then fill out another slip with one good thing about yourself. Do it daily. Fold them up, stick them in a box, or jar, or Tupperware container, and read them as a family on Easter Sunday. They say it takes three weeks to install a habit. After six weeks of finding just one good thing about yourself and your family members, I can only imagine what all that love can do. So deny yourself that extra cup of coffee or dessert if you feel the need, but concentrate more on making this a better, more cheerful, and loving world.
After all, Easter is about resurrection. Not just of Jesus, but of ourselves and those around us.
Lent, the tradition being the six weeks leading up to Easter weekend where Christians observe the crucifixion, burial, and resurrection of Jesus. They do this through prayer, penance, self-denial, etc.. My question is why do we focus on the negative? Yes, denying ourselves and taking a good look at the flaws in our lives is always good, but why should that be an emphasis during Lent? All of us are works in progress and should be striving to eliminate the negativity just as a matter of point. Instead, why can’t the focal point of Lent concentrate on the teachings of forgiveness, love, tolerance, and redemption, then carried over all year, becoming a normal part of our lives?
Hence my challenge to all my friends, religious or not.
Instead of giving up Coke, or chocolate, or whatever for Lent, consider this. For the next six weeks, pay forward the good in your life. Do one unexpected good deed a day. Genuinely smile and say hello to someone you don’t know in the grocery store. Send someone in your life a text, just to say I love you or I appreciate you. For families, each of you write on a small slip of paper the name of each member in your household, and one good thing about them. Then fill out another slip with one good thing about yourself. Do it daily. Fold them up, stick them in a box, or jar, or Tupperware container, and read them as a family on Easter Sunday. They say it takes three weeks to install a habit. After six weeks of finding just one good thing about yourself and your family members, I can only imagine what all that love can do. So deny yourself that extra cup of coffee or dessert if you feel the need, but concentrate more on making this a better, more cheerful, and loving world.
After all, Easter is about resurrection. Not just of Jesus, but of ourselves and those around us.
Sunday, February 16, 2014
I'm back!
Wow. Two years in between blogs, and reading back, I see that I am muddling along with pretty much the same likes and dislikes. (Yes to reading and music, huge no’s to shopping and cold.
I read more. That’s good.
I’ve retired. That’s very good.
I clean even less. That’s not good, but my time always seem to be filled, and since the guys don’t clean up after themselves, I don’t feel bad about it (most days.)
I have reconnected with a bunch of wonderful people from high school, which is a fabulous thing. Nothing like being 63 and feeling 17 again. We celebrated our 45th reunion last September, and while feeling a lot of trepidation leading up to the weekend of the festivities, attending was one of the best gifts I ever gave myself.
I have become Facebook friends with a number of established authors in all genres, am collecting writing tip websites, and in the last few weeks have penned 15,000 words on that novel I started with a mere paragraph and an idea, five years ago. Yesterday, I took a leap of faith and strictly as a challenge to myself, entered a 250 word ‘take this start of a story to the next step’ competition. It took forever to get the guts to hit the submit button, but I did, and will accept any and all constructive comments I receive.
I have taken on the accounting/inventory/billing/payables system at my husband’s office, in preparations of tying it all together and teaching it to the masses when they finish moving the end of this month.
I have yet to lose weight or stick to an exercise training program, but I figure when it really matters to me I will. Right now I am very happy with the me that is, and see no reason to change for someone else.
Stick around, as I make a concerted effort to weekly (I hope) update my blog with bits of goofiness and occasional wisdom from the life of an overaged child.
Thursday, March 8, 2012
Hope Springs Eternal
Hope springs eternal in the human breast:
Man never is, but always to be blest.
The soul, uneasy and confined from home,
Rests and expatiates in a life to come.
Alexander Pope wasn’t writing of spring when he wrote this, but I think of it when I recall this passage from his Essay On Man. Summer is a season of abundance, autumn one of beauty, winter one of cold death, but as winter wanes and the days become longer, thoughts of spring bring a renewal of hope. In the church it obviously brings hope of eternal life as Easter and the Resurrection of Jesus nears, and I see that promise in nature. After months of lifeless vegetation, months of poring over seed catalogs planning the vegetable and flower gardens of my dreams (which I never do accomplish), the first hint of hope springs eternal in this human breast.
First, the clouds seem more likely to contain rain rather than ice, sleet or snow. The weather is moderating; no longer are there endless days of bone chilling cold, but moderating temperatures as spring tries to burst forth with 65 and winter attempts to hold on with a 27. Suddenly there are birds happily chirping in the morning, making me almost smile as I start the day (face it – I’ll never be cheerful in the morning.) Mere days after I first hear the birds’ morning serenade, I see my first sign of life…..tree fuzz. I cannot tell you what that does to lift my spirit. Not being a cold weather gal in any sense of the word, seeing tree fuzz gets me more excited than watching P&P and seeing Colin Firth in a wet shirt. I’m an outdoor girl…..I need sunshine and fresh air and blue skies and big white fluffy clouds in order to survive. I need the color green. Nothing is as wonderful as the first day I can open the windows and top on the CRV, drive down a country road, wind whipping my hair, and singing at top of my off-key, out-of-tune lungs. (Do not equate this outdoorsiness with a desire to camp, use the forrest for my bathroom, or come into close contact with wild animals and those slithery things starting with ‘sn’ and end with ‘ke’. Nosiree, bob. Not no how, not no way, not no where.)
Then come the spring bulbs starting to pop up…hyacinth, daffodils, and tulips. The pear, dogwood, and viburnum blossom, the green shoots of grass begin to emerge from the brown thatch, the liriope lining the sidewalk and the stella d’oros in front of the yews begin to push up from the mulch. Tiny mouse ear leaves start budding from trees, giving a hint of fall color before they turn green. The first evening I can serve dinner of the deck, leaves me grinning like the town fool. The aroma of the first grass cutting has me outdoors, deep breathing the air like it’s the last there will ever be. Soon, I can be outdoors again on a regular basis.
The soul, uneasy and confined from home, rests and expatiates in a life to come.
Can you hear it? Can you see it? Can you smell it? Spring! Hope is arriving.
Man never is, but always to be blest.
The soul, uneasy and confined from home,
Rests and expatiates in a life to come.
Alexander Pope wasn’t writing of spring when he wrote this, but I think of it when I recall this passage from his Essay On Man. Summer is a season of abundance, autumn one of beauty, winter one of cold death, but as winter wanes and the days become longer, thoughts of spring bring a renewal of hope. In the church it obviously brings hope of eternal life as Easter and the Resurrection of Jesus nears, and I see that promise in nature. After months of lifeless vegetation, months of poring over seed catalogs planning the vegetable and flower gardens of my dreams (which I never do accomplish), the first hint of hope springs eternal in this human breast.
First, the clouds seem more likely to contain rain rather than ice, sleet or snow. The weather is moderating; no longer are there endless days of bone chilling cold, but moderating temperatures as spring tries to burst forth with 65 and winter attempts to hold on with a 27. Suddenly there are birds happily chirping in the morning, making me almost smile as I start the day (face it – I’ll never be cheerful in the morning.) Mere days after I first hear the birds’ morning serenade, I see my first sign of life…..tree fuzz. I cannot tell you what that does to lift my spirit. Not being a cold weather gal in any sense of the word, seeing tree fuzz gets me more excited than watching P&P and seeing Colin Firth in a wet shirt. I’m an outdoor girl…..I need sunshine and fresh air and blue skies and big white fluffy clouds in order to survive. I need the color green. Nothing is as wonderful as the first day I can open the windows and top on the CRV, drive down a country road, wind whipping my hair, and singing at top of my off-key, out-of-tune lungs. (Do not equate this outdoorsiness with a desire to camp, use the forrest for my bathroom, or come into close contact with wild animals and those slithery things starting with ‘sn’ and end with ‘ke’. Nosiree, bob. Not no how, not no way, not no where.)
Then come the spring bulbs starting to pop up…hyacinth, daffodils, and tulips. The pear, dogwood, and viburnum blossom, the green shoots of grass begin to emerge from the brown thatch, the liriope lining the sidewalk and the stella d’oros in front of the yews begin to push up from the mulch. Tiny mouse ear leaves start budding from trees, giving a hint of fall color before they turn green. The first evening I can serve dinner of the deck, leaves me grinning like the town fool. The aroma of the first grass cutting has me outdoors, deep breathing the air like it’s the last there will ever be. Soon, I can be outdoors again on a regular basis.
The soul, uneasy and confined from home, rests and expatiates in a life to come.
Can you hear it? Can you see it? Can you smell it? Spring! Hope is arriving.
Sunday, May 1, 2011
Grocery Store Vs Real Food
I have long hated…no…loathed the grocery store experience, which is no surprise to anyone who has been acquainted with me for more than thirty seconds. The meat is horrid, the produce spoils in two days, half the dairy already has expired or nearly-expired dates when purchased, and to top it all off, the buggy in which I’m putting the food that will go into my mouth, was most likely last pushed by a mother who plopped her sticky, smelly, poopy pants-laden darling not in the seat provided, but in the food area.
While shopping, I’ve been bumped from behind - repeatedly - by a buggy pushing child who could not see over the top. I’ve had a bounced ball land in my buggy, upsetting and breaking a vase of flowers I had just purchased. I’ve had half-eaten cookies thrown into my groceries by passing a child who discovered he had eaten all the chocolate chips out of it, and demanded another. I’ve waited for 11 minutes while granny picked up every package of ground beef several times looking for just the right package. I’ve stood and waited in front of the soups while two neighbors talked as if they hadn’t seen each other in years and years. I have never, and I mean never, had a good experience in the grocery store, save for the one time thirty years ago when a toothless little old lady stopped us in front of the beer cooler to say that “that red, white, and blue stuff is some pretty good beer, and it‘s cheap too.”
A year ago, hope came to the neighborhood when a butcher shop opened up a mile away. Not just a butcher shop, but one that promised all natural meats and poultry -never having been administered antibiotics, steroids, or growth hormones, and they know (and tell you) exactly where their suppliers are located and give you websites so you can check them out yourself. You cannot believe the difference in the taste - especially the pork. I haven’t yet been able to get over the gamey taste of free range poultry, but I’m working on it. I can buy 1/4 lb of ground beef, 3 pork shops, 2 bratwurst, 2 chicken legs, 1 thigh, or 4 tenders. I am not limited to family packs of 400 for anything. It's wonderful! Haven’t purchased meat at the grocery store for over a year now, and I’m always joking with the butcher that he needs to put in a green grocer next door.
Well, lo and behold, a few weeks ago I heard about a local organic produce delivery service, and they too touted locally grown whenever possible. After checking them out, I signed up and got my first delivery last week. It was like having the farmers market come visit me. Never have I seen lettuce that fresh at the grocery store, the apples were not the mealy things I’d purchase while there, the oranges dripped juice down my arm, and I took the inclusion of bok choy, which I had never eaten let alone cooked, as a challenge.
It was good. After trimming and cleaning it, I rubbed each stalk with some dipping oil I usually use for baguettes, and put them on the grill for a few minutes. A little drizzle of basalmic, some salt and pepper and wow…good stuff. Even the men at least tried some, pronouncing it ‘not objectionable.’ (A major miracle in itself.)
My weekly delivery is on Monday and tomorrow I get tomatoes, fingerling potatoes, green beans, broccoli, green onions, strawberries, apples, bananas, and oranges. All that I need from the dreaded grocery is bread, butter, cheese, and paper products. Goodbye grocery store, hello sanity!
While shopping, I’ve been bumped from behind - repeatedly - by a buggy pushing child who could not see over the top. I’ve had a bounced ball land in my buggy, upsetting and breaking a vase of flowers I had just purchased. I’ve had half-eaten cookies thrown into my groceries by passing a child who discovered he had eaten all the chocolate chips out of it, and demanded another. I’ve waited for 11 minutes while granny picked up every package of ground beef several times looking for just the right package. I’ve stood and waited in front of the soups while two neighbors talked as if they hadn’t seen each other in years and years. I have never, and I mean never, had a good experience in the grocery store, save for the one time thirty years ago when a toothless little old lady stopped us in front of the beer cooler to say that “that red, white, and blue stuff is some pretty good beer, and it‘s cheap too.”
A year ago, hope came to the neighborhood when a butcher shop opened up a mile away. Not just a butcher shop, but one that promised all natural meats and poultry -never having been administered antibiotics, steroids, or growth hormones, and they know (and tell you) exactly where their suppliers are located and give you websites so you can check them out yourself. You cannot believe the difference in the taste - especially the pork. I haven’t yet been able to get over the gamey taste of free range poultry, but I’m working on it. I can buy 1/4 lb of ground beef, 3 pork shops, 2 bratwurst, 2 chicken legs, 1 thigh, or 4 tenders. I am not limited to family packs of 400 for anything. It's wonderful! Haven’t purchased meat at the grocery store for over a year now, and I’m always joking with the butcher that he needs to put in a green grocer next door.
Well, lo and behold, a few weeks ago I heard about a local organic produce delivery service, and they too touted locally grown whenever possible. After checking them out, I signed up and got my first delivery last week. It was like having the farmers market come visit me. Never have I seen lettuce that fresh at the grocery store, the apples were not the mealy things I’d purchase while there, the oranges dripped juice down my arm, and I took the inclusion of bok choy, which I had never eaten let alone cooked, as a challenge.
It was good. After trimming and cleaning it, I rubbed each stalk with some dipping oil I usually use for baguettes, and put them on the grill for a few minutes. A little drizzle of basalmic, some salt and pepper and wow…good stuff. Even the men at least tried some, pronouncing it ‘not objectionable.’ (A major miracle in itself.)
My weekly delivery is on Monday and tomorrow I get tomatoes, fingerling potatoes, green beans, broccoli, green onions, strawberries, apples, bananas, and oranges. All that I need from the dreaded grocery is bread, butter, cheese, and paper products. Goodbye grocery store, hello sanity!
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Autumn, the Grandest Time of Year
Fall. Autumn. October. Three of my favorite things, all wrapped up into one. After a horribly hot, arid, and miserable summer, plants and lawns that weren’t killed off completely this past July and August are starting to go green again, thanks to the occasional rain, and the cooler temperatures.
There’s nothing better than sitting on the deck after dark on a late September or early October night that renews the spirit. (Well, almost nothing - the deck could be on a lake. Hopefully in retirement…) Come early fall on my deck, the air is crisp, free of the heavy humidity of late spring and summer. The stars show brilliantly in the sky, although not as brilliantly as they did 12 years ago when we were still out in the county. The encroachment of civilization has brought with it those pesky night time lights that make it harder to see those stars. Parking lots, headlights, porch lights, and those turn-night-time-into-day lights at the high school football field, tennis courts, and soccer field unfairly dim that which God has given. Still, sitting on the deck and listening to the sounds of homecoming cheers from the high school just under a mile away, is kind of a neat and homey feeling, right along with the crash into the screen door of the last of the June bugs, and the chirp of crickets who are slowly looking for a way to access my home for the winter.
Sitting out on the deck, sporting a sweater to ward off the chill, I think of the days when all I could see behind me were soybean fields, forest, cattle, the hills in which the county lake is nestled, and more than a body’s fair share of deer, coyotes, turkeys, possums, raccoons, skunks, and the ever present sounds of, but only occasional glance of, bob-white and pheasant. I’m glad it at least lasted while Eric was in his formative years. My mind is filled with moments of my son and his friends high up in Fort EJ in our back yard, backpacks filled with juice and snacks, fishing line, dry shoes and socks, binoculars in hand, as they planned their assault on the bad guys out there in the wilderness. Some days they were the cavalry, others WWII soldiers, still others the native Shawnee who once lived on this very piece of land which we now call home, or even James Butler (Wild Bill) Hickok, who was constable here in 1858. As soon as the farmer harvested the soybeans and the field was stubble, the kids took off for the woods and the creek (durable walkie-talkies on their belts in case they needed help from home), hunting for bad guys, arrowheads, cool rocks, and the greatest prize ten year old boys could ever find – petrified animal poop. It made me envious. Being brought up in a home where there were things girls just didn’t do (sports, play outside, ride bikes, etc.) it made me wonder that if I had been brought up in the country instead of the heart of a big city, would I have been allowed the freedom to explore that I subsequently gave my son? I doubt it, but that was also the 50‘s when girls were girls and still had to wear dresses to school and gloves and a hat to church. It could be why today, I love being outside even more.
Another thing I love in autumn is sunflowers. They grow all year, but there’s something about them in the fall that makes them pop. It could be because a lot of the other vegetation is dying, or maybe because the corn, beans, wheat, and whatever have all been harvested and now we can see that majestic yellow waving freely against that impossibly blue sky with those great fluffy, white, cotton candy clouds. One year for my birthday, my neighbor went out to the field, cut some sunflowers and made the most gorgeous arrangement I’ve ever seen. There’s something so inherently cheerful about those big yellow blooms that make me instantly squeal and smile when I see some while driving along. Even though this is the sunflower state, people around here consider them more of a nuisance and don’t see the beauty…then again I love looking at that ol’ invasive species known as kudzu. They way it creeps up poles and across abandoned buildings, creating really cool sculptures in what seems like a mere hours is amazing. I need to take a drive along my favorite river road to take a look at it before it starts to die back for the winter, then I’ll go back, camera in hand, in the third week in October or so, once the leaves are in their deepest colors.
Brown is my least favorite color, and unfortunately, in this neck of the woods, brown is the main color we see for good seven or eight months out of the year, so with autumn comes another thing I love – the leaves, or as an acquaintance once said in a deep, deep southern accent, “Oh, mercy, the leaves.” After this house was built 12 years ago, I met with the landscape designer and had exacting requirements for the trees he would choose. I wanted a variety of colors and textures – even in winter, and by golly, Rick delivered. The builder planted two unsightly ornamental pears in front, and a sad little crab tree in the back (which has long since met it’s maker along with one of the pears…good old Kansas storms are to blame.) Rick added four luscious columnar Norway maples in the front because the house is tall and angular looking from the street. In the fall, the purplish red of the pear leaves against the deep yellow of the maples is stunning against the darker green of the house, and in winter, the color contrast between the wood of the pears and maples is quite nice. In the back, we have a thornless, seedless honey locust whose small feather-like leaves turn yellow, as does the Oklahoma redbud’s large heart-shaped leaves. The corkscrew willow with its definitive corkscrew shaped branches also turns a lovely yellow, and all three of those trees balanced against the absolutely brilliant red/orange of the Tupelo tree in the far back (also known as sour gum or black gum) is amazing. In the winter, against the snow, the different branch structure of those four trees is stunning. I love my trees. When I move from here, a deal breaker on a new house may very well be not the size and layout of the rooms, but the size of the deck, the yard, the quantity and type of trees, and is there a body of water within sight, not to mention is the temperature decent enough I can enjoy them all year…..not just for a few fleeting weeks.
Then there are the smells of autumn, which are smells of comfort…..wood from fireplaces, the earthiness of decaying leaves, chrysanthemums and autumn clematis in full bloom, a big pot of marinara from next door, a roast from my own oven, and the headiness of warm chocolate cake wafting over from the house on the other side, all combine to say ‘Welcome home. Take a load off and sit a spell.” It’s like a big, warm, intense hug from a big, warm intense friend. Safety. Security. Love.
Winter is cold, unfriendly rejection, spring is a first crush, all new and giggly, summer is an I-don’t-have-the–will-to-care languid few months, but autumn… Autumn is love in full bloom, mature, patient, and oh so very fleeting, but right now, it’s here, and I intend to enjoy it while it lasts.
There’s nothing better than sitting on the deck after dark on a late September or early October night that renews the spirit. (Well, almost nothing - the deck could be on a lake. Hopefully in retirement…) Come early fall on my deck, the air is crisp, free of the heavy humidity of late spring and summer. The stars show brilliantly in the sky, although not as brilliantly as they did 12 years ago when we were still out in the county. The encroachment of civilization has brought with it those pesky night time lights that make it harder to see those stars. Parking lots, headlights, porch lights, and those turn-night-time-into-day lights at the high school football field, tennis courts, and soccer field unfairly dim that which God has given. Still, sitting on the deck and listening to the sounds of homecoming cheers from the high school just under a mile away, is kind of a neat and homey feeling, right along with the crash into the screen door of the last of the June bugs, and the chirp of crickets who are slowly looking for a way to access my home for the winter.
Sitting out on the deck, sporting a sweater to ward off the chill, I think of the days when all I could see behind me were soybean fields, forest, cattle, the hills in which the county lake is nestled, and more than a body’s fair share of deer, coyotes, turkeys, possums, raccoons, skunks, and the ever present sounds of, but only occasional glance of, bob-white and pheasant. I’m glad it at least lasted while Eric was in his formative years. My mind is filled with moments of my son and his friends high up in Fort EJ in our back yard, backpacks filled with juice and snacks, fishing line, dry shoes and socks, binoculars in hand, as they planned their assault on the bad guys out there in the wilderness. Some days they were the cavalry, others WWII soldiers, still others the native Shawnee who once lived on this very piece of land which we now call home, or even James Butler (Wild Bill) Hickok, who was constable here in 1858. As soon as the farmer harvested the soybeans and the field was stubble, the kids took off for the woods and the creek (durable walkie-talkies on their belts in case they needed help from home), hunting for bad guys, arrowheads, cool rocks, and the greatest prize ten year old boys could ever find – petrified animal poop. It made me envious. Being brought up in a home where there were things girls just didn’t do (sports, play outside, ride bikes, etc.) it made me wonder that if I had been brought up in the country instead of the heart of a big city, would I have been allowed the freedom to explore that I subsequently gave my son? I doubt it, but that was also the 50‘s when girls were girls and still had to wear dresses to school and gloves and a hat to church. It could be why today, I love being outside even more.
Another thing I love in autumn is sunflowers. They grow all year, but there’s something about them in the fall that makes them pop. It could be because a lot of the other vegetation is dying, or maybe because the corn, beans, wheat, and whatever have all been harvested and now we can see that majestic yellow waving freely against that impossibly blue sky with those great fluffy, white, cotton candy clouds. One year for my birthday, my neighbor went out to the field, cut some sunflowers and made the most gorgeous arrangement I’ve ever seen. There’s something so inherently cheerful about those big yellow blooms that make me instantly squeal and smile when I see some while driving along. Even though this is the sunflower state, people around here consider them more of a nuisance and don’t see the beauty…then again I love looking at that ol’ invasive species known as kudzu. They way it creeps up poles and across abandoned buildings, creating really cool sculptures in what seems like a mere hours is amazing. I need to take a drive along my favorite river road to take a look at it before it starts to die back for the winter, then I’ll go back, camera in hand, in the third week in October or so, once the leaves are in their deepest colors.
Brown is my least favorite color, and unfortunately, in this neck of the woods, brown is the main color we see for good seven or eight months out of the year, so with autumn comes another thing I love – the leaves, or as an acquaintance once said in a deep, deep southern accent, “Oh, mercy, the leaves.” After this house was built 12 years ago, I met with the landscape designer and had exacting requirements for the trees he would choose. I wanted a variety of colors and textures – even in winter, and by golly, Rick delivered. The builder planted two unsightly ornamental pears in front, and a sad little crab tree in the back (which has long since met it’s maker along with one of the pears…good old Kansas storms are to blame.) Rick added four luscious columnar Norway maples in the front because the house is tall and angular looking from the street. In the fall, the purplish red of the pear leaves against the deep yellow of the maples is stunning against the darker green of the house, and in winter, the color contrast between the wood of the pears and maples is quite nice. In the back, we have a thornless, seedless honey locust whose small feather-like leaves turn yellow, as does the Oklahoma redbud’s large heart-shaped leaves. The corkscrew willow with its definitive corkscrew shaped branches also turns a lovely yellow, and all three of those trees balanced against the absolutely brilliant red/orange of the Tupelo tree in the far back (also known as sour gum or black gum) is amazing. In the winter, against the snow, the different branch structure of those four trees is stunning. I love my trees. When I move from here, a deal breaker on a new house may very well be not the size and layout of the rooms, but the size of the deck, the yard, the quantity and type of trees, and is there a body of water within sight, not to mention is the temperature decent enough I can enjoy them all year…..not just for a few fleeting weeks.
Then there are the smells of autumn, which are smells of comfort…..wood from fireplaces, the earthiness of decaying leaves, chrysanthemums and autumn clematis in full bloom, a big pot of marinara from next door, a roast from my own oven, and the headiness of warm chocolate cake wafting over from the house on the other side, all combine to say ‘Welcome home. Take a load off and sit a spell.” It’s like a big, warm, intense hug from a big, warm intense friend. Safety. Security. Love.
Winter is cold, unfriendly rejection, spring is a first crush, all new and giggly, summer is an I-don’t-have-the–will-to-care languid few months, but autumn… Autumn is love in full bloom, mature, patient, and oh so very fleeting, but right now, it’s here, and I intend to enjoy it while it lasts.
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
On Books
What a privilege it is to be able to read. For as long as I can remember, books have been some of my best friends. I don’t recall when or how I learned to read, or even who taught me – as far as I know, I slid out of the chute with a pair of glasses on my nose and a book in my hand. I don’t remember being read to as a child, but surely someone did, didn’t they? Doesn’t every parent read to a child? I know I started reading to mine the day we brought him home from the hospital, and didn't quit until....well, he's nearing 20, and much to his dismay, I'm still trying to read bits and pieces of things to him.
There are a myriad of favorite stories and Little Golden Books with which I have populated my adult library (under the guise of purchasing books for my son when he was wee.) Pokey Little Puppy. Peter Goes to School. Mike Mulligan’s Steam Shovel. The Little Engine That Could. Then there was Little Black Sambo. Alas, that was no longer published by 1990, so my son never heard the tale of the smart little boy who out-witted a bunch of hungry tigers until they churned around a tree so fast they turned into butter, and then he had tons of pancakes for supper. I so loved that book - wish my mother had saved it. I once tried to get my little brother to run around a tree so he’d turn into butter and go away forever. It didn’t work. (Today some smart-ass child would file a class action lawsuit against the author, the publisher, the store that sold the book, and whoever read it to him. The Happy Man and His Dump Truck! I loved it when the pigs went flying out. Grandpa Bunny. Saggy Baggy Elephant. Tawny Scrawny Lion. Tootle. I can see I need to get into the LGB bin and pull some out for nostalgia's sake.
I could go on about Little Golden Books forever, but eventually I grew out of them and started reading chapter books. I was never a Nancy Drew girl, but loved the Hardy Brothers and the entire Trixie Belden series and there were even a few chapter books about the Lennon Sisters and the mysteries they solved. I lived a very sheltered, and to my mother’s way of thinking, a very proper life, befitting a young lady of the times - no bicycle…those were for boys. No sports either. I learned to sew, and cook, and most especially, the proper way of ironing (I think I was taught that one because my mother hated it.) I learned how to pick the vegetables that I would later learn to clean, snap, pit,and ‘put up.’ In my spare time, I was allowed to read and play with my dolls. (There was a huge fight between my mom and her dad once, when he showed up with the fire truck I so desperately wanted. Grandpa lost.) As I got into those chapter books, they took me away to a world where girls had worth outside the home, rode bikes, got dirty, had adventures, and occasionally even spit. – all the things I longed to do, but knew I couldn’t without getting my backside tanned.
Mrs. Piggle Wiggle, Pippi Longstockings (what little girl wouldn't want to be her), the Danny Dunn series, Mrs. Pickerell, Toby Tyler, and then the bonanza of all bonanzas was revealed to me. I was led to a box that housed a gift that my parents bought when I was born; The Young Folks Shelf of Books, also called The Junior Classics. Ten books put out by Collier (the Encyclopedia people) that was the ultimate classic reading guide for the well heeled young child. How I treasured those ten books, each brightly colored binding housing some of the best reading I’ve ever done.
Volume one was fairy tales and fables, and they had them separated by what country they were from. Two was stories of wonder and magic: Beatrix Potter, Uncle Remus, Carl Sandburg’s Rootabaga tales, Mary Poppins, Pinocchio, Pooh, Peter Pan, The Arabian Nights, Hans Christian Anderson stories, and those by Howard Pyle and Frank Stockton.
The third volume dealt with myths and legends. There I discovered the Vikings, Odin, the Golden Fleece, old Navaho stories, Celtic tales, and the saints. Next book covered heroes…Odysseus, The Song of Roland, El Cid, Beowulf, King Arthur, and Robin Hood. Five was aptly called “Stories That Never Grown Old.” Alice and that silly old White Rabbit, Nicolette, Dickens, Gulliver, Don Quixote, Kipling’s Kim, Sleepy Hollow, good old Rip Van Winkle, Robinson Crusoe, and the Swiss Family Robinson. All scaled down versions for the 8-10 year old set, but enough to make you get to the library and check out the real thing as soon as you could. There was a book with stories about boys and girls: Heidi, Tom and Huck, Caddie, Penrod, and of course Little Women.
The volume about animals never really interested me much – none of the titles seem familiar. I suppose I need to give it another chance someday. Volume 8 was stories from history and I loved that one! It’s where Rudyard Kipling, Rachel Field, Esther Forbes, James Fennimore Cooper, Robert Louis Stevenson, Charles Dickens, Alexandre Dumas, Sir Walter Scott and all the myriad of other became such good friends of mine.
The ninth book was unbelievable…adventure! King Solomon’s mines. (I later fell in love with Deborah Kerr and Stewart Granger because of the book. What a film!) Sherlock Holmes, Amelia Earhart, Anne Morrow Lindberg. Wow. I think I’ll be picking that volume back up tonight.
The last book was my favorite, however – poetry. It started with nursery rhymes, and moved on. From the ones I marked, as a child I was fond of almost anything Emily Dickenson, Edward Lear, Lewis Carroll (‘twas brillig, and the slithy toves did gyre and gimble in the wabe…..who knew what it meant, but to a child, it was way cool.) Eugene Field’s gingham dog and calico cat, and Wynken, Blynken, and Nod. Longfellow’s Hiawatha (good old Nokomis), Barbara Frietchie, Whitman’s dear Captain and so many others. There are also checks next to good old Billy Shakespeare, William Cullen Bryant, Robert Louis Stevenson, John Greenleaf Whittier, and Oliver Wendell Holmes.
If you can’t tell, I now have those books in my possession, copyrights 1938 and 1948, and they mean more to me than just about anything, because in so many ways, they are my childhood. I can let one fall open to a well-read page, and more than likely cite chapter and verse of something it triggers from 1957, or 1961, or 1968 as I desperately looked for something easy to memorize for class. I now own hundreds and hundreds of books, but when it falls back to those that mean the most, it’s those Little Golden Books from my earliest years, and the Junior Classics my parent bought in 1950 for their new baby girl. I wonder if they knew that 60 years later, I'd still get so much enjoyment from them?
There are a myriad of favorite stories and Little Golden Books with which I have populated my adult library (under the guise of purchasing books for my son when he was wee.) Pokey Little Puppy. Peter Goes to School. Mike Mulligan’s Steam Shovel. The Little Engine That Could. Then there was Little Black Sambo. Alas, that was no longer published by 1990, so my son never heard the tale of the smart little boy who out-witted a bunch of hungry tigers until they churned around a tree so fast they turned into butter, and then he had tons of pancakes for supper. I so loved that book - wish my mother had saved it. I once tried to get my little brother to run around a tree so he’d turn into butter and go away forever. It didn’t work. (Today some smart-ass child would file a class action lawsuit against the author, the publisher, the store that sold the book, and whoever read it to him. The Happy Man and His Dump Truck! I loved it when the pigs went flying out. Grandpa Bunny. Saggy Baggy Elephant. Tawny Scrawny Lion. Tootle. I can see I need to get into the LGB bin and pull some out for nostalgia's sake.
I could go on about Little Golden Books forever, but eventually I grew out of them and started reading chapter books. I was never a Nancy Drew girl, but loved the Hardy Brothers and the entire Trixie Belden series and there were even a few chapter books about the Lennon Sisters and the mysteries they solved. I lived a very sheltered, and to my mother’s way of thinking, a very proper life, befitting a young lady of the times - no bicycle…those were for boys. No sports either. I learned to sew, and cook, and most especially, the proper way of ironing (I think I was taught that one because my mother hated it.) I learned how to pick the vegetables that I would later learn to clean, snap, pit,and ‘put up.’ In my spare time, I was allowed to read and play with my dolls. (There was a huge fight between my mom and her dad once, when he showed up with the fire truck I so desperately wanted. Grandpa lost.) As I got into those chapter books, they took me away to a world where girls had worth outside the home, rode bikes, got dirty, had adventures, and occasionally even spit. – all the things I longed to do, but knew I couldn’t without getting my backside tanned.
Mrs. Piggle Wiggle, Pippi Longstockings (what little girl wouldn't want to be her), the Danny Dunn series, Mrs. Pickerell, Toby Tyler, and then the bonanza of all bonanzas was revealed to me. I was led to a box that housed a gift that my parents bought when I was born; The Young Folks Shelf of Books, also called The Junior Classics. Ten books put out by Collier (the Encyclopedia people) that was the ultimate classic reading guide for the well heeled young child. How I treasured those ten books, each brightly colored binding housing some of the best reading I’ve ever done.
Volume one was fairy tales and fables, and they had them separated by what country they were from. Two was stories of wonder and magic: Beatrix Potter, Uncle Remus, Carl Sandburg’s Rootabaga tales, Mary Poppins, Pinocchio, Pooh, Peter Pan, The Arabian Nights, Hans Christian Anderson stories, and those by Howard Pyle and Frank Stockton.
The third volume dealt with myths and legends. There I discovered the Vikings, Odin, the Golden Fleece, old Navaho stories, Celtic tales, and the saints. Next book covered heroes…Odysseus, The Song of Roland, El Cid, Beowulf, King Arthur, and Robin Hood. Five was aptly called “Stories That Never Grown Old.” Alice and that silly old White Rabbit, Nicolette, Dickens, Gulliver, Don Quixote, Kipling’s Kim, Sleepy Hollow, good old Rip Van Winkle, Robinson Crusoe, and the Swiss Family Robinson. All scaled down versions for the 8-10 year old set, but enough to make you get to the library and check out the real thing as soon as you could. There was a book with stories about boys and girls: Heidi, Tom and Huck, Caddie, Penrod, and of course Little Women.
The volume about animals never really interested me much – none of the titles seem familiar. I suppose I need to give it another chance someday. Volume 8 was stories from history and I loved that one! It’s where Rudyard Kipling, Rachel Field, Esther Forbes, James Fennimore Cooper, Robert Louis Stevenson, Charles Dickens, Alexandre Dumas, Sir Walter Scott and all the myriad of other became such good friends of mine.
The ninth book was unbelievable…adventure! King Solomon’s mines. (I later fell in love with Deborah Kerr and Stewart Granger because of the book. What a film!) Sherlock Holmes, Amelia Earhart, Anne Morrow Lindberg. Wow. I think I’ll be picking that volume back up tonight.
The last book was my favorite, however – poetry. It started with nursery rhymes, and moved on. From the ones I marked, as a child I was fond of almost anything Emily Dickenson, Edward Lear, Lewis Carroll (‘twas brillig, and the slithy toves did gyre and gimble in the wabe…..who knew what it meant, but to a child, it was way cool.) Eugene Field’s gingham dog and calico cat, and Wynken, Blynken, and Nod. Longfellow’s Hiawatha (good old Nokomis), Barbara Frietchie, Whitman’s dear Captain and so many others. There are also checks next to good old Billy Shakespeare, William Cullen Bryant, Robert Louis Stevenson, John Greenleaf Whittier, and Oliver Wendell Holmes.
If you can’t tell, I now have those books in my possession, copyrights 1938 and 1948, and they mean more to me than just about anything, because in so many ways, they are my childhood. I can let one fall open to a well-read page, and more than likely cite chapter and verse of something it triggers from 1957, or 1961, or 1968 as I desperately looked for something easy to memorize for class. I now own hundreds and hundreds of books, but when it falls back to those that mean the most, it’s those Little Golden Books from my earliest years, and the Junior Classics my parent bought in 1950 for their new baby girl. I wonder if they knew that 60 years later, I'd still get so much enjoyment from them?
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