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.

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!

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!

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!

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!

Katherine

Of course, if I talk about my first daughter, and her impact on my life, my second daughter must be next! I’m all about the “fairness.” From the time Kate was born, just about three years after Jen, I devoted an awful lot of time and energy trying to ensure that everything was “fair.”

I’d go into long explanations about differences in size or age, to explain why one child could do something that the other could not. At the end of which I’d usually hear, “Well, it’s still not fair!” My sister Brenda took a different tack. When one of her children would start in with, “how come he gets to…” or “why does she…” ready to point out the irregularity of any situation, my smart sister, with only the slightest smile, would say, “because I like them better.” That shut the debate down instantly! And, because they hated to hear the answer, they quit asking! Meanwhile, at my house, I was counting green beans onto my daughter’s plates, to make sure everything was perfectly fair!

So, here is Katherine. It’s fortunate that her name falls in the right place in the alphabet, so that I can do them side by side. Though I spent a lot of time and energy figuring out what names to choose for my daughters, I don’t remember that them being in alphabetical order was ever a consideration. I wanted names that would have character and presence. Names that could be printed impressively on a letterhead if they were to become doctors, or lawyers, or – for heaven’s sake – presidents. At the same time, I insisted on a name that could be shortened, that didn’t sound too grown-up or stuffy for a baby. And, it seemed vitally important at the time, that this new baby’s name have the same amount of syllables as Jen’s.

Jennifer’s name came from a movie, Jenny, starring Marlo Thomas and Alan Alda, that her dad and I had seen. I picked Marietta for her middle name, to honor one of my favorite teachers. That’s a lot of syllables for times when frustration make a parent want to use the full given name! Throw in the last name, and I’d have two more! Kind of like counting to ten before responding in anger. Those were my considerations when choosing a name. After a great deal of deliberation, we came up with the perfect name.

Katherine is a name that has a lot of history in my family. My Aunt Katherine was named for her two grandmothers and – because of the German tendency to honor elders by passing their name on – it shows up quite a bit in our family tree. Aunt Katie, as we knew her, was a strong, single woman who supported herself, golfed, played poker, and stood her ground with all of her loud, opinionated brothers. Katherine Hepburn was a factor, too. Beautiful, creative and talented, a child could do worse than that for an aspirational name. For her middle name, we went with Elizabeth, Aunt Katie’s middle name, and the name of another of my daughters great-great grandmothers. And just the right number of syllables!

Katherine Elizabeth! We called her Katey when she was small; now she usually goes by Kate. As big an impact as having my first child was in my life, it pales in comparison to having a second child. Having two children takes not twice as much work as having one…it’s more like one hundred times the effort. And the fairness issue is only one small part of that. Also, all the knowledge gained from one child can go right out the window with the second. I was foolish to assume it would be the same! Two separate humans, distinct personalities.

While Jen slept twelve hours through the night regularly from the time she was just a few months old, Kate didn’t even sleep eight hours at a stretch until she started school! Where Jen was compliant, Kate was ready to argue. Jen was a pacifist; Kate was a warrior. In every way, Kate was a challenge!

My younger daughter has had an eye out for any injustice, from the time she was small. She has always stood up for the underdog, the oppressed, the needy, ready to take on any important cause. Her vehemence could scare me. Sometimes, it still does!

Kate is one of the most caring people I’ve ever known. So, though being her Mom has not always been easy, I can say with conviction that it has been worth it!

Jennifer

Jennifer is my first daughter, the child that made me a mother. When she was little, we called her Jenny; now, she mostly goes by Jen. Though I’ve done a few of these A to Z challenges, and I’ve struggled for subject matter this far into the alphabet (which always makes me wary of the really hard letters that show up at the end), I have not chosen Jennifer as my topic before. That’s mainly because talking about my children is a little overwhelming.

First of all, I was a young mother. I had two daughters by the time I was twenty-two. So, there were a lot of things I messed up. Always with the best of intentions, but screw-ups nonetheless. And, because my daughters are both extremely insightful, they are very well aware of all the mistakes I made. I am fortunate that they forgive me my shortcomings, and love me anyway. With children of their own – they’ve gained some understanding, too, of how easy it is to make regrettable decisions.

While in the middle of what seems like a never-ending mountain of hard choices, and every single book and well-meaning adult offers different advice, sometimes you just do what feels right in the moment. Then later find out that your choices caused them sadness, or insecurity, or – heaven forbid – gave them nightmares. And, there’s no sense in trying to smooth over any of it, because my children, now adults, will call me on it.

I wrote an essay once about a true incident in our family. A small part of the story involved a kitten that had died shortly after birth. The kitten’s role in my narrative was less than one sentence long. I didn’t go into any background about the litter, the two surviving kittens, or how they got their names. It was just a tiny part. So, though the kitten’s name was “Yellow,” in the story I changed it to “Fluffy” just because it seemed more like the name of a kitten.

The essay won an award, and was published in a local paper. My daughters read it. Jennifer called me. In that cautious, caring voice she uses when she thinks I’m exhibiting signs of senility, she kindly reminded me that I’d gotten the name wrong. So, glossing over the facts is out of the question.

Of course, I have wonderful memories, a hundred stories, and at least a dozen hilarious anecdotes regarding Jennifer. Some I won’t recount out of respect for my daughter’s privacy. Others, I’ve been forbidden to tell. So, though Jennifer is the topic, I don’t have much to say. Motherhood changed me. It gave me purpose and direction. At more than seventy years old, and long past the years of raising children, I still count being a parent as the richest and most important thing I’ve done in my life. And Jennifer was the beginning.

Flight

My first flight was in the early spring of 1978. My girlfriend and I drove up to Charlevoix, met Bill Welke at the airport there, and got into his little plane for a trip to Beaver Island. All of my life until then, the ferry was the transport to get to Beaver Island. At that time in our lives, however, any travel without our families was rare, and plans needed to be navigated around jobs, classes, and our children. I imagine – though I don’t exactly remember – that’s why we took the plane rather than the ferry boat.

Within a year after that weekend visit, I had moved up here with my small family. Then, the plane became our most usual mode of travel. The ferry operates from April through December, on a set schedule. In the busiest weeks of the summer, they make three or four trips a day; in slower parts of the season, that winds down to three of four trips a week. Most importantly, the boat ride is two hours long!

When the weather is mild, and you’re coming on vacation, it’s lovely to be on the water, and the ferry boat ride is an added attraction. Anticipation of the destination adds to the experience, and it’s always a wonderful feeling to come into our pretty harbor on arrival. It’s not so pleasant when the weather turns cold, or the sea is rough. Mostly, though, time is the issue. The plane ride from Beaver Island to Charlevoix is only twenty minutes long.

Living here, I travel to the other side often for medical appointments. We have a very good Medical Center here that can handle most issues, but some tests and procedures require a trip to the mainland. Depending on the boat for transport would often add an entire day to the trip, with a night in a motel, too! Going by plane, it’s possible to get across in the morning, get to appointments on time, and come home the same day, maybe even fitting in some shopping.

Other times, my trip from the island to the mainland is only the first leg of a much longer excursion. If I’m visiting my family in the thumb area of Michigan, I have more than four hours of driving ahead of me, once I get to Charlevoix. It’s not practical to add a two-hour boat ride to the beginning of the trip. It makes even less sense on my return, when I’m weary from travel and anxious to get back home.

So, living here, I’ve gotten used to riding on the small planes that service Beaver Island. Over the years, I’ve had a few bumpy rides. Even on the smoothest flights, I’m a nervous flyer. But, I’m confidant the pilots know what they’re doing, and the planes are well-maintained. For convenience, and the ability to get where I need to be, I’ll always choose the plane!

One Decision, Long Ago

55 years ago today, I had tickets to go see Sam the Sham and the Pharoahs, a Rock and Roll band that was enjoying a little fame at that time. They’d had hits with songs like “Wooly Bully,” and “Hey, there, Little Red Riding Hood.” Though their popularity had waned with the advent of the Beatles, they still got plenty of radio time, and I was looking forward to the concert.

My girlfriend, Linda, and I started the evening at the Center Building, to spend some time before heading to Flint – or maybe Saginaw, I can’t remember – for the show. On weekends, the Center Building had a DJ who played popular music, and the large room was cleared for dancing. It was a much-used gathering spot for teens. The small admission fee collected at the door was good for the entire evening, but you weren’t supposed to leave and come back. This was an attempt to curb unacceptable or inappropriate behavior. It only worked to a point. Often, kids started their evening at the Center Building, in hopes of meeting old or new friends, and figuring out where the “action” was. Or, as in my case, to kill a few hours before other plans.

However, on this particular night, Linda met a “cute blonde guy.” They’d been dancing together, and he told her he had access to his sister’s house…and he had beer. He’d brought his cousin along. If I came with them, there would be four of us. It was sounding like a party! And, we still had plenty of time to decide about the show. When Linda suggested it, I said “sure.”

As it turned out, his cousin was Terry Bonesteel, and that evening changed the direction of my life. For one thing, I never got away to see Sam the Sham and the Pharoahs. Terry and I – both sixteen-years-old – became a couple, and eventually got married. We grew up together, shared fourteen years of marriage, and brought two wonderful humans into this world. Though we’ve been divorced for more than forty years, and we’ve each gone on to lead separate and very different lives, I can’t deny the impact of those early years. His family was my family, too, and much of our histories, during that early, formative time, are wrapped up together.

So, today, I’ve been a little caught up in old memories. Of being young, and open to a world of endless possibilities, and dreaming of a future of productive joy. That was one decision, a very long time ago.

Cinnamon Buns

I own eighty recipe books. Shocking, I know. This is after paring down! After .determinedly going through every one, asking myself, “do I use it;” “will I use it;” “why do I need it;” and “couldn’t I possibly pass it on??” And I did set many cookbooks aside for donation. Still, I have a very large number of them.

It’s not quite as bad (as in Hoarders bad) as it sounds. More than thirty of the cookbooks in my collection are thin paperback publications put out as promotions for specific products. I have at least two from Pillsbury, one from Sun Maid Raisins, and a vintage booklet put out by the company behind Fleishmann’s yeast. Several little recipe collections were offered free as promos for a magazine subscription. Several others came with the purchase of small kitchen appliances.

Of the (47) full-sized cookbooks on my shelves, some have great sentimental value. I have the cookbook that my maternal grandmother used as a young mother in the 1930s! It is titled Meals, Tested, Tasted, and Approved, and was put out be the Good Housekeeping Institute. There is no copyright, which may alone be an indicator of its age. The Better Homes and Gardens New Cook Book was a gift from my mother. She gave it to me for Christmas in 1970, a month before I got married. Its pages are stained and scarred from use, and it’s still the book I reach for most often, for reference and special recipes. I have one cookbook that my daughter Jen gave me, and another that she “illustrated” for me when she was just two years old. I have two different Beaver Island cookbooks, and enjoy reminiscing about the folks – often long gone – who contributed the recipes contained there.

I enjoy reading cookbooks, and return to peruse their pages regularly. Some are simply collections of recipes, which can be interesting enough, but many have quite a story within the pages. Peg Bracken’s I Hate to Cook Book is hilarious on top of offering dozens of good – and easy – recipes. The Pat Conroy Cookbook is an autobiographical romp through this author’s life, from southern American childhood, through world travels, told through memorable meals and recipes. Wild Women in the Kitchen is subtitled “101 Rambunctious Recipes & 99 Tasty Tales,” and the book lives up to that description!

Sundays at Moosewood Restaurant is a collection of mainly vegetarian recipes from around the world. Each chapter is presented by a Moosewood employee, with recipes from their country of origin or region within the United States. Each offers a complete meal, from appetizer through dessert, with insights about the country’s history, and mealtime traditions Though I’ve only made a handful of recipes from this book, I’ve read it cover-to-cover more than once, and always enjoy browsing its pages.

I have favorite cookie recipes in several different cookbooks. For popovers and muffins, I always turn to Let’s Get Together by DeeDee Stovel and Pam Wakefield. My go-to bread recipe comes from Home Food Systems, an early publication of Rodale Press, that I’ve had in my kitchen since the 1970s. I most often refer to The Supermarket Epicure by Joanna Pruess, or my old faithful Better Homes & Gardens New Cookbook for guidance, or to refresh my memory, with other recipes.

Often, a cookbook is mainly inspirational. Good photographs or outstanding writing can sell me on a recipe. In other cases, the value of a book is aspirational. The Little Paris Kitchen by Rachel Khoo.is a good example. I’ve never made a single recipe from her book, but, oh, I love the look of that tiny kitchen, and the lovely meals Khoo produces in that small space. Asian Dumplings by Andrea Nguyen is another. I don’t believe I actually have the patience or stamina to make Asian dumplings. After meticulously following my daughter Kate’s instructions for homemade pierogies, I quit after making just one! But I keep that book on my shelf, imagining that one day I will miraculously become a maker of spring rolls, samosas and filled dumplings.

I recognize how contradictory that seems, in this year where my intent is to eliminate excess. One thing I’m doing, to help diminish the guilt, is to make an effort to put my cookbooks to better use. Today, I pulled out the small Pennsylvania Dutch Cookbook that my mother got me many years ago, as a souvenir from a trip she took. After skimming through scrapple, sauerkraut and schnitzel recipes, I settled on…wait for it…cinnamon rolls! I have to start somewhere, right?