Mothers Day

On Mothers’ Day, of course I think of my own mother. She was a part of my life for nearly sixty years, so there are lots of memories. Through those memories, she is still with me. Mom hated conflict. She could be very stern. She had a knack for getting the cooperation of her many children. Her laugh was wonderful. There were times when we clashed, and incidents when I thought, “I will never do that when raising my own children!”

Mostly, when I think of my Mom, my memories settle on the last precious months of her life. Then, knowing our remaining time together was short, I grew to know her better and appreciate her more than I ever had before. I remember her patience, and goodness, and strength.

I think of my grandmothers, too, on Mothers’ Day. My father’s mother was Otelia. We never knew her, as she died when Dad was only thirteen years old, but we certainly knew about her. A photo of Otelia always held a place of honor on top of the dresser in my parent’s bedroom. Sometimes, mostly around holidays, Dad would talk sadly and nostalgically about his “Ma.” Now and then he’d look at my sister Brenda with a grin for a particular expression or behavior, and say, “That puts me in mind of my mother!”

My mother’s mother was Thelma, though she was just “Grandma” to us. She lived next door to us so, though she died when I was only ten, she was a big part of my early life. She had a dog named Brownie. After he passed on, she had a beagle named “Sputnik.” “That’s Russian,” she told us, “it means “outta this world!”.” Later, she got a Chihuahua, and named him “Pancho Villa” after the Mexican revolutionary general. She raised rabbits and flowers, and kept a small vegetable garden. She could feed squirrels out of her hands.

In the summertime, Grandma Thelma, in her crisply-ironed slacks and red lipstick, wafting with the scent of Chanel #5, would come over for a visit. She’d bring popsicles for the kids. Mom would hand them out and send us all outside. Then, Grandma would sit down, cross her legs, and pull a cigarette from her pack. She and Mom were going to enjoy a private conversation.

Grandma Florence was my Dad’s stepmother. Though she never had children of her own, she took on all six of my grandfather’s grown-and-nearly-grown children. All of their children were her grandchildren, and she never missed a single important event in our lives. Though she and Grandpa spent winters in Chicago and summers on Beaver Island, they visited whenever they could. It seems that Grandma Florence was almost always present for baptisms, confirmations, weddings and reunions, and always with her camera at the ready to document the event! When she couldn’t be there, we were sure to receive a card and a letter.

On this Mothers’ Day, though, I’m also thinking of my daughters. First, because they are each excellent mothers themselves, but second – and mostly – because their presence gave me the opportunity to be a mother. And, though I’ve lived a long time, with many memorable occasions and several accomplishments, motherhood has been, hands-down, the very most meaningful undertaking of my life!

There were challenges, of course. There were days I wished for simply enough time to finish a book…or even get a shower! Sometimes, motherhood seemed like a never-ending job, with very little payoff. Certainly, I made bad decisions along the way. It seems like I spent most of my time either second-guessing myself or feeling guilty. Still, through it all, being a mother brought me more of a sense of fulfillment than I have gotten from anything else I’ve done. And along with it, so much joy! So, on this Mothers’ Day, I honor my daughters, for providing me the chance to take on the most important and rewarding job of my life, that of being their mother.

Sundays

I’ve always liked Sundays.

When I was a child, Sundays were a change from our regular routines. We went to church as a family, so mornings were a flurry of getting everyone dressed and ready to go, each of us holding small envelopes for the collection basket. We fasted in those days, before communion, so we had breakfast when we got home, closer to lunch time.

While the small children changed into play clothes, we worked together to put a big meal on the table. Someone kept an eye on sausage or ham in the electric frying pan. Someone stood at the toaster, dropping in bread slices and buttering toast until two small plates were piled high with the results. Another helper fried potatoes. My mother stood at the stove, making fried eggs in the cast iron pan. Eggs to order! Two eggs scrambled for one child, one egg over easy for another…when everyone else was served, she put two fried eggs on her own plate, and sat down to join us.

After cleaning up from breakfast, Sundays were relaxed. Homework was finished by that time; housework was set aside for the day. We could read, or play games. In winter, we might go sledding. In the summer, there might be a little gardening to do. When I was small, my father mowed the lawn on summer Sundays. Half a century later, I still associate the smell of freshly-mown grass with Sunday afternoons!

As a young adult, Sundays were for family dinner with Mom and Dad. My sisters and I would gather our husbands and children and meet at the house where we had grown up. Sunday dinners were always a special event, with plenty to eat, and enough to offer company, if anyone else were to stop by. Sometimes we’d bring a dish to pass, or a big dessert. There was, perhaps a turkey in the roaster or a big ham in the oven, but Mom had jobs for each of us as we arrived.

There were potatoes to peel, and vegetables to clean. In the summer, large platters and bowls of tomato and cucumber slices would be prepared. Bread had to be sliced, and butter dishes filled. Small dishes of pickles and olives were set out. Sheila was often tasked with putting a fruit salad together. Brenda was the one that could make a perfect thickening for gravy.

As our families grew, we started taking count of how many were fed on any given Sunday. It wasn’t unusual to have twenty-five or more for dinner. The large dining table was never enough. Often, we opened up the big table in the back room. With all four leaves added, it stretched to almost twelve feet long. Card tables were set up on the porch, for overflow.

Sometimes, after dinner, Dad would get a poker game going in the garage. Inside, the cousins would play together. We sisters took care of the clean-up. The stacks of dishes, all washed by hand, would challenge many restaurants! After that, puzzles and games would come out.

In comparison, my Sundays are pretty sedate. Still, by design, they stand apart from the rest of the week. From the first of June through the end of September, I work on the weekends. On these Sundays when I’m not working, I linger over mornings. I spend longer in my robe, drinking coffee and watching the news programs. I fix breakfast. Sometimes, in good weather, I mow the lawn. Always, I enjoy good memories of past Sundays, surrounded by family.

Here is May!

Yes, this is May. We are coming into spring. Not the cold and muddy snow-melt season that quickly runs through its welcome, but genuine, colorful spring! It’s evident in the little trout lilies, stretching their yellow flowers above the mottled foliage. The trees are a dozen different shades of green, as their leaves get ready to open. Ferns are poking up out of the ground. Before long, the trillium will be blooming on the roadsides.

Spring shows itself in the whole waves of bright green onion-smelling ramps that are thriving this year at the edges of the woods. The other day, I added a big handful of them to a tray of chicken pieces, roasted them together, and enjoyed the flavor combination immensely. And of course, this season brings the many photos and mentions of morel findings. Alas, I do not have an eye for those delectable mushrooms.

I’m happy for this arrival of a new month. Flipping a page of the calendar always signals a fresh start, to me. It’s time to get back on track with all those promises I made to myself about time-management, organization, diet, exercise, and spending restrictions. As I write this, there is a package waiting for me at the airport and, without looking it up, I have no idea what I ordered! How’s that for “careful spending” going right out the window?

I’m anxious to get into the garden. My back is much improved, and I got in a few hours yesterday of productive outdoor work. It was too wet, however, to actually get into the garden. Out here on the Fox Lake Road, we have a narrow window of opportunity to get our yards and gardens in order, before the first hatching of mosquitos sends us all rushing for cover. I took last week off to get my garden planted, then put my back out, and spent most days just trying to recover. Now, the pressure is on!

I’m happy for this month because I have family coming. Two sisters, and one cousin will come around the middle of May to get the farmhouse opened for the season. Good conversation, family meals, games and puzzles in the evenings…I can hardly wait!

Oh, and I’m happy to be done with April, and my A to Z writing challenge! Six days a week of writing and publishing a blog is a big commitment! To readers, it may seem like I just thoughtlessly whip these out, one after another, but that’s not the case at all! I type with two fingers, “hunt and peck” all the way. And, I’m a slow writer. It takes me a long time to write what sounds like thoughtless babbling. Most days in April, I’ve been getting up at four AM, to write, edit and publish the day’s essay. I’m glad to be able to go back to my sporadic once-or-twice-a-week blogging habit!

So, you may wonder, what am I doing here today? Well, it turns out, I kind of got in the habit of getting up early. It’s not so easy to stay in bed just because I can! I’ll figure it out, though; I have no plans to continue this every day. Just today…because I already missed you! Happy May!

Zones

When ordering plants and seeds, I pay attention to the USDA’s Plant Hardiness Zone Map. This far north, here on Beaver Island, we qualify as zone #3. Because the water that surrounds us moderates our temperature a little, we can sometimes edge into zone #4. And I’ve gotten away with pushing the zoning guidelines even further, by planting against the south side of my house. There are always exceptions, of course.

I had a Georgia Peach tree grow up right beside my kitchen door, from a pit I’d thoughtlessly dropped while pouring footings around my house. Uncle Henry identified it for me, and said, “It looks healthy, Cindy, I’d hold on to it.” So I did, though it grew up over my shingles and threatened to overtake the doorway. It produced wonderful peaches, too, juicy, sweet, and the size of a dessert plate, until I over-pruned it one year, before an exceptionally hard winter. I kept it around for a few years, giving it extra attention and lots of apologies, until I was satisfied that it was truly dead.

After a few years of digging gladiolus up every fall, and finding a place to store the bulbs, as they say one should do in zone #3, I took my chances with leaving them outside to overwinter in the ground. I mulched that areas heavily to give it some protection, and only removed the mulch when things had warmed up in the spring. I continued to get flowers every year for about ten years. When they quit coming, I wasn’t sure if the cold had finally gotten to them, or if the bulbs were just spent.

My house sits almost in the center of the island, far from the moderating waters of Lake Michigan. The land is a little lower here, sloping down toward Fox Lake, a couple miles to the south. Those of us that live in this area have noticed that we often get the first frost in the fall, and the last one in the spring. Aunt Katie, whose home was five miles to the north, used to say I lived in a totally different climate. So, I watch the weather forecast, too, and stand ready to cover seedlings if the temperature drops. Mostly, though, it’s safe to consult the planting zone map to determine what can be planted when.

When I have opportunity to travel south through Michigan this time of year, it’s possible to watch spring unfold, hour by hour. That trip in reverse is not nearly as enjoyable! Once, we moved to Beaver Island on the day after Easter. We left the thumb area, where tulips and daffodils were just starting to fade, lilacs were bursting into flower, and every shade of green was visible in grasses and trees and shrubs. We drove north, into a progressively gray and dismal landscape.

Beaver Island was the gloomiest I’d ever seen it…and I’d been here in early April before. Spring comes slowly to this island but, if you’ve been here all winter, you appreciate every change as a sign of hope. To arrive in spring is different. Then, it’s just sad. Everything is brown and gray…except for stubborn patches of snow still holding on in sheltered areas. The ground is mostly frozen. Where it has given up the frost, it has given into mud. And it’s cold! I think there is no winter day that can compete, for discomfort, with a cold, damp, bone-chilling day in the spring!

This year, on this last day of April, we’re past all that. Trees are greening up, ready to leaf out. Buds are visible on many flowering shrubs. After a few days of rain, my lawn is looking like it could use a trim. And, following along with the guidelines in the USDA Plant Hardiness Zone Map, I’ve started planting seeds!

Yarn

A year ago, Mary Rose, the woman who owns the Toy Museum here on Beaver Island, donated loads of yarn to the Resale Shop. There were whole skeins, partial skeins and balls of yarn. Beautiful yarns! Wools and cottons, variegated, chenille, and ribbon yarns. Many were heavy weight; others were single-ply. All were just stunning! The quality, the colors and the sheer quantity was seductive! It was yarn that I wouldn’t be able to afford at retail price. The resale shop sold it for one dollar per skein.

I’d pick up a few selections every week. And every week, I said, “That’s it, now…I don’t need any more yarn.” The following Friday, when I went in to work my shift I’d again be drawn in to all the soft textures, bright colors, and variety. Irresistible! I bought over a hundred samples.

There wasn’t enough of any one color or weight to complete any more than small projects, but that was fine with me. I like to take two or three strands of yarn and work them together. I like the tweedy look, and the changes in color keep me interested. I find that the completed projects are kind of self-blocking, an added advantage.

So, I started in. I made a few pair of slippers, as Christmas gifts. Then I made almost a hundred winter hats.

I followed that by one cozy afghan for my daughter, Kate. My grandson, Tommy, told me how much he loved it, so I started one for him. Then I started one for my daughter, Jen. Then, for a hundred other things, drawing me in different directions, I lost interest in crochet. Those two afghans each sit, in their unfinished state, each in their own tote, along with the yarn, crochet hook and pattern book. Like dozens of other half-finished undertakings I’ve started and abandoned in my life, they occupy my mind even when they aren’t taking my time or energy. Not to mention the basketsful of yarn I’ve acquired, just waiting to be put to use!

Last weekend, I loaded one of those totes in the car, and went to join the sewing group. I couldn’t stay long, because I had another appointment in town. Between getting set up, then coffee and conversation, I didn’t get much done. In fact, I crocheted only one row. That’s about a half-inch of progress! At that rate, it will take forever to get this done! Knowing myself, though, I understand that the biggest step is the first one, and that just getting re-started is sometimes enough.

X-Ray

Before I saw the chiropractor last week, I had to go in for a set of X-rays. “That’s it!” I thought, “now I’ll have something to write about when I come to the letter X.” That dreaded letter, that pops up in a snarl of difficult letters at the end of the alphabet, always gives me trouble. And that small thought, oddly enough, made me think of my Mom.

My mother always struggled to pick out names for her daughters. The boys were easy; they got family names. Theodore George was named for our two grandfathers. David Robert was named for my mother’s uncle, and our father. Bobby, the little boy who died during delivery, was christened Robert William, after our father.

The girls, though, were a challenge. Brenda was named for a comic book character; Cheryl got her name from a tugboat. At one time, Pat Burris lived next door to us; she and my mom were pregnant at the same time. Pat gave birth a few days before Mom did, and named her baby girl Sheri…the name Mom had picked out for her own baby! They maintained their friendship, but for all of her life, when Pat came up in conversation, Mom reminded us that “that woman stole my baby name!” Every single baby girl in our family has a little story associated with how Mom worked out how to name them.

When I was born, a nurse came into mom’s hospital room. “Look at all that hair, black as cinders,” the nurse said, “you should name her Cinderella.” “That’s it!” thought my mother, and that’s how I got my name. Not Lucinda, not Cynthia…just Cindy. I tell people, “I was named for Cinderella!”

My x-rays were inconsequential. I have some arthritis in my spine that I wasn’t previously aware of, but at this age, I wasn’t surprised by it, either. I am out of line in several areas, due to the spasm in my back. That, I expected. Mainly, it gave the chiropractor a base-line to refer to when starting adjustments. And, most importantly, it gave me a basis for an essay on the letter X!

What’s for Dinner?

What’s for dinner? That’s a question, and a problem to be solved, almost every single day. Right now, when I’m not feeling at my best, it’s more of an issue than usual.

One night this week I had a bowl of cereal and milk for dinner. Another night, it was rice cakes with peanut butter. Yet another, a plate of fried potatoes with onion. Last evening, I had left-over green beans and buttered egg noodles.

Advantages of these throw-together meals? Well, they don’t generate very many dirty dishes, for one thing. On the rice cake night, I think the coffee pot, a knife, and my morning coffee cup were about the only things I had to wash! They can usually be thrown together in just a few minutes, and they are generally fairly filling.

Filling, but not especially satisfying. And that’s one of the disadvantages. They also tend to be heavy on the carbohydrates, not inclusive of all the food groups, and not particularly healthy. In addition, when a meal doesn’t comfort or satisfy, I find I’m much more likely to continue unhealthy snacking until bedtime.

This evening, I was determined to do better. I brought a pound of ground beef home from the grocery store, and divided it into four. I remember my Grandma Florence saying you should always get six hamburger patties out of every pound of ground beef. Nowadays, when you go to the restaurant, most burgers are advertised as “half-pound.” That’s way too much meat for me! I make quarter-pound patties, and feel like that’s plenty.

I sauteed a part of an onion, diced, with a handful of sliced mushrooms. I pulled them off the heat, then put the burger in the pan. While it was cooking, I toasted half of a pita bread, split it open, and spread mustard on it. After the burger was browned on both sides, I topped it with a piece of Swiss cheese, and the mushroom-onion mixture. Then I put the lid on the pan to let everything finish.

I added a slice of tomato to my toasted pita, then lifted the burger from the pan, with all of its toppings, and placed it on top of the tomato. The pita was crispy, but not crumbly, and held everything together nicely. I felt like I was getting a decent serving of vegetables, too. The hamburger, a rare treat, was delicious!

When all was said and done, it didn’t really take that much energy, or that much time to prepare. With one pan and one plate, plus a few utensils, this meal didn’t generate a lot of dirty dishes, either. All in all, it was a very satisfactory dinner!

Vote!

I went to the Chiropractor yesterday. Before I left, the doctor explained that, because he had manipulated my frame, I would see improvement, but I’d also feel as if I’d been exercising muscles that weren’t used to it. “You might wake up tomorrow feeling like a million bucks,” he said, “or like you were hit by a truck.”

I immediately thought, “Oh, I vote for the million bucks!”

Like often happens when I express my opinion, my vote meant very little. This is definitely more of a “hit by a truck” vibe. Still, I never regret making a choice, even when it doesn’t work out the way I’d like. Give me a few alternatives, and I will pick one: the right color for a room; the most flattering outfit;, the best selection from a lunch menu; the favored candidate.

It wasn’t always that easy. I remember a time in my life when I didn’t have the confidence or presence of mind to make choices. I would look to others to make the decision; and just follow along. My earliest preferences were actually those of my parents, or my older sister, or my best friend. If they were passionate about something, I followed unquestioningly. This didn’t last long, however.

My earliest strong opinions were probably formed over fashion and hairstyles. Mostly, they were negative, rather than positive choices. I decided that I didn’t want the short pixie haircut my mother chose for me; I knew I didn’t like the poofy-sleeved, rick-rack adorned, “little Dutch girl” dresses that she picked out. I had no idea what I wanted instead. For that, I turned to the big Sears & Roebuck catalog. And, in many cases, I quickly found that my vote didn’t count.

Still, that was the start, and my opinions grew. When I was in grade school, President Kennedy was assassinated. By the time I graduated high school, Martin Luther King, Jr., and Robert Kennedy had been added to that gruesome list. The Civil Rights Movement was in full swing. The Viet Nam war was raging: the draft was taking many young men away to participate. Every week, our local paper ran a list of boys who had been killed in the conflict.

Everyone had strong feelings; no one, at that time in history, seemed lackadaisical about what was going on around us. Whether I was following the crowd, or forming my own opinions, the feelings were intense. That was the beginning of a lifetime of strong opinions.

From my very first apartment, I started studying the Women’s Movement. As a young mother, I held my baby on my lap as I watched the Watergate hearings on TV. I was nineteen when I was first able to vote, and I’ve voted in every major election since. Of course, it has not always gone my way. For more than twenty years, my choice for president never got elected!

That’s a disappointment, of course, but it never soured me on taking the opportunity to express my opinion. Given a choice, I will always take a vote!

Unproductive

I have big plans every spring, and this year is no exception. In many ways, this is my favorite part of the gardening season. I enjoy going through the seed catalogs to decide what I’ll plant. I love getting out the graph paper to plot out my garden spot: a series of raised beds, densely planted. For reference, I always pull out Carrots Love Tomatoes by Louise Riotte, to make sure I’m planting to my best advantage. I also keep Backyard Bonanza: an introduction to Intensive Gardening close at hand. It’s just a small book, published by Rodale Press and years ago was offered free with a subscription to Organic Gardening magazine, but it’s filled with inspiration.

Then comes the actual application. Putting into practice what I’ve worked out on paper involves shovel, rake, hoe, and lots of hard work. Usually I double-dig my beds, adding amendments of compost and fertilizer along the way. Then the beds are staked, twine is strung to keep my rows straight, furrows are hoed, and seeds are distributed. Tomato cages are brought out of the shed and set up; pole bean tepees have to be erected. Finally, mulch or other weed barrier is put down in the pathways. After that, it’s just maintenance.

As I’ve gotten older…busier…more tired…I have cut corners, skipped steps, and ignored plans. As a result, in the last few years my garden has been a disappointment: not as attractive, less productive, and often over-run with weeds. This year was going to be different! This year (and, to be honest, I tell myself this every year) would be my best garden ever. I took this week almost off work. Wednesday, I still have art class, and Friday there is my volunteer shift at the Resale Shop. Still, more time would be freed up to get this job done right.

I started right out making things even more complicated, by deciding to move the garden over. I also had new plans for my raspberries, that have spread through the garden. This year, I intend to “plant” a series of five gallon buckets – with drainage holes punched in the bottom – up to their rims, and re-plant one or two raspberry canes in each, to keep their wandering roots in check.

Moving the garden over involved taking down fencing and pulling up cedar posts, clearing out a large, rock-bordered flower bed, digging up hundreds of daylilies, and breaking new ground. There, my sweet neighbors saved me by bringing their rototiller over and working up the new spot. I think I’ve found a young man I can hire to re-set twenty five fence post, and help me put up the fence.

The problem arose over the weekend. On Saturday, digging up the last of the daylilies before the area was to be tilled, I put my back out. I could feel it going, but I took a couple ibuprofen, and soldiered on. That was a mistake. By that evening, I was sitting with ice packs. Four days later, I’m not much improved. I spent yesterday making appointments for massage therapist, x-rays, and chiropractor. Those appointments are necessary, but crowding my days. It doesn’t matter. Though I’ve forced myself to attempt a little work in the garden every day, there is little I can do right now. In a week that I thought was going to get so much accomplished, I’m basically unproductive!

Things

Whenever I am concentrating on any area of my home, whether cleaning, organizing or rearranging, I cannot escape the fact that I have a lot of things. Working outside is no exception. “Too much stuff,” is a frequent thought, but when it comes to getting rid of things, I’m selective. Often, objects hold memories. They are keepers of history. They evoke feelings; they are charged with emotion.

In the back flower bed, there’s a little grouping made up of parts of an old wood stove and two deer skulls. I remember when my grandsons and I came upon the stove parts in the woods, remnants, maybe, of an old logging camp. Brandon saw it as treasure, and wanted to bring it home. Though my pockets were already filled with sticks and stones and other treasures they were keeping, I refused to haul the stove. “Too heavy,” I said. So, though he was just a little guy, maybe five years old at the time, he carried it home himself. On other days, on walks that led us through Bobby Graves’s hunt camp, Michael and Brandon each found a deer skull. Though those boys are adults now, with children of their own, their treasures still sit in my flower bed, reminding me of when they were small.

Also in that bed is my Flying Pig sculpture, made for me by my son-in-law. He knows I love pigs and, well, pigs with wings are even better! I love that it is made of scrap, that it rolls on little wheels, and that its aluminum wings stay bright all year. From his place of honor among the daffodils, my flying pig watches over the back yard.

That flower bed wraps around the house, to the south side of the house. There, amid the daylilies and beside the kitchen door, is another pig. This one sits on a pole that brings him up to about shoulder height. He’s dressed like an old-fashioned pilot, and sits in a helicopter with rotors that spin in the wind. A little “welcome” sign dangles below the aircraft. This was a birthday gift for me, from my sister, Cheryl, and it always makes me think of her.

Near the vegetable garden sits an old, rustic bench that my husband made, back when he was my husband. It’s made up of 2 x 6 lumber, cut with a power saw, and hammered together. Exposed to the weather all year, the seat has pretty much rotted away. Still, it’s a handy place to put my coffee when I’m out working in the garden!

Someday, no doubt, someone will be tasked with going through my things. I imagine “what in the world…” will be a common refrain, as well as “WHY would anyone hold onto this?” I won’t be able to answer, then, but I can explain right now: the objects that I keep are links to people that I love, or memories that I hold dear. So, thank you very much, for now I will continue to hold on to my things!