In My Father’s Footsteps (Repost)

My first memory of my father is a visual one. I am a toddler and I am sitting on the floor behind the brown chair in the living room. Before me are two polished black shoes and two very long legs clad in khaki. Those long legs would often make a bridge between Dad’s favorite green chair and its matching hassock and we children would try to crawl under him without being caught. It was a favorite after-dinner game.

Dad raised chickens for a living. In the army he’d been responsible for training the carrier pigeons that flew messages from platoon to platoon. His peacetime job involved several hundred chickens, a brooder house, a long hen run, and a slaughter shed where he killed and dressed the birds for market. The farm was lost first to a flood that left hundreds of carcasses across the yard and garden. Dad restocked, only to learn the chickens were diseased and this second setback cost him the farm.

The years that followed were difficult. There were four children to feed and a mountain of debt. For a while, Dad worked the night shift at a lime kiln. By day, we children had to be very quiet so as not to waken him while he slept away the sunny morning hours. We spent a lot of time in the abandoned chicken houses, running races down the long hen run or roller-skating on the cement floor of the brooder house. On weekends and sometimes after school, Dad took my brother and me hunting. We ate whatever was in season—rabbit, duck, partridge, grouse, venison. He loved to fish as well as hunt and fishing season often found us knee deep in some cold stream, angling for a few trout for dinner. We never went hungry.

In the 1950s, Dad went to work for the Post Office as a rural route carrier. Before the law was passed that would not allow a mailman to carry passengers in his car, we sometimes rode with him, helping to deliver phone books or shovel snow from mailboxes. Dad was good at his job. He liked people and never passed up a chance to be helpful, often delivering messages and meals to shut-ins. The people on his route paid him in kind. Every Christmas, he would come home with dozens of gifts from grateful patrons.

Dad wasn’t much of a gardener, preferring ball games and evenings with his friends to digging in the dirt. Still, every spring he worked with my mother to plant tomatoes and peas, squash and cucumbers, and long rows of string beans. Sometimes he and I would take the big dishpan, fill it with bright green pea pods, then sit together under the maple tree to shell them for dinner. We would hunt for morels in May, gathering hands full to sauté in garlic and butter. He knew where every stalk of wild asparagus grew.

We owned an old push mower and summer evenings would find him cutting the lawns. I loved to follow along behind him, watching the grass fly from the whirring, clattering blades. When the chores were done, he and my mother would play baseball with us on the front lawn. Using trees and doorsteps for bases, we hit and ran, yelling and laughing until it was too dark to see the ball.

Years after marrying and moving away, and years after my father died, I moved back to the old family homestead. I worked in the garden, remembering those long ago days when Dad and I planted vegetables together. I followed in his footsteps as I mowed the lawn or searched for wild asparagus along the roadsides. Often just at dusk, when the fireflies began to twinkle and the last of the light was fading, I thought I could hear him calling me to come in. His presence was just a memory but it is a memory that pervades the very fiber of my being.

Thank you Hilary!

Do, Be, Do (Be, Do!)

No heaven can come to us unless our hearts find rest in today. Take heaven! 

No peace lies in the future which is not hidden in this present little instance. Take peace! 

The gloom of the world is but a shadow. Behind it, yet within our reach, is joy. Take joy! 

Life is so full of meaning and purpose, so full of beauty . . . 

that you will find earth but cloaks your heaven. 

Courage then to claim it, that is all! . . . 

                                                                                                Fra Giovanni

One of my eldest son's hundreds of sunset photos.

This present little instance - it's all we really have, isn't it? This instant, with the rain falling softly on my head while I remove soiled sheep bedding from the pen to mulch my growing vegetable plants. This moment, as I listen to the bell-shake song of the fretful little house wren; duck as the anxious barn swallows swoop close over my head, warning me away from their nest with sharp cries; trudge through the now steady rain with my loaded cart, thinking ahead to warm, dry clothes and a mug of hot tea when my chore is done.

I am not sure I believe earth obscures my heaven. I would more readily say that my attitude about earthly doings, specifically human doings, threatens my joy. As for meaning and purpose, I think we supply our own and that muddies our innate urge to understand and accept what is true - that we are merely part, not the end-all, be-all, of the vast and unknowable universe. Actually, thinking that makes me feel far safer and happier than assuming, even for a millisecond, that I am more important than any other being or thing on this earth.

The mulching, the rain on my head and shoulders, the hot tea and dry clothes are in my immediate past now. Look how quickly those moments were lived and yet, I know when I look back on my day as I lie waiting for sleep, I will think what a long, quiet, peaceful time it was. I don't believe we waste moments by being idle, by filling them with gentle thought rather than frenetic activity. Activity suggests a purpose, yes, but if one's purpose is to cherish each moment, there must be that delicate balance between doing and being.

My next bit of doing is to re-hang the family photo gallery I removed so that I could paint my bedroom wall. I've grown accustomed to saying goodnight to my children and grandchildren as my gaze wanders over those beloved faces. Knowing they love me too spreads peacefulness over me like a quilt. 

Poetry to Prompts

Written to the prompts of "letter" and "starlight".

Letter to Starlight and You

There is a certain shade of blue

that belongs to dusk,

a sky-blue-pink

that draws my eyes to the window,

that draws me out the door,

a softening of the hard line

where earth meets sky

so that I can see past the horizon

into everlasting space,

the space where you are

now that I can’t see you.

If the sky were a map

you’d be here, just above the line

where tree and air intersect,

a red pin marking the exact spot

where I saw you last,

bed-bound and bruised, breathing

one more and one more and one last

breath.

The sky was dusky that night, too,

headed toward black, and we two headed

in different directions; you to an unknown

destination and I to home, where

out my window, I watched the stars

blink into view.

Sunset Over the Pond

Painted in still life,

reflected on water,

leaves shimmer green

in last light,

that hour just before dusk,

when the horizon whitens

and the air stills.

Every tree at water's edge

sees itself as beautiful,

and dances with its shadow

on the pond.

A Bag Full of Memories

I was cutting up an old shirt for rags today – a trick my thrifty mother taught me - and it brought to mind the old ragbag that used to hang on a hook inside the attic door when I was a child. I loved that ragbag. Every one of those rags had once been an article of family clothing or a piece of bed linen or an old towel. I might dust the furniture with a bit of my first-day-of-school dress with the balloons on the collar, polish the silver with a scrap of embroidered linen that was so tattered it couldn’t be used for anything else, or wipe down the woodwork with a piece of checkered toweling that once dried the dishes after Sunday dinner. I knew a story for each rag.

If you dug through the ragbag you might find a bit of lace that once decorated a pillowcase, or a length of satin ribbon cut off an old blanket. These things were just right for fancying up a doll’s dress or fashioning a tiny coverlet for an oatmeal box cradle. There were frayed jeans that couldn’t hold one more patch but could be cut into patches themselves, squares cut from flannel nightgowns that made pillow warmers for aching ears, bits of old t-shirts that were great when the car needed waxing.

In the ragbag, too, were old, discarded nylon stockings, perfect for stuffing handmade pillows or for cutting strips to tie up the staked tomato plants. I once commandeered a still healthy sock of my father’s (the other had a gaping hole in the toe and was reincarnated as a dust cloth) and stuffed it with cut up nylons. I embroidered a face on the stuffed and rounded foot, cut arms and legs from the cuffed end, and stitched on some wool yarn hair. My small son carried Sammy the Sock Doll everywhere. When Sammy got dirty, he spent half an hour in the washing machine and an equal amount of time in the dryer. Never was a sock so well worn, or so loved.

The ragbag was a bag full of memories – the satin Christmas dress Mama stitched for my favorite doll, the linen cutwork cloth that used to grace my Memeré’s Thanksgiving table, the blue suit I wore the first time a boy asked me to dance, a bit of lace from my father’s christening gown, the navy and white skirt my mother wore to my high school graduation, my favorite brown sweater, worn to rags. We cleaned and dusted, mended and polished with those memories.

I carefully fold the pieces I cut today from the worn and frayed shirt, recalling my sleepy-headed daughter padding around the kitchen wrapped up in its warm, brown bulk. When I dust the furniture, I will remember how she helped me move into my wee cottage and how later, she single-handedly rearranged everything by herself to create an office space for me as a surprise for Mother’s Day.

I don’t have an attic here, but I do have a ragbag full of memories. I’ll take them out to dust or polish or mend - and remember.

Thanks, Hilary!

photo credit: crookedhousecreations.com

Paying Attention

All life can be found in the smallest details...

When recounting our life stories, it’s often the big things we recall, the momentous events, the victories or defeats, the births, deaths, and other significant occasions that are written indelibly in our memories. Yet, our daily lives are lived in a myriad of small ways. One woman I know collects mementoes of her days, little things that strike her as particularly beautiful or interesting – a perfect pinecone, a scarlet leaf, a grandchild’s drawing, a poem – and puts them in a box. When she opens the lid and looks at them, she says, they reassure her that her life is not hurrying past unnoticed. I keep a mental version of that box filled with the following:

Sunrises. I often wake before dawn. In those first quiet moments, as the dark fades slowly from the sky to reveal the familiar in a different light, I understand why we call it a new day. No two sunrises are the same, and everything looks slightly different than the day before. Watching the sun come up reminds me of the dual nature of life, its constancy and its change, and stirs in me a deep wonder.

Firsts. The first of anything is an occasion–first step, first tooth, first kiss, first time you drive the car alone, that first sip of coffee in the morning or of tea late in the afternoon, winter’s first snowflake, and likewise, the first shoots of green that brave our New England spring. When my days become mundane, I look for something I haven’t done yet, or some new way of doing a thing that’s become stale, so that there’s always a new first to look forward to.

Senses. I am often stopped in my tracks by the emotions certain sounds or scents evoke. Music pulls me out of myself, an unexpected bit of birdsong on a winter day can change my mood, the sound of laughter always lifts my spirits. I remember my delight as a child, coming home after church on a Sunday morning to the scent of roasting meat and fruit pie. Nothing makes me quite as happy as the smell of fresh earth when the snow melts in April or quite as melancholy as the scent of dying leaves in the fall.

Colors. There is no season without its own colors. Spring and early summer paint with pastel palettes - lilac, pale yellow, soft blue. Autumn shines with a brilliance unmatched. Even when winter trees are leafless and all the ground is covered with snow, nature makes small places for my eyes to feast. The evergreens stand out greeny-black against the white, every shade of brown and gray shows off its luster where the snow has melted and the leaf matter is exposed, dawns and sunsets paint the sky in shades of crimson and purple. Cardinals and jays look like winged jewels in flight. And when the sun shines, millions of rainbows lie scattered on the snow. 

The unexpected. Sunshine when the weatherperson predicted rain, a card in the mail saying “thanks for being you,” a message on the answering machine that says, “Memere, I love you as much as the whole world!” fill me up until I spill over.

No doubt there will be many major events in my life, but it’s the small things, the everyday, every-moment times that fill my life with awe and wonder.

Thanks Hilary!

Life in the Country

Now that the weather has turned warmer, the dawn hours draw me out of doors. I like to take my first cup of tea and wander around the yard while the sun rises, taking stock of what's growing, watching the shadows give way to the golden light that pours down like honey over the tree tops. It spreads itself across the grass, touches the lilacs, shimmers along the trunks of the maples and pines, and sparkles on the water of the nearby pond.

My neighbor calls these my appreciation walks. Come with me, won't you? There's so much in my little corner to appreciate. My garden is shaping up nicely. Pudgy the cat, who thinks so, too, often accompanies me on my meanderings. Here she is perched on the wall of the pea patch.

This is the first thing I see when I open the door. The lilacs are in full bloom. This branch hangs over my doorstep, begging to be sniffed. At the bush's feet grow dozens of lily of the valley. I can't go in or out without being enchanted by scent.

At the far end of my yard hangs an old fashioned board swing. I often sit there to encourage the child I know still lingers somewhere inside this grownup me.

My patio is another place where I can sit and savor the day, especially at mealtime. I've not yet tackled the paving stone project...

but I have filled the annual buckets to overflowing.

I've noticed numerous flowers on the blueberry bushes near the garden as well as on the blackcaps that grow wild at the edges of the yard. The strawberries have spilled out of their bed and are white with blossoms. I wish I had room for fruit trees!

My tea cup is empty. It's time to head back inside and prep another wall for painting. My four days here are always so full they fly by, but it's been fun appreciating all I have with you.

Befores and Afters

Over the past couple of years, my little cottage has been undergoing some needed transformations.

The roof leaked so a new one was put on.

The old wooden door was warped and drafty and the windows needed replacing. The paint was peeling so a new steel door was installed, and the entire cottage got new windows and a fresh coat of paint.

Even the patio I built a few years ago...

is being updated. Next on the outdoor project list is to lift all the stones, level the dirt, and replace the pavers so everything is again level.

Now that the outside is so spiffy, the inside needs attention. I'm not a red person so down came the cabbage rose valences (catch a glimpse in upper left of photo),

and up went new ones made of pale blue, cream, and cocoa stripes.

Out went the old red countertop...

in favor of a subtle greeny-blue one,

and the old red and blue cupboard curtains...

were replaced with a green-blue check.

Now, off with the red, on with the cocoa brown as the walls and some of the furniture get a facelift with paint.

It's a work still in progress, sandwiched between babysitting and traveling. But, by summer's end I hope to be finished with all the work so I can finally sit down and enjoy it all!

For Mama

I wrote the following for my newspaper column years ago. Mother's Day is fast approaching. Though my mother has been gone now for 33 years, I remember her with love.

An old photograph shows her just tall enough to nestle her head on my father’s shoulder. “I’m built for comfort, not for speed,” she joked once, but she could move quickly enough with hairbrush in hand if I was naughty. Mama had a dancer’s grace. I know she danced as a child. I became a ballerina in her cast-off pink satin toe slippers, and a tap dancing fool in her black patent leather tap shoes.

“Like this,” she would say, clicking her feet against the cement porch floor. “Brush, hop, tap, step, tap.” I repeated the words under my breath until my feet could do it without coaching. My mother would tap beside me, her sneakered feet slapping the beat beside my own. Sometimes we’d stack her old polka records on the tall silver spindle of the record player and hop madly across the living room floor dodging the chairs, the footstool, the sofa, whirling and laughing until we were out of breath. When the music stopped, she went humming off into the kitchen to resume ironing or start dinner.

Mama wore her hair in a sausage roll at the back of her head even when it was cut short and the color had faded from flaxen to grey. I loved to watch her as she stood in front of the mirror early in the morning, her elbows bent, her hands reaching for the tiny hairs that escaped the rolled net that held her hair in place. On summer mornings she wore a morning coat—a thin, flowered cotton dress with buttons all the way up the front. On winter mornings she bundled against the cold in a chenille robe, thick, and belted at the waist. Not until her housework was done did she dress for the day. She was in her fifties before she traded her skirts and blouses for shorts and slacks.

When I was a small child, where she was, I wanted to be also. I would plead illness just to stay home from school and be with her. Her daily routine seldom wavered. Up in the mornings before the rest of us, she had the kettle hot and breakfast ready when we stumbled, sleep-befuddled, into the kitchen. She drank two cups of morning coffee, one standing by the stove just after the coffeepot stopped percolating, and the other sitting at the table with my father as he drank his own. Every weekday she packed four lunches, one each for my brother, my two sisters, and me. I carried mine in my much-loved green metal lunch box. Even when I stayed home she would pack my lunch in it. Then at noon she’d fix a tray for herself, bring my lunch box to me in bed, and eat there in the sickroom with me.

She sang as she went about her daily tasks, “Singing makes it less like work,” she often said, which may explain why I whistle while dusting or washing the supper dishes. Often, too, she would stop what she was doing, seat herself at the piano, and play for half an hour or so. I would scramble up on the bench beside her, watching her fingers fly along the keys. We would play together, two-part practice pieces by Bach or a madcap version of chopsticks, each of us playing faster and faster until one of us made a mistake. Then she would laugh and give my shoulders a one-armed hug.

When things went wrong or Mama was angry, she went out the edge of the garden where an old apple tree stump served as a chopping block. She’d swing the ax, thump! against log after log until her anger translated itself into a pile of firewood. If winter snow obliterated the chopping block, she’d coax us children to go skating or sledding with her. Before long she’d be having so much fun that her bad humor would simply vanish into the cold air.

I remember all these things about her as I put the photo album back on the shelf. I do a little hop, brush, step as I head for the kitchen to make dinner.