Early Morning’s Light

 After tumbling around in bed for an hour, flipping this way and that

(God forbid that I disturb my dog’s four legged extension (into my back)

or my granddoggie’s big curl)  I surrendered. 

6:30 a.m. is not my finest hour, but, knowing that I can catch some fantastic views on our farm with mist rising over the fields or witness muted daybreak sun and colors about to blossom, I threw my boots on under my nightshirt, grabbed my camera, and cursed the dogs–who acknowledged my suffering by rolling over to take full, victorious possession of the bed.

There have been early mornings in the past where I’ve stumbled out in dawn’s stupor to find some deer nibbling at our crab apple tree or noticed a big tom turkey strutting his expanded fan past the ladies.  These guys stick their rubbery, bloody sausage-necks out and gobble a ridiculous “love song”.  The sound makes me want to shoot one of them right between his ugly eyes  just because  it is early (and I don’t drink coffee) and me and the ladies are not in the mood for his shenanigans.

We used to have a group of three big Toms that shared a flock of about 20 hens.  I nicknamed them, “The Three Kings” and forbid  John from shooting them in turkey season.  Hello, these are my pets.  One day I hid in our barn and shot some pictures of them out a side window.

There are always rabbits on the run and all kinds of bird songs to remind me that dawn’s early light is special.   This morning the moon was still high in a night-blue-budding sky and the fog was almost to the top tip of the trees.  The grass was heavy with wet dew; good thing I had the boots.  I trudged out, pulling my nightie up to keep it dry, and took these pictures.  So worth it!

This Reader’s Digest

It wasn’t until my oldest son had graduated from college that I began to read books.  Prior to that time, I majored in ladies magazines and kept up my annual subscription to the Reader’s Digest.   In truth, most of my reading was done in spurts and accomplished upon a porcelain throne.

When I would visit my English major in collegel, I saw his bookshelves doubled over, spilling with the classics, poetry, biographies, ancient history, some dog-eared textbooks, New York Times best sellers, philosophy, and books about humanity.   Standing there and flipping through them was like shopping in someone’s closet.

One Christmas he gave me a small package tied with a ribbon.  It was a book:  “The Life of Pi”.  At bedtime that winter I read a few chapters and drifted off to sleep, waking in the morning having survived the night on a life raft with a Bengal Tiger and wondering how had I survived forty years without books?  It was then that I made a commitment to myself to get an education.

My time is valuable and I’m halfway “home” so no Nora Roberts romance trash for me, but rather selections and authors that have stood the test of time:  Steinbeck, Capote, Hemingway, Melville, Faulkner, Clemens, McMurtry, Dickens, Roth, Cooper, and my favorite (insert drum roll) Cormac McCarthy.   His book,  “Blood Meridian” took me a month to read and is honestly at the top of my comprehension ability.   When the movie “Seabiscuit” came out in theaters, it was the first time in my life I could critique a movie vs. the book.    One day I asked, “John, what is the best book I could possibly read?”   Without hesitation my son replied, “The Grapes of Wrath” because it is perhaps the finest example of American literature there is.”   My Johnny was right.   I couldn’t put it down and cried like a baby at the end.

My favorite book of the past decade has been, “Peace Like a River” by Leif Enger and it gets its own paragraph here.

One of my biggest disappointments has been how Reader’s Digest has changed over the years.  When they changed the front cover from table of contents to pictures with titles, I dropped my subscription.   I do, however, have a sampling of RD magazines on my bookshelves from the 1920′s through 1980′s where the future was predicted with amazing accuracy.  One article described how your banker had to call the hospital and vouch that you had funds to pay for the blood used in a life saving transfusion for your child.  No money, no blood – 1928.

This reader’s plate is full of books to digest where I can fall asleep under a sheepskin blanket in a covered wagon in 1835 or drop down a rabbit hole and meet the queen of hearts.  There are sword fights ahead of me, seas to sail, ninjas, and (of course) a Chuck Norris biography.   Time travel is possible between the hard covers of books, where pterodactyls fly, babies grow up on Mars, and the Titanic floats.  With the time I have left, I’ll be riding camels in the dessert, panning for Gold in the Yukon, and embracing biographies.

The Perfect Crime?

One summer several seasons ago, my husband and I were engaged in a “discussion” where He was talking and I wasn’t listening.  Capital intended.  Somewhere in the exchange He made a remark which catapulted me into a two year crimespree.  I blame Him.

It all began with a silly, simple thing like me wanting to go fishing.  It is what I love to do.  To do it properly one needs a boat, some gear, a dog who is your co-pilot, and an overcast June afternoon with a cold pop in a cup holder and some bug spray on board.  I had everything but the boat.    That’s when the discussing turned into cussing and a non-typical threat; a gauntlet thrown down by Him:

He said, “You may NEVER have a boat because we don’t have room for it.”

Really? Do we not live on a farm?

I’ve excelled at getting what I want throughout our 30 year marriage…capitalizing on the tricks we wives perfect over the years.  Most of the time John finds it amusing and challenging, so it all works out in the end.   This was a man who has always given me everything in this life I’ve ever really wanted and I guess he just underestimated how badly I wanted to fish and how far I would go to land one.  To me, His words were like nails on a chalkboard or a wedgie on my dreams.  In desperation and on vacation, I turned to a life of crime.  I couldn’t stop myself.  I am a weakling.

In hindsight, the guilt almost outweighed my visions of reeling

in a splashing four pound smallie.  (almost)

A land-lover, He was back home making the bacon and I was in da U.P. camping on the shores of the Michigamme Reservoir with my parents, my brother and his grown children.  We had all been sharing my dad’s Bass Tracker and admittedly, it was crowded.  Being the fun girl that I think I am, I buzzed into town just to see if anyone was giving any old boats away on the side of the road.

I could justify something on the cheap side –but I knew I could never bring it home.

Just then I spotted an older aluminum boat with an Evinrude 115  resting on top of a  trailer whose durability was suspect.  The whole thing jumped off the side of the road and screamed, “Pick me!”   After kicking some tires and talking turkey, she was all mine.  I tried to stop myself; I really did.  Then I named her Mabel.  Trusty ‘Ol Mabel.  I stopped in town and found some letters at the hardware store, so her name could be properly displayed.  She and I had a rip roaring time for two summers in a row out on that lake.  We filled her live well and I dove off the bow into the cool water a couple of times.  When winter came, I stashed her at a storage facility.  A little thrill ran up my leg as the time went by and He was none the wiser.

Everyone in my family was sworn to secrecy.  No pictures of Mabel.  No mention of her blue gunwales or how she was strong enough to pull skiiers.  They said they couldn’t lie, but wouldn’t inform (knowing this is how I operate).  My husband, John, was on a need to know basis and he didn’t need to know.

We were in Chicago at my parent’s house during the spring that my father died.  The house felt empty and the backyard didn’t look right.  That’s when John looked in the yard and asked my brother, “Where is Gramp’s boat?”  Without thinking, my brother replied, “It is up north in storage with Kelly’s.”

John’s eyes literally bugged out of his head as he grew

a big Grinch smile–he had me. 

I was a goner.

Oh, I’ve paid for my crime since then and the story of Trusty ‘Ol Mabel is told and retold so much that I’ve become a legend in my own mind.  This story had a happy ending (hehehe) because John was a good sport; the surprises in life keep marriage aglow and if I wasn’t naughty, he wouldn’t stay interested.  All has been forgiven and eventually Mabel was less trusty than crusty and she went on the auction block.   Guilt.  Yepper… this was over the top but I would do it again.

Now You Know

1976 Watching the Tonight Show with Johnny Carson together, every night.

My dad died somewhat unexpectedly in the last hour of the last official day of winter, on March 20, 2007.   The significance of his timing is not lost on me.   When I think about it, he lived exactly as he had always lived, with purpose.  He held on to that final season of his life and let go just moments before the next one.

For almost two years, he had been doctored.  He had endured radiation and chemo with a smile for us and a wink when he saw that we saw how pleased with himself he was for finding a cute, fuzzy toque for his head.   Yet, that winter had come, those late evening hours passed, and spring arrived without him.

My mother and I followed the ambulance to the hospital where he was pronounced.  Devastated, I leaned down to his ear and softly whispered, “Now you know.”    Three little words were all I could muster, but when I think about it now, they are profound.

Since that time I’ve come to know that those we have loved and lost are never really far away.   Through pain, I’ve learned that time is a human measure and touch is a human need. I’ve learned to celebrate his life, not mourn his death.  This is where faith comes in.   I also realized that the way I conduct my affairs and how I treat others directly reflects his legacy.  In everything I do, he remains my compass–my true north.

Now here’s the interesting part:

1968 My dad’s graduation from Roosevelt University in Chicago. My mom used to drive under the post office to pick him up at night from college. We were tucked in blankets in the back seat.

Not only is my dad sitting on my shoulder these days, but he enjoys letting me know.    My mom, my brother, and I fish in Michigan’s upper peninsula every year for vacation.   The first thing I do when I get there is to fire up my dad’s Merc 60 and take his bass boat up Corbett’s Creek to our special fishing spot to see if they are still hittin’.   Without fail, the motor quits.  Every time, every year, six years straight.  I sit there on the silent creek and smile.  Faith.

He made sure we knew he was present at his eulogy, too.  There had been a story told about my parent’s first date where he nervously spilled a whole glass of ice water on my mom at dinner.  Then she told a story about more water spills; it was their kind of  “luck” when they went out.  At the funeral luncheon, a waiter shouldering a large tray brought eight glasses of water to our table.  Just like a bad movie, he tripped–and toppled the eight full glasses of ice water down my daughter’s back.  Everyone jumped up, jumped back, and got bug eyed thinking to themselves, “It can’t be!”

1982 Mom and Dad at a rest area on the way to Michigan to visit their first grandchild. Mom was a grandma at 38.

A few weeks later my mother’s two sisters were up at our farm and we took a walk to a little pond on our property while mom rested back at the truck.  We were standing on the shore talking and enjoying the woods and water when one of my aunts thought to ask if there were any fish in the pond.   I was right in the middle of telling her how my son, Adam, and Gramps had jury rigged a fish finder to a little row boat a few summers back and rowed all over the four acre lake looking for fish.  At the exact moment I said that my dad had said, “There are absolutely no fish in this pond,” A FISH JUMPED COMPLETELY OUT OF THE WATER.   Our jaws hung open, our brains couldn’t process what our eyes had seen, and my aunt was the first one to dare utter, “That was your dad!”     Faith.

These random water events are not his only form of amusement.  There are others that I’m reserving for another time.  I used to think I was crazy or desperate or wishful.  Now I know.

“There’s one form of immortality that I like to think about.

It is that all those that from the very first have given anything to the world are living in the world today.”

Dad’s perfect cast, and my perfect timing, on Corbetts Creek

Grandpa’s girls, Sarah and Jennifer

Gramps’ Pride and Joy, his grandson, “Jim, the Marine”

Mid Century Modern

Me.  Circa 1960

It dawned on me the other day that my baby hands held my great-great grandmother’s hands and she was born in 1876.  These same old hands of mine have held a newborn’s tiny grasp; a little someone born in 2012.  My mid-century birth has been a gift that has enabled me to bridge centuries.   In 1960, our family took a special picture of all the living women in my maternal line because we had a fifth generation, ending with me!

I remember my great-great Grandma Head.  She was born in Leipzig, Germany, and came to the United States by ship when she was five years old.  As a four year old, I remember she had shocking white hair that she kept in a black hair net and enjoyed burnt toast dipped in hot tea every morning.  She always sat at a rectangular Formica table next to a big white stove in the kitchen.  I played three-handed pinochle all summer long with her daughter, my great-grandma James, and my Aunt Robin.   I walked Grandma James’  toy poodle, Tiny, when I was in grammar school and had to be quiet in the house when she was taking her afternoon nap on the back porch.   Her daughter, my grandma Brock, took the bus every day into downtown Chicago to wait tables at the Palmer House Hotel for tips.  She supported her entire family, all women.  Her household held three of my grandmas and my mother and her three sisters.

All the women in Grandma Brock’s home.

I used to steal vegetables from backyard gardens in our neighborhood and surprise Grandma Brock with them.  She would scold me as she lovingly placed the contraband on her windowsill to ripen and then she’d ask me if I had seen any string beans around.  She always had a wink and a smile for me.

Now it is up to me and mom, who will turn 70 years old this May, to remember.  All my grandmas have been gone since the mid-1970′s or sooner, but I still remember how our lives were.  There was love in my grandma’s house and that love grabs at my heartstrings –especially when I see red tomatoes on a vine.

The Chicago museum used to do these moon pictures in the 1950′s. (L-R) is Aunt Joyce, Aunt Robin, and my mother, Paula.

Time Travel

My brother, Woody, me, and my cousin, Sandy 1965

Time travel can be a state of mind.  Memories are alive, vivid, and fluid in our brains.    To travel back in time, we only need a trigger.   A flash of lightning, the wail of a siren, the soft mewing of a kitten,  or even a simple aroma can transport us and transcend us into the living world of memory.

Crack open the lid on a Play-Doh can, close your eyes, inhale, and you’re four years old again.  It works just like Dorothy’s ruby slippers minus the flying monkeys and the scrappy yapper dog.  Sorry, Toto.  Your mind’s eye starts watching you roll snakes and flatten pancakes.  You smile, flooded with recollection.

I spy the school supply shelves in a five and dime, look both ways, and sneak open a box of crayons.  Just because I’m tricky I can.  One whiff and magically I’m in Mrs. Greade’s  first grade class, adding the big box of 64 Crayola crayons to my Christmas wish list, careful to list the crayons under the first thing on my list, a  two wheeler.

I need the 64 count box because it has the sharpener in the back.  In the new year I’ll spend snowbound winter afternoons working with the prism blues, reds, and yellow discards–the captured, scrolled crayon shavings.   Molten artwork   masterpieces cover Mommy’s Frigidaire, created by melting and pressing these squirrley-curly scraps between two sheets of waxed paper with a warm iron and some elbow grease.  In my tween years I’ll advance to melting whole, peeled crayons, the junky ones, under a candle flame and dropping the heavy colored drops into peace-love-and-rock-and-roll designs whose sole purpose is my self expression and self pleasure.

Forget Calgon Bath Beads, lilacs take me away every time.  A mild  breeze, the buzz of a bouncing bumble, lifting my face up to absorb the first hot sun rays, all lead up to a trigger:  blooming purple lilacs.  One rush of their French perfume and I’m back in my grandma’s backyard, horsing around with my cousins and waiting for Grandpa to finish churning the crank on his bucket of vanilla bean ice cream.  My grandma is cleaning up from frying chicken legs in an electric skillet and serving up some potato salad.

Who needs a DeLorean  when there is line-dried laundry?  My mind’s eye can see strings of sun kissed bed sheets that snap, crackle and pop in the wind  stretched out beside pinned up bath towels so stiff you could sand the fur right off a dog, and blue jeans standing on their own volition.  I’m so small I can run under the sheets and smack them with arms splayed out overhead.  I hear the ch-ch-ch-ch of a rotary sprinkler head in the neighbor’s yard and then I see an enormous white belly fill the sky (and my eyes)  so close you could touch it, as an airplane zooms just above our rooftops, reaching and climbing into the clouds while window panes rattle for blocks all around and I cover my ears until it vanishes.  Midway Airport, Chicago, 63rd & Cicero, White Castles on the corner…I’m there!

Time travel is as easy when you put your mind to it…a bucket of fresh popped popcorn or being overwhelmed by the strength of a peeled orange and off I go… off to see the wizard, the wonderful wizard of Oz.