Birds of a Feather

Each evening around 5 o’clock, condo residents gather on their lanai to watch the nightly performance of anhinga and cormorant, birds that roost in the trees, just beyond the canal.  You can hear the scraping of chairs and snippets of conversation…the clink of silverware on plates…as residents settle in.  After the first dozen or so of birds have settled, we all get quiet and watch as the birds seem to take up the same positions as the night before and the night before that.

Rain or shine (mostly shine), chilly or warm (almost always warm), the birds come.  The first one is always alone…derrrr…it’s the first one.  The others then follow, coming from all directions.  Maybe a lone flier, maybe two, sometimes a small group.  Until finally, the lacey pine trees are dotted with dozens of large black birds, looking like macabre Christmas ornaments.  Cormorant and anhinga (the cormorant’s cousin) come to roost. The first night I witnessed this spectacular roosting ritual, I was riveted to my seat.  Even Luigi, who back then would bark at the slightest provocation, sat on my lap silently and watched in rapt attention, his muscles just quivering with tension.  We both were stunned mute.

Cormorant and anhinga are not small birds, nor do I think they are they particularly attractive.  I find anhinga slightly better looking than the cormorant; though

Cormorant looking for comrads.

in truth, I have difficulty distinguishing which bird is which, even now after watching them for about two months.  The cormorant has all black or dark feathers with a little orange around the throat area. The anhinga is also mostly black with a very long neck, long bill, and long tail.  The female anhinga has a white-ish head and throat while the male anhinga has white on its wings. According to my reading, cormorant are a little smaller than their anhinga cousin but not by many feathers, averaging a length of about 31 inches while the anhinga measure approximately 34 inches.

Here are a couple of differences between the two birds that I’ve worked out, but most of the time I’m confused:  The anhinga arrive silently on the hush of wings and remain quiet; cormorant come in flapping clumsily, grunting like angry pigs.  Cormorant are the more likely to kick a poacher out of the trees, unceremoniously sending an interloper into the canal below or scuttling off to another tree close by, all the while raising a snorting, grunting ruckus.

Anhinga swoop and glide gracefully to stick a beautiful ten-point landing.  The cormorant come in, sometimes feet-first, flapping desperately on a collision course, barely grasping the narrow tree branch then swaying all the way forward with wings wildly beating until somehow they get their balance.  And always, the cormorant end any activity with their distinctive pig grunt. The cormorants’ awkwardness and snorting definitely provide us with a lot laughs!

Both birds are excellent fisherman, though their styles are a little different.  The canal behind our condo is full of fish, frogs, turtles, and the occasional alligator—

An anhinga quietly waiting for the others.

the smaller critters are just the diet of many of the birds that line the shores!  It’s fun and suspenseful to watch the anhinga as they hunt their prey.  Once the anhinga are in the water, only their head and neck appear above the surface, like a tiny Loch Ness monster drifting back and forth.  When they see a tasty morsel, they submerge.  I hold my breath while waiting for them to surface again.  I have no idea what goes on under water, but I have a suspicion that it wouldn’t be pretty.  Cormorant also swim under water to spear their prey, but they look more like ducks on the surface. The cormorant noisily slap their wings on the surface of the water when they attempt their awkward take-off after getting their fill of fish.  The anhinga, however, look like disembodied heads gliding to shore then they waddle out of the water.  Because anhingas’ feathers are so dense, they stand patiently on shore, wings spread and sometimes waving, in order to dry out–They remind me of the nuns who would pick up the skirts of their heavy black habits to run bases when playing softball with us during summer catechism.

While tiny baby alligators fall victim to the anhinga, anhinga in return fall victim to the decidedly larger alligators.  (Needless to say, Luigi and I don’t venture back by the canal…often…and when we do, we tiptoe.)  So I literally hold my breath when watching any of the water birds and turtles along the banks.  I know any of the birds could fall victim to the silent, lurking menace.  I’ve heard gruesome tales of not-so-lucky turtles and egrets.

Something I love about both the anhinga and cormorant, though, is that they mate for life and share parenting and housekeeping duties.  I find that quality endearing, for some reason.  There is at least one mated pair of anhinga that come to roost every evening.  The female flies in first and keeps her head turned toward the west until her mate comes and lands close beside her.  You can almost hear the female sigh with relief when she sees her mate landing beside her.  At least that’s what I imagine.  It seems as though the branch would buckle under the weight of the two birds, but somehow it manages to support them.  The male then moves with a slide-shuffle over to his mate, the branch undulating with each movement, the two rub heads, slide-shuffle apart, bury their heads under a wing, and fall asleep.

One night a great blue heron thought the trees would make a perfect spot, too; but he didn’t last very long.  Despite getting into a verbal altercation with the

Great blue heron taken through the screen on the lanai.

cormorant, raising up to its full height and trumpeting its position, it finally gave up and moved on.  I mean, really, the cormorant are a very crude, dirty lot but what a show they put on!  I was so involved in what was going on outside, my garlic wine sauce got away from me and literally exploded all over the kitchen!  It was not pretty.

I’m told by the locals that as quickly as the anhinga and cormorant appear, they disappear just as quickly sometime in February.  Until their impending departure, though, I plan to continue watching the ritual of their night-time routines.  My enthusiasm has waned these past few weeks and there is a part of me that can’t wait for the birds to disappear as the trees have gone from a pretty shade of ever-green to a dirty shade of gray-white from bird excrement.  In a word…yuk!  I find myself praying for rain, not just because the entire state is perilously dry but because the trees need a good bath!

Even in their murky state, the trees continue to attract some of the most beautiful birds.  Just the other day in the early afternoon, two pelicans swooped in and stayed long enough for me to snap quite a few pictures.  As soon as the filthy birds (cormorant and anhinga) began gathering for the night, the pelicans stood as if

Pelicans...what can I say?

on cue and flew off and have yet to return.  I hope it was nothing the loud-mouthed cormorant said!

Reflections in the Snow

2011 January snowfall

Blow, blow, thou winter wind
Thou art not so unkind,
As man’s ingratitude.

—William Shakespeare

I’m one of those weird people that loves Winter. From Christmas Eve on I anticipate the first full-blown snowfall when everything in sight is covered with downy white; if January proceeds and we still don’t have a substantial snowpack I begin to feel cheated. Well, last night we finally got some snow, not a truckload, but enough so that everything is covered with a soft layer of white down. I feel encouraged. Maybe there’s still time to to enjoy the wonders of a snow-covered earth for maybe six weeks, until the end of February at least.

Snow is one of the most dominant forces in the natural world; both a blessing and a burden to all living things. The symmetrical crystalline beauty of individual flakes is cause for wonder, and the melded softness of innumerable six-sided flakes shrouding the surface of the earth reveals a beauty of form that remains hidden during the rest of the year.

It’s a frigid night. The moon casts purple shadows of tangled, naked branches in a wonderful abstract pattern across the freshly laid mantle of blue snow. An owl hoots in the distance. The sound hangs, suspended indefinitely in the frozen air. A cottontail appears from under a blue spruce, hops a few feet, stops, looks around tentatively, then ducks back into the protection of the snow-burdened tree. It leaves an after-image like a frozen shadow on the snow.

The clock on the courthouse a mile away is chiming ten. So clear and sharp, it slices through the crystal air: pure unfettered sound. It had to be a night such as this when Tennyson wrote, “Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky . . . . Ring, happy bells, across the snow . . . ” and began to emerge from his grief for his friend.

The stars appear so close one could reach out and grab a fistful. A gazillion more are revealed sparkling in the chaste snow. This fundamental beauty makes one think of a timeless universe in which all things converge, and all things are possible.

Deer in the backyard

Rabbits still nibble perennials in the herb garden and gray squirrels spiral up tree trunks and jump from bare branch to bare branch, euphoric in their mating rites. Each day they join cardinals and blue jays feasting with chickadees and sparrows at the many neighborhood feeding stations. All are stalked by the neighbor’s cats looking for their desert. Deer wander through our backyard in the middle of town desperate for food. Each creature leaves its signature on the tabula rasa, soft, subtle brush strokes like a Japanese painting, that reveal the mystery of winter survival.

In the morning it’s possible to read the calligraphy written in the early hours. What creatures ventured out for the paltry provisions they could glean from nature’s lean larder. A brisk morning walk, accompanied by the raucous blue jay’s harsh warning call and the moan of trees responding to arctic temperatures and the rising sun, lays bare a unique story.

While snow covers and shelters, it also reveals and exposes.

Those who live with snow a major portion of the year perceive even the most subtle differences characterized by the type of crystal involved. All snow crystals are colorless. The whiteness we perceive is produced by the reflection and refraction of light from the many minute surfaces of the crystals. Large fluffy flakes, each one different they tell me, descend at about three and a half miles an hour, roughly six times slower than a raindrop. Imagine, lazily drifting like a butterfly wing, oblivious to gravity, transported by the wind, simply giving oneself up to the forces of nature, chance alone deciding where and when to land. Imagine!

Emily enjoys the snow

When we were kids, poor as church mice, we made snowshoes out of evergreen branches and tied them to our feet with anything we could find, from an old piece of rawhide to a discarded scarf. Then we trudged into the woods to explore a frosty, pristine world. Out of the magical white crystals we moulded whatever our imaginations conjured: snow men, snow dogs, snow dragons and knights. Often we played fox and geese with a large, meandering circle that went in and out of bare trees, around snow-softened rocks, over frozen streams.

Sometimes we chose sides and built forts, then pelted each other from our store of snowballs until it got too dark to see, or until we got too cold to continue. As we headed for home, our overwrought snowshoes, with “laces” broken and too frozen to tie anymore, lost their usefulness and tripped us mercilessly. So cold we could hardly feel our fingers and toes, our progress home slowed considerably as we spent precious moments laughing in snowdrifts, coming up with mouthfuls of the cold stuff that froze our lips, teeth, and cheeks.

Finally we’d toss the snowshoes aside and stumble home on numb feet, perhaps helped by a bright moon, and gathering a final batch of snow as we went for Mom’s special maple syrup bedtime treat.

Adult experiences in the snow are regretfully more sedate, though not necessarily less adventuresome. Feeding birds, shoveling walks, stoking the fire. Leisurely cross country skiing over deer paths, through golf courses, down tame enough snow-covered hills, and only occasionally, time to build a snow sculpture with a visiting grandchild. There is more time now to study the path of the wind in snowdrifts, intricate frost patterns on windows, and all manner of wildlife exerting their fundamental instincts of survival.

But I wonder if today’s sheltered and chauffeured youth get to experience Winter and a glorious snowfall as we did when we were children. And what memories are they storing for their golden years? Snow is an adventure that many in the world never get to experience: the touch, the smell, the navigation, the play, the quiet beauty of the landscape.

Snow blankets the earth

Winter is a time of keen awareness that even when the earth seems most lifeless and barren, there is still a vibrancy, an urgency that sifts and strains, that clarifies all life forms and leaves the earth better, stronger, purified for the spring to come.

A fresh snowfall heals the earth’s scars and reflects in its infinite crystals Winter’s cleansing rites.

 

2011 in review

The WordPress.com stats helper monkeys prepared a 2011 annual report for this blog.

Here’s an excerpt:

A San Francisco cable car holds 60 people. This blog was viewed about 3,200 times in 2011. If it were a cable car, it would take about 53 trips to carry that many people.

Click here to see the complete report.

O tannenbaum . . .

A modern-day Christmas tree

I wrote the following in 1994 and it was published in one of our local newspaper’s magazine sections the week before Christmas. Each year I pull it out and read it again, more for the poem included than anything else. But I also love to be reminded of the long history and tradition of some of our most cherished symbols, the Christmas tree being one we all relate to. It connects us to many eras and many generations of our own families. It allows us to meditate on life, on how things change, and on what our contributions are to the long traditions we keep and pass on to our children and grandchildren. I’ve made a few changes to update the article but it retains its original flavor.

In 1916 Robert Frost wrote the delightful story-poem interspersed throughout this piece. In the poem the owner of the young fir balsams decides he’d rather give away his trees to friends than sell them to someone from the city who only sees Christmas trees as money in his pocket. Frost called the poem “Christmas Trees: A circular Christmas letter.” And it begins ….

The city had withdrawn into itself

And left at last the country to the country;

When between whirls of snow not come to lie

And whirls of foliage not yet laid, there drove

A stranger to our yard, who looked the city,

Yet did in country fashion in that there

He sat and waited till he drew us out,

A-buttoning coats, to ask him who he was.

Charles Dickens referred to the Christmas tree as “that pretty German toy,” while Clement Miles wrote, it “is a kind of sacrament linking mankind to the mysteries of the forest.” The Christmas tree has been part of human celebrations and rituals since the 14th or 15th century, but humans have venerated the evergreen since time immemorial. And it is an honor well-deserved.

The pines, spruces, balsams, firs, and hemlocks used in Christmas celebrations are descendents of the first seed-producing plants, which appeared on earth millions of years ago and represented a true revolution in the plant world. A seed is self-contained and maintained; it contains an embryo plant, fully equipped with root, trunk, leaves, and its own food supply for nourishment until conditions are favorable, allowing the plant to germinate and grow.

He proved to be the city come again

To look for something it had left behind

And could not do without and keep its Christmas.

He asked if I would sell my Christmas trees;

My woods—the young fir balsams like a place

Where houses all are churches and have spires.

I hadn’t thought of them as Christmas trees.

Generat Grant in Kings Canyon National Park

The first ancient seed producers were soon replaced by cone-bearing trees, whose descendents include some of our tallest trees and oldest living plants which have survived centuries and geologic catastrophes because of their ability to adapt. Evergreens were already millions of years old when humans first appeared. When we looked around for a symbol of enduring life it’s easy to see how we chose the evergreen. Ancient cultures looked favorably on all evergreens believing that they contained magical powers. Spruce forests are capable of producing thousands of tons of wind-dispersed pollen each year sprinkling land and water with a gold-like powder. The cones, which contain many seeds, were often used as symbols of fertility. Evergreens figured prominently in many pagan rituals, especially those connected with winter solstice celebrations and vegetation deities—like Attis.

Attis, an Asiatic god of vegetation, was born of a virgin who conceived by putting a ripe almond in her bosom. Although stories of Attis’ death differ, they agree on two counts: it was a bloody death, and after his death under a pine tree, Attis changed into a pine tree, which figured prominently thereafter in vegetation rituals to the god.

I doubt if I was tempted for a moment

To sell them off their feet to go in cars

And leave the slope behind the house all bare,

Where the sun shines now no warmer than the moon.

I’d hate to have them know it if I was.

Most ancient European and Asian civilizations had some form of tree worship according to Sir James Frazer, author of The Golden Bough. The evergreen symbolized immortal life for the Druids of England who are credited with being the first to hang undecorated evergreens in their homes, more than two centuries before the birth of Christ. Fresh boughs dispelled the gloom of winter and lent their fresh fragrance to the stale winter air inside. They were a reminder that even in the dead of winter, life abounds.

The first Christmas tree, one legend states, was adopted from medieval morality plays in which the evergreen played a major role. Decorated with apples, it represented the tree of life in the story of Adam and Eve. When December 25 became universally accepted as the time to celebrate Christ’s birth, the evergreen tree took on a central role in Christian celebrations of the event. And to some it represented the life-giving tree of the cross. Early decorations included roses (symbol of Mary) and wafers (symbol of last supper).

Eventually all manner of household items were used to decorate the tree. From silver spoons and knives; to cuff links, earrings, bracelets and brightly-colored gloves; cookies, fruit, toys, egg and sea shells, and garlands of cranberries and popcorn.

Yet more I’d hate to hold my trees, except

As others hold theirs or refuse for them,

Beyond the time of profitable growth—

The trial by market everything must come to.

I dallied so much with the thought of selling.

Then whether from mistaken courtesy

And fear of seeming short of speech, or whether

From hope of hearing good of what was mine,

I said, “There aren’t enough to be worth while.”

The Germans are generally given credit for introducing the modern Christmas tree in the 17th century with their beautifully and imaginatively decorated table-top trees. The first candles were added by Martin Luther, goes one legend, when, after observing the clear, star-studded sky one Christmas Eve, he wanted to impress his children with the importance of the birth of the Light of the World, and he added candles to his family’s tree.

Folklore credits Hessian soldiers with introducing the Christmas tree to American colonists during the Revolutionary War. The earliest recorded use of Christmas trees in America was in 1742, in a German Moravian settlement in Bethlehem, Pennsylvania; however, widespread use of the Christmas tree in America did not come about until over a hundred years later, around 1850. Taller, ceiling-high trees replaced the European table-top models and became a tradition in American homes.

“I could soon tell how many they would cut,

You let me look them over.”

“You could look

But don’t expect I’m going to let you have them.”

National Christmas tree, Washington D.C.

President Pierce put up the first White House Christmas tree in 1856 but it wasn’t until 1923, with President Coolidge that the White House tree became a lasting tradition. It was also Coolidge who declared the gigantic sequoia General Grant, in Kings Canyon National Park, California, the National Christmas Tree. Since 1926, an annual Yuletide service is held at the foot of the nearly 2000-year-old tree on the second Sunday of December. On March 29, 1956, President Dwight D. Eisenhower declared the tree a “National Shrine”, a memorial to those who died in war. It is the only living object to be so declared.

Pasture they spring in, some in clumps too close

That lop each other of boughs, but not a few

Quite solitary and having equal boughs

All round and round. The latter he nodded “Yes” to,

And paused to say beneath some lovelier one,

With a buyer’s moderation, “That would do.”

I thought so too, but wasn’t there to say so.

He climbed the pasture on the south, crossed over,

and came down on the north.

In 1882, the world’s first electrically lighted Christmas tree was installed in the New York home of Thomas Edison’s associate Edward Johnson, replacing the hazardous candle-lit trees.

By the early 1900s the Christmas tree in the United States was so popular that shortages began to occur, especially around the cities. In response, the first Christmas tree farm was planted around 1905, and many abandoned farms were brought back into service with crops of conifers as the multi-million dollar industry took root. More recently balled and burlaped trees are used by many for the holiday then planted in backyards to give back to the environment for many years to come.

He said, “A thousand.”

“A thousand Christmas trees!—at what apiece?”

He felt some need of softening that to me:

“A thousand trees would come to thirty dollars.”

I happen to live in Indiana County PA, proudly proclaimed The Christmas Tree Capital of the World. Our local Christmas tree farms provide holiday trees for homes and businesses around the world. The National Christmas Tree Grower’s Association was founded here; and this year the NCTGA has provided a 19-foot balsam fir as the official White House Christmas tree. Indiana County tree growers are proud supporters of the Christmas Spirit Foundation. Since 2005 the CSF has provided 84,000 fresh-cut trees to military families and servicemen and women stationed around the world.

When our sons were young, we enjoyed going out to a local Christmas tree farm and tramping around to choose our tree, cut it down, and drag it back to the car. It never looked as good in the house as it had looked outside and we’d turn it and turn it trying to find the best side. Everyone had a different opinion. But we enjoyed decorating it with strings of popcorn and cranberries … and we each picked out a new ornament to hang each year from Lumley’s Christmas Shop. When we were finished we’d exclaimed this tree the most beautiful tree to date.

Finding a bird’s nest in the chosen tree has long been considered good luck for the new year. A Scandinavian tradition observed by farmers was to bundle a sheaf of wheat and attach it to a pole outside for the birds and animals on Christmas Eve as a show of good faith for a plentiful harvest the following year. Perhaps from these old traditions comes a more recent one of setting out the used Christmas tree and decorating it for the birds.

Many of our used trees served up a royal avian banquet with strings of popcorn and cranberries, slices of apple and peanut butter, suet balls dipped in birdseed, pinecones filled with peanut butter and birdseed, and pieces of stale donuts and bread. Then we would sit by the window and watch all the action. It extended our enjoyment of the rich tradition of the Christmas tree and giving.

Then I was certain I had never meant

To let him have them. Never show surprise!

But thirty dollars seemed so small beside

The extent of pasture I should strip, Three cents

(For that was all they figured out apiece)—

Three cents so small beside the dollar friends

I should be writing to within the hour

Would pay in cities for good trees like those,

Regular vestry-trees whole Sunday Schools

Could hang enough on to pick off enough.

Modern family traditions and festivities will continue to include a Christmas tree and greens decorated with bright lights and baubles for generations to come. It doesn’t matter whether we think of the tree as a delightful toy hung with the handiwork of our creativity, or consider its rich tradition and sacred symbolism of life eternal connecting us with those many generations who have gone before—and those yet to come. We are part of this  long tradition of bringing in the greens.

The Christmas tree will always be an object of priceless memories of Christmas past, a stirring delight of Christmas present, and joyful anticipation of Christmas future.

A thousand Christmas trees I didn’t know I had!

Worth three cents more to give away than sell,

As may be shown by a simple calculation.

Too bad I couldn’t lay one in a letter.

I can’t help wishing I could send you one

In wishing you herewith a Merry Christmas.

Thanksgiving Pie and Christmas Cookies

Since the holidays are soon upon us I thought maybe we could share some recipes that have been our family favorites over the years, especially in the cookie category. In years past, we made dozens and dozens of cookies for Christmas. We’d begin shortly after Thanksgiving and continue up until, and sometimes including the week of Christmas. We stored the cookies in the coolest part of the house, which for me was the garage. I’d clean off a shelf or two, line them with tablecloths, and begin loading them with cookies stored in their air-tight containers.

Plenty of flour flew, chocolate dripped, fruit caramelized, nuts were chopped, sugar was everywhere, and for weeks before Christmas the house smelled so good everyone was in a constant state of hunger. When the boys became teenagers, sometimes, rarely, a container would become lighter as Christmas approached. Nobody would “fess up” but it soon became apparent what everyone’s favorite cookie was and it was easy to guess who the culprit might be.

Now that I live alone, I make far fewer cookies than I once did. I focus on just the favorites while wistfully remembering the hustle and bustle of making all the others. Of course, the grandchildren have their favorites so we still end up with plenty of cookies for everyone, and have enough after the holidays to store a box in the freezer for a 4th of July treat.

With all this talk about cookies, I’ve decided to first share my recipe for Pecan Pie, a Thanksgiving favorite in our family. Of course we also have the traditional Pumpkin and Apple, but the Pecan Pie was the one that disappeared first. Today, with the price of pecans, it’s almost cheaper to go to Eat ‘N’ Park and buy one of their delicious pecan pies, but for those with the means here’s the famous Henry Pecan Pie recipe.

Pecan Pie

Pecan Pie
Preheat oven to 375°

Prepare your favorite pie crust. Mine is as follows. This recipe makes 2 crusts but you need only one for the Pecan Pie.

Mix together
2 cups flour
1 teaspoon salt
Cut in
2/3 cup lard (or 2/3 + 2 tablespoons shortening)
Sprinkle with
¼ cup water and mix with fork
Roll out and place in 2 pie tins, fluting the edges.

For the Pecan filling (for one pie)
Beat together
3 eggs
2/3 cup sugar
½ teaspoon salt
1/3 cup melted butter
1 tablespoon of rum
1/3 cup honey
2/3 cup dark corn syrup
Mix in
1 ½ cup pecan halves.
Bake 40-50 minutes or until crust is nicely browned and center set.

1963 Betty Crocker Cooky Book

Now for the cookies … I always begin my Christmas cookie baking with the same recipe every year. In fact I follow the same sequence of recipes year-after-year, for some unknown, but probably obsessive compulsive reason.

Here’s one family favorite and the one that kicks off my baking season. This recipe is taken from Betty Crocker’s Cooky Book, copyright 1963, and the book from which most of my cookie recipes come from. It is tattered and torn, splashed and spilled on, but it gets dragged out anytime I need a good cookie. A facsimile of this book is available from amazon.com for $15.96. I don’t know what I’d do without mine. I’ve included the recipe here exactly as it appears in the Cooky Book.

Russian Teacakes (Sometimes called Mexican Wedding Cakes)

Russian Teacakes

1 cup butter or margarine
½ cup sifted confectioners’ sugar
1 teaspoon vanilla
2 ¼ cup Gold Medal Flour
¼ teaspoon salt
¾ cups finely chopped nuts

Mix butter, sugar, and vanilla thoroughly. Measure flour by dipping method … or by sifting. Stir flour and salt together; blend in. Mix in nuts. Chill dough.
Heat oven to 400 degrees (mod.hot). Roll dough in 1″ balls. Place on ungreased baking sheet. (Cookies do not spread.) Bake 10 to 12 min., or until st but not brown. While still warm, roll in confectioners’ sugar. Cool. Roll in sugar again. Makes about 4 doz. 1″ cookies.
Note: Do not use Gold Medal Self-Rising Flour in this recipe.

I sometimes roll the cookies in confectioners’ sugar one more time, in other words 3 times all together. They just look so delicious and ready to be eaten that way.

I’ll leave it up to my sisters to keep the ball rolling and add their families’ favorite recipes to the list. Other family members … daughters, granddaughters, sons and husbands, etc. are welcome to join the fray. Happy Thanksgiving to all …. and happy baking.

A Remembrance: Silvio Joseph Dorazio 1918-1975

Uncle Sid's high school graduation

Integrity first … Service before self … Excellence in all we do

Who will remember us when we’re gone? How many generations until we’re no longer thought of or remembered for our deeds, good and/or bad? These were my thoughts recently when I came across a picture of my uncle, who has been gone for 36 years now. Had he lived he would be 93-years old today. Something that’s hard to imagine; I remember him as he was in the prime of his life.

Uncle Sid was born October 25, 1918, the fourth child, second son of Antonio and Rosa D’Orazio; he was their last child born in the “Black Shanty.”

In January 1915, the new immigrant family of three (one infant had died) moved into a building my mother described as a “row house.” It was called “Black Shanty” and had been built by the Rochester and Pittsburgh Coal Company as temporary housing in the Rose Valley section of this Southwestern PA coal community. Black Shanty was a wooden building, hardly more than a shed, covered with black tar paper sitting up on stilts. New immigrants lived there until one of the newer company houses became available. The D’Orazio’s lived in Black Shanty for three years.

My mother, Uncle Sid’s sister, was born in the Black Shanty in 1916, a year after her infant sister Anina had died of convulsions. Her older brother Uncle Nick (Nickolino) had been born in 1912, in Montenerodomo, Chieti, Abruzzi, Italy before he migrated to the U.S. with my grandmother Rosa. Shortly after the birth of their fourth child Silvio (Uncle Sid) in 1918, my grandfather Antonio and his family moved into the 4-room company house Number 58 “on the hill” in Yatesboro. Uncle Sid grew up in this house, walked to school across the Black Road, and went to church at St. Mary’s Roman Catholic Church as a young man.

Uncle Sid joins the Air Force

Uncle Sid was my favorite uncle, the handsome, carefree world traveler, appearing mysteriously at our kitchen table from places known to us only in books and from his stories. He never stayed long, an hour or two, occasionally overnight, but he regaled us the entire time with his adventures around the world. He had black, curly hair, hazel eyes, and when he talked it sounded like his words were rubbed over a rasp in his throat before hitting the air; it sounded as though it took great effort to get them out. His laughter trickled out over the same rough course. His “raspy” voice added to his charm in my eyes.

In 1936, at the age of 18, Uncle Sid, like many of the boys his age living in the coal town of Yatesboro, went to work for the Helvetia Coal Mining Company of NuMine, Pennsylvania. He operated a load-side conveyor that hauled coal from the mine entrance to waiting railroad cars. He manipulated levers and buttons to start and stop the belt, and he regulated the speed of the belt; quite a responsibility for an 18 year-old. He operated, cleaned and serviced the machinery until 1941, when, at the age of 23, wanting more for himself, he enlisted in the U.S. Army Air Force, a decision that would change his life forever.

In his 26 years of service in the Air Force, Uncle Sid traveled all over the world from England to Alaska to Germany and in several of the States back home. After Basic Training, and during World War II, he served in England as an Administrative Non-commissioned Officer during the European Air Offensive. He left for England on 27 April 1942, and arrived back in the United States on 3 July 1944.

More than a decade later Ramstein Air Base, Germany, was his home from March 1959 to August 1961. At one time or another he was stationed at Chanute Air Force Base, Illinois; Fort Benjamin Harrison, Indiana; Lackland Air Force Base, Texas; Ladd Air Force Base, Alaska and in Air Force bases in South Dakota, Georgia, New Mexico, and Pennsylvania. And finally, he served as Administrative Superintendent, the Non-commissioned Officer In Charge at Patrick Air Force Base, Florida.

On June 4, 1952, he received Top Secret clearance before he was stationed at Ladd Air Force Base, Alaska, near Fairbanks, where he served as an aide to a General whose name has been forgotten by the family. Ladd AFB was the duty station he most treasured in his Air Force Career. He was there as Ladd became involved in the Cold War and was a testing ground for cold-weather clothing and aircraft. The base became a busy operations and logistics center with significantly expanded facilities and personnel strength during the 1950′s. He also needed his Top Secret clearance for his duty in Germany. His Alaska and Germany assignments are cloaked in mystery as to what he did and what he knew about operations at these bases, making him seem even larger in our young eyes. In our imaginations our debonaire uncle was involved in secret operations at the highest levels during a cynical time in U.S. History. He often joked about the “Eyes Only” aspect of his job and his duties as aide to “The General”.

When he voluntarily retired from Patrick Air Force Base, Florida on 31 March 1967, Uncle Sid was a Master Sergeant with 26 years service. During his service, he attended several military schools including one for Military Justice and Administration in 1949, prior to receiving his Top Secret clearance. Other schools were related to his MOS of cleric and finally, towards the end of his career, he attended a recruiting school. He always received “excellent” in his scores and ratings.

Uncle Sid with German shepherds in Alaska

It was a fun time when Uncle Sid came home on leave. He never failed to visit his sister Anne and her husband Joe, our mother and father. Everyone sat around the kitchen table with a steady flow of beer, while Uncle Sid joked with my dad, and told embellished tales of the places he’d been since we last saw him. He made such a big deal of being a ladies man and regaled us with stories of all the women that flocked around him that he had to “brush off.” He never failed to bring a bag of gifts, little mementos of wherever he happened to be: fancy embroidered pillows with gold fringe and the Air Force logo, a large shell from Hawaii, coffee cups with the Air Force emblem, paper weights, or special chocolate treats. He was definitely proud of the work he was doing.

While he was stationed at Ladd Air Force Base in Alaska I was in high school. He’d send me large packets of Alaskan newspapers marking interesting articles he thought I should read and circling advertisements with comments on the prices—things were so much more expensive in Alaska, not yet part of the Union, than in the U.S. His letters told us what he did in his off-time and included pictures of the snow and, later, of the dogs.

Uncle Sid and some of his buddies adopted a couple German Shepherds and a litter of puppies that wandered onto the air base. He was so proud of those dogs and spent a lot of time with them; he joked they had to do something to keep warm in that no-man’s land. He was pretty involved in taking care of the puppies when they arrived. I think that says a lot about his character in spite of his nonchalant pose. He could’ve “brushed them off” like he supposedly did the women that flocked around him but he didn’t. I think those puppies gave him a sense of purpose beyond his job and made him feel connected to something real in that stark, frigid land.

When I’d visit my grandparents in Ohio in the summers and he was home on leave, he’d sunbathe and ask me to sit and talk with him because he was bored. He’d ask me questions about school and what I liked to do. One time he even had me pick the dead skin off his back after a severe sunburn. I wasn’t too happy about that but I didn’t complain because he joked and made me laugh the entire time. In the evenings he’d sometimes take me for a drive to get ice cream. He was kind and interested in all I did and made me feel loved.

Uncle Sid didn’t marry until late in life. His first marriage soon ended in divorce. In November 1966, he was stationed at Patrick Air Force Base in Florida, he had a new wife Mary Jane, and he decided to retire from the Air Force effective April 1967. He was never the same again. Uncle Sid loved the structure of the service, the disciplined life, and once he left the Air Force he didn’t know what to do with himself. He became very restless, frustrated, and unhappy.

I saw a man who was very different from the man I loved as a child. I was married with children by this time and saw Uncle Sid only a couple times but it saddened me to see the melancholy in his eyes and the curl of his lip. I wanted only happiness for him but it seemed to elude him at every turn. I wish he could have been happier in his retirement because he was such a good man, always kind, and thoughtful, and definitely deserving of happiness at this time in his life.

Uncle Sid with German shepherd puppies

Uncle Sid was only 52-years old when he died March 16, 1975 in the Veterans Hospital in Butler PA. He is buried with his parents in the Austintown Cemetery, Austintown, Mahoning County OH, in the Garden of Love.

Who will remember us generations from now; who will validate that we existed? Or as poet Gary Soto writes, “Who will know us when we breathe through the grass?” Only those who have loved us; for everyone else, faint memories will fade with time. Silvio Joseph Dorazio, with these words you are remembered today by all you touched in your short life. Happy birthday! And peace …..

What is it about babies…….???

On Saturday, October 15, 2011,  (Sweetest Day) we were all invited to a  family celebration.   The Pattersons, the Juliettes, family and friends gathered to celebrate three new babies and a wedding.  We all arrived around 3:00pm.  There was a lot of delicious food to be had.  No one would go away hungry.  Appetizers…. desserts, mmmmm good stuff.   Kate, the family chef/baker helped prepared several of the things we enjoyed.  We all brought something to the meal, a family smorgasbord of good things to eat.

Kate married Jason and they had baby Sam!  It was nice to meet Jason and baby Sam.  Jason has a very contagious smile.  He is a great addition to the family.   It was nice to get to know him and Sam.  Sam was very quiet and slept most of the time.

Tony and Andie had twins, Courtney and Carson.  We were constantly asking,“ Which one do I have?” Thanks goodness they know how to tell them apart. I think Carson has a little red beauty mark behind her ear, OR is it Courtney????  Devin and Kenzie were perfectly content to play with their friends and every now and then pop in for a cookie.  It was surprising to see how they have grown up.

Family came from far and near.  It was nice to catch up on what we had been happening in Tony and Kate’s lives and to see how all the new babies were growing.  There were many arms that were more than willing to hold a baby or two.  You didn’t hear much noise from the babies……they were content looking up at us and at all the funny faces and sounds we would make for them.  Our reward would be a great big smile that would just make your heart melt.  Lots of cooing and giggles to be heard and seen.   Noise, what noise, the babies would take little catnaps and then move on to a new person.   Courtney and Carson and Sam enjoyed meeting all their new aunts, uncles and great grandmother etc…….

How fortunate we were to have  Great Grandmother there to celebrate too!  Mum enjoyed sitting there holding a baby now and then and watching all the activity going on around her.  She looked real good and didn’t seem to tire.  That’s pretty good for soon to be 95!

We all enjoyed the delicious dessert of chocolate raspberry  and yellow cake.  It was a great ending to a lovely crisp fall day as we all bid a loving  farewell to Carson, Courtney and Sam.

What is it about babies…………they make us all feel so good about ourselves and the world around us.  They look up at us and smile and we know that the world is going to be OK because now they are in it…… Little miracles, that is what they are, each one of them. Babies bring so much joy…..they remind us of how life used to be when we didn’t have a care in the world.  Mummy and Daddy would take care of us, there was no need to worry.  Babies come so self-contained, all we have to do is love them, protect them and let them do the rest.

Kate and Jason, Tony and Andie, thank you all for allowing us to coo, hug, cuddle, kiss and enjoy meeting your sweet little babies.  We will all expect a photo Christmas card each year so that we can see them growing up.  Tho, you are far away, the photo will allow us to see how they are all doing from year to year.

So when you have a bad day and life seems tough, just think about the pretty smile that Courtney, Carson or Sam gave you today and life will just be a little easier……..

In closing, I would like to add one more beautiful baby to the new baby crop this year……Brandy Henry.

How blessed we are to have had such a wonderful year of new babies…..God Bless Them All!!!!

kd

Clutter…The New 4-Letter Word?

Though not a fan of “reality” television, per se, my secret guilty fascination is with a program called “Hoarders.”  Creators of the program find people, hoarders, willing to allow cameras into their homes to film the drama that ensues when professionals arrive to help clear the overwhelming clutter and psychoses in their lives.  I sit riveted as these people, who are “more to be pitied than censured,” are paralyzed by the process of letting go of possessions so that people who have been replaced by stuff can come back into their lives.  For the most part, these hoarders are intelligent people who have experienced an overwhelming trauma (I always have a box of tissues at the ready), which they deal with by compulsive shopping and hoarding, pushing loved ones aside in favor of stuff.  And I am talking STUFF with capital letters…mounds and mounds and mounds and mounds of STUFF.  Floors disappear.  Furniture disappears. Kitchen appliances disappear.  Heck, bathroom fixtures disappear.  Pets…well, you get the picture.  Sadly, some people, in the end, choose the stuff over family and friends and shun the help.  Those who accept the help have mixed reactions.  Some are able to move forward and some continue to struggle.

I fear becoming a hoarder…though my hoarding thus far is confined to overly filled closets and a somewhat cluttered basement and attic.  Ken, who is a shopper extraordinaire, loves to go in search of bargains. By no means is his shopping out of control.  But, that’s how it starts…slowly.  And, I have to admit, ninety-nine times out
of one hundred, I’m the benefactor of his bargain shopping.  When he approaches me with a bag containing
his latest and greatest deal, grinning from ear to ear, I can’t help it.  He makes me laugh.  Lately, though, I greet him with, “We’re headed for ‘Hoarders’” and I look around for the cameras.

When Ken and I were raising the kids and I was working full time, clutter was my enemy.  So every summer, I cleaned the house from top to bottom…literally.  I began by cleaning out the attic.  If something hadn’t moved in that year, it was pitched or donated.  Then came the closets.  If something was outgrown or ignored, out it went.  By the time I reached the basement, I was a happy camper.  The clutter was managed.  We stored the “good” toys and games and, of course, the kids’ school papers.

After the kids moved out, though, something happened to those summer clutter-free fests.  They ground to a halt. Of course, I still did the spring cleaning thing, but the clutter? It got pushed into the attic or the basement.  Neatly corralled in boxes and large plastic tubs…which multiplied.  Soon the attic and basement looked like miniature cityscapes with boxes and tubs stacked and arranged for minimal human passage.

When the kids married, first Jen in 2005 and Jeff in 2006, I began scrapbooking.  Holy cow!  The stuff you can buy to scrapbook!  I filled an entire closet with nothing but paper, stickers, paper punches (I love paper punches!), stamps…floor to ceiling…one closet…scrapbooking STUFF!  Then I lost interest in scrapbooking; it’s too time-consuming.  Sometimes I spent an entire evening on ONE page. Yikes!  I abandoned the scrapbooking.

So then I moved on to quilting.  Ken insisted I buy this sewing MA-CHINE.  No kidding, it even speaks.  It is smarter than I (which I realize is not a huge stretch).  So I took a couple of quilting classes, went to “shop hops” with friends, and acquired a fabric “stash.”  Then I made two lap-size quilts which, when all was said and done, cost me over $200 a piece…and they didn’t even fully cover Ken, who at 6 feet 2 inches expects to have his toes covered when he “covers” himself with a blanket.  So now I have a stash of fabric and an expensive sewing machine, and no desire to quilt. More STUFF!

Several years ago, Ken decided to breed a rare and beautiful line of German angel fish in the basement. He had 45 tanks–one a 125-gallon tank. At first, the 10 mated pairs were not producing.  Then, they figured it out!  We had hundreds upon hundreds of angel fish.  Ken could not sell them fast enough!  As soon as the fish matured,
they’d breed–along with the original mated pairs that were still breeding like, well, rabbits.  It was overwhelming,
to say the least!  We were still both working full time and we’d come home and Ken would put in another full
day caring for the fish.  I’d help as much as I was able, cleaning tanks.  But something had to give.  So, Ken sold the entire operation.  A person from Pittsburgh bought all the fish and was to return for the tanks…all 45.  That was over ten years ago.  We’re still waiting for him to return.  So we have 45 tanks and other STUFF in the basement.

Even Luigi, weighing in at just 5.7 pounds, has added stuff we wouldn’t have otherwise.  Granted the little guy could care less about all the accoutrements that make his life what it is, but he’s become the third “child” we indulge.  So in the kitchen I have several different kinds of treats out on the counter where everyone can find them.  His food mat and dishes take up floor space as do the food bag and special food canister. He has two sets of grooming combs AND brushes, several toothbrushes and toothpaste, shampoo, conditioner, a crate, three baskets (Come on…we live on
six levels!), towels, wash clothes, toys-a-million, leashes, and harnesses.  And, sadly, he has a wardrobe that includes
sweaters, coats (including two raincoats), hats (what can I say?), and costumes.  You read that right…costumes…for all the major holidays. I realized I’d gone too far when I impulsively purchased an umbrella for him…a special umbrella for dogs.  Did I mention the steps we purchased so he has access to our bed (which even I have difficulty getting into because it’s so high), despite the fact that he doesn’t sleep with us?  Somehow his sleeping with us goes over the line…seriously.

After Ken’s mom passed away so suddenly and tragically not quite a year ago, we were left with the task of getting her house ready to sell.  It was devastatingly sad to go through the things she collected over her lifetime–things she
treasured…things she just stashed away–to try to decide what to keep, what to donate, and what to throw away.  We
threw away quite a lot of things, donated even more, and kept a few things with emotional and personal attachments tied to them.  But then there are things we just couldn’t make a decisions about that are now blended with all our stuff in the basement, in the attic, and in the space above the garage…a garage attic, if you will.  It just seems endless.

The living area of our home gives no indication of what lies beneath and above…over and across.  Our living area is very neat and very clean and comfortable.  We have friends over regularly and they are none the wiser. In fact, most people who come here compliment us on our home.  But I know there are things stowed and stashed and crated, and it’s beginning to get on my nerves.  I want it gone…all of it!  I want to simplify!  For the most part, Ken and I are on the same page in theory. We agree we have to get rid of the clutter, but we can get hung up on what to keep.  Really, I feel if it hasn’t moved in six months, it should be outta here…gone! Ken…not so much…it depends. So we squabble and work…squabble and work.

Slowly, we are making progress and it feels good.  Who knows how long it may take us, but at least we’ve begun the process.  Moving forward, I hope we can be more discriminating about the things we bring into the house.  For my part, I’m happy with limiting all purchasing to groceries and clothing when necessary.  I have already told Jen and Jeff that if they feel they must buy us things, to choose consumables.  I’m fine with a ham wrapped up in pretty paper. Really!

So today, it’s back to the basement.  There’s very little left down there besides the fish tanks but it’s stuff that will be easy to deal with. Then on to the utility room…sleeves rolled up and resolved to simplify!  Of course, it’s a cool, rainy day so…maybe the basement can wait while I read what’s up with Ann and Vronsky in Anna Karenina.  No…basement…really…basement.  Wish me luck!  —Linda

A Swing Back to the Porch Era

The family swing still hanging protectively for winter at the family home.

This post is an extension of Kathy’s last one. As she said, we’ve been cleaning out our mother’s home, preparing it for sale. The new owners will take over in another week or two so we’re all going through a transition with Mother, nursing our nostalgia for what was once our family home. I visited this week for the last time to take some pictures before the new owners take over. The porch swing was still hanging where it has hung for many years during the winter months. Mother had moved in February so it didn’t get lowered this year for another year of swinging, singing, and solving the problems of the world. This is the subject of my post.

1993: Our dad and Pudge

Our family has an addiction. It’s in the genes. We’re all victims. No matter how hard we try we can’t stay away from … swings. Yes, since we were tiny toddlers we’ve always had a swing. Most often two swings: one hung on the porch and the other hung in the yard. No rinky-dink plastic swing with padding. No push-button toddler swing. Only large, oak swings that fit three adults with perhaps three toddlers, one on each lap … a 6-person swing. Most of the swings we’ve had in our family have been handmade by our dad. And most of our swings had large springs installed at the top of the chains to give the smoothest, most comfortable swing around.

Our mother and grandchild

When my first child was born, Dad gave me an oak swing on which I could croon my babies to sleep. It hung at three different houses in two counties until we bought our current home. We rocked our four boys to sleep on this swing, they courted their high school sweethearts here, and Bob and I dreamed of an old age together on this swing as one-by-one the boys went off to college and jobs away from home. Finally, after fifty years of highs and lows, toddlers and teens, middle-aged and the elders, it gave way to rot as it hung between two Silver Maple trees at this house that it serviced for forty-three years. At the same time, one of the maple trees that held it also died so it was time … the end of another era for this family.

1952: Joanne with our littlest brother Dave

As I grew up, the porch swing was the seat of much of our social training and activity. Looking back, it seems as though every house had a porch, and most of my fondest memories are of events that took place on the porch. For instance, in the summertime we ate, visited with relatives, entertained neighbors and friends, played games, courted, read, learned to do needlework, and we even slept on the porch. Loneliness was unknown to our young minds. All you had to do was sit on the porch and soon someone wandered by to join you for a chat as you swung slowly back and forth.

Mom braided the rag rugs that decorated our porch floor. She made them from our old dresses and shirts which she had also made, many from flower sacks that once were made of fabric decorated with bright colors and designs. Most every porch in those days had a swing, an essential piece of porch furniture. Babies were nursed and rocked to sleep on that swing, secrets were shared, problems discussed, dreams dreamed, and sweethearts kissed.

1947: Dad and Kathy enjoy a swing

Walking home from school one could tell who was sitting on the porch by how the swing was going. If it looked like any minute it would fly right off the porch, it was a younger brother or sister trying to touch the ceiling with their feet. If it was a nice, slow medium swing, Mom was probably putting the baby to sleep; and if it was barely moving, Dad was taking a nap or Grandma was visiting. Whoever it was, you had time to plan your entrance so you didn’t get killed if someone did happen to be napping.

1957: Dad and 5-year-old Dave swing away

One of my favorite pastimes was to swing until my feet touched the ceiling all the while singing the popular tunes of the day at the top of my lungs. While I poured my heart into the lyrics of “Now Is the Hour,” “I’m Sending You a Big Bouquet of Roses,” “Sweet Violets,” “I’m Looking Over a Four Leaf Clover,” I dreamed that a talent scout from one of the large movie companies would just happen by our house in his long black limo, hear my melodious voice, and sign me up. It was the heyday of the big production musicals with Ginger Rogers and Fred Astair, Shirley Temple, Doris Day, and Judy Garland, movies that we never missed, glamorous lives that we heard about on the radio—so why not me? We dreamed big in those days. The higher the swing went, the bigger the dream.

1953: Linda and one-year-old Dave on porch swing

Innocent times they were. After dark on a summer’s night the only place we were allowed to be was the porch. The backyard that was so much fun during the day and that offered a plethora of delights to every kid that lived in our row of company houses became a forbidden, scary place after dark. When it was really hot, we tormented Mother until she grudgingly went inside and shortly reemerged with a large comforter. We helped her spread it on the grass then we lay on our backs and looked at the stars, but always with the admonition that the first kid to leave the blanket had to go straight to bed.

After what seemed like an eternity of identifying the north star, the big and little dippers, and even trying to count the infinitesimal candles in the sky, we began to catch “falling stars,” or lightning bugs, that came near the blanket. Eventually, feeling very adventurous, we got further and further away from the blanket only to return to show our latest catch to Mother and also Dad who had stopped to kiss us good-bye on his way to the hoot owl shift in the coal mines. Mom, rather than banishing anyone, ended up going into the cellar for a canning jar in which to keep these heavenly critters that had become earthbound just for us. When we had several fireflies in the jar we let them all go at once and squealed enthusiastically at our special fireworks display, the perfect ending to our foray into the wilderness from the sanctuary of the porch. But I digress …..

1950: Chip and Linda share a swing

Speaking of canning jars, we always had a canning jar of wildflowers on the porch railing. Dandelions in spring, then in season, Columbine, Day Lilies, Cardinal Flowers and Goldenrod. And of course, all the house plants came out onto the porch in summer complete with clay pots and wicker stands. They had such descriptive names: Rubber Plant, Snake Plant, Coleus, Philodendron, African Violets. On lazy afternoons we sat on the swing and conjured up stories about the places they came from and how they got their names. We wondered what stories they could tell of exotic places and we giggled as we spoke in strange accents that they might use if they could speak. Margaret Jean ran home for an atlas and we found make-believe jungle homes for our plants all over the world. Then we looked up the countries in which our parents and grandparents and our friend’s parents and grandparents lived before they came to settle in the States. Most of us in that tiny coal mining town were first or second generation Americans.

On that porch swing we learned a lot about life. Every Saturday morning my sister’s job was to scrub the porch, mine was to scrub the two-seater at the back of the yard. We must have been born with those job responsibilities because I don’t remember when we began doing them, we just always took it for granted. Sometimes, for a really big favor, we swapped jobs and I got to clean the porch. But the porch job was really overrated. I found it a lot easier to clean the john. It was smaller and there wasn’t so much stuff to move out of the way—only the roll of toilet paper and the reading material. My parents didn’t care who cleaned what, just so everything was coal-dust free by nine a.m. It amazes me now that we so happily obliged them—but they may remember it differently.

1957: Mum and Joanne on swing with houseplants in background

To keep my sisters and me occupied and out of trouble during those restless summers, Mother taught us all kinds of stitchery while sitting on the porch swing. We learned to crochet, knit, embroider, and we shared a wonderful camaraderie with Mother in our new talents. She had us put lace edges on handkerchiefs and dresser scarves, then embroider pretty designs on them. We made doilies for the furniture and we were so proud when she showed off our accomplishments to company. I’m sure they weren’t that great but to this day I am able to share Mother’s talents with my granddaughters and others who want to learn to knit a scarf or crochet a sweater, and to pass on, not only these dying arts but also to satisfy in others the deeper needs that Mother inadvertently filled in us while teaching our fingers to do complicated stitches. My sisters and I still do needlework today, keeping hands busy and out of trouble while fulfilling the need to create, decorate our homes with unique projects, and give gifts with that special touch.

1970s: Joey and family. Many family photos were taken on the swing

My porch experiences are not unique. The kids I grew up with have similar porch memories. We played jacks, tiddle-winks, marbles, charades. We quarreled, mended fences, laughed, and cried on my porch or theirs. We looked at an upside down world while hanging upside down on the swing that gently swayed back and forth. One could watch the seasons go by within the branches of the large maple trees that hung over the banister and wonder about the mysteries of life beyond the porch while listening to the comforting sounds of Mother’s homemaking coming from inside the house. Granted it was a slower time then, an age of innocence, or so it seems compared to the fast, paced electronic age of our grandchildren.

2011: The country swing in its new city home

Our porch swing has a new home now. But it’s still in the family. Our youngest brother Dave has taken our country swing to his home in the city where it looks perfect and will undoubtedly give him and his friends many pleasant hours of conversation and contemplation while gently swaying back and forth on Dad’s last oak swing. It’s been quite a journey, not only for the swing, but for all of us as well.

Gonna take a sentimental journey………………..

Maybe some of  you may remember that old Doris Day song.  I loved singing it may years ago.

Today, was a start of a sentimental journey.  To begin my story, on Februrary 24^th, our mother, Anne, began a new journey at St. Andrew’s Village.  She lived 94 years independently in her own home.   She loved living there but the time had come living along was becoming more and more difficult for her.  Her eyesight, due to macular degeneration, was fading and her mobility was becoming more limited.  She decided it was time to make a change in her life.   Thus, began a sentimental journey  for Mum and her 6 children.

Our priority was to get Mum settled, comfortable and content in her new environment and then the task of taking her home apart would begin.    So we all met at the house today and began slowly taking the things that would be meaningful to each of us.  Little by slow, Mum would give us this or give us that .  She carefully worked through her treasures.  This was an overwhelming task for her, as well as all of us.

I have had butterflies in my stomach for weeks thinking about this day and the many thoughts and memories of days gone by.  I would get tears in my eyes while I was just sitting quietly.  I never knew exactly why but a thought or memory would come to me and I would just feel the emotion welling up in me.  It just happened….it seemed as tho I had no control of it.  Most of my childhood memories are from our old company house in Yatesboro.  I was 23 when we moved to Rural Valley.  I guess taking the house apart just brought back 69 years of memories.

There were many family treasures to be shared.  Quilts, furniture, kitchen things.  Dad and Mum were very talented.  Mum made quilts, knitted, crocheted, Dad made furniture, tools and gadgets.  We all have something hand made by Mum and Dad. Those are things that just can’t be replaced.  They become the legacy to pass on to our children.  That’s just how it is with family.

There is still more work to be done at the house but that sentimental part is behind us now.  Mum was becoming tired and we decided to call it a day.  We will all gather again to prepare the house to be sold.  The older I become, the more I believe it is true, nothing in life is ever permanent.  Life is like a willow tree,  willows bend and change direction with the breeze. I think they are pretty laid back and graceful.  We are all going in a new direction now.  We say good bye to the house and cheer Mum on as she continues her life in a new place.  Three cheers for Mum!!!!  Hip hip hooray, hip hip hooray, hip hip hooray!!!!!

6' Black Snake came to visit.

On a lighter note, I have always thought that my oldest sister was courageous and strong.  I watched her pull a groundhog off the family dog, Pudge, many years ago.  But yesterday topped it all for me.  There was a 6’ black snack on the patio, it was slithering here and there.  I went upstairs and announced there was a 6’ black snack on the patio.  Everyone came down to take a look………….Joanne followed it around for a  little while and then picked it up, held it as Linda took a photo and took it to the bottom of the yard so that it could continue on it life’s journey.  I just watched with chills on my arms.   She washed her hands and we continued sorting through things just like nothing had happened.    Life really is good.

How fortunate we are to have each other…….thanks Mum for the greatest treasure of all my brothers and sisters…………………..kathy