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Sunny Day Ark

May15

Mom looked over her shoulder at me and chided, “It’s about time you got up.” The fresh batch of dough she placed into a pot of hot oil sizzled. I sniffed appreciatively, knowing by the sweet smell in the air, Mom had already rolled some hot doughnuts in cinnamon sugar.

Plopping down on one of the chrome and red vinyl chairs at the kitchen table, I protested, “I’ve been awake. I just didn’t want to get out of bed.” A big flash of lightning made me jump and a roll of thunder rattled the farmhouse. Sheets of rain pounded against the window over the sink. I grumbled, “I should have stayed in bed.”

Handing me a freshly sugared doughnut, Mom suggested, “Drink a glass of goat milk with this.” Turning back toward the stove to watch the doughnuts brown in the hot oil, she complained, “You never want to go to bed, or take a bath when I tell you to. When you finally get to bed or into the bathtub, when it’s time to get up or to get out of the water, you want to stay where you are.”

Taking the bottle of goat milk from the refrigerator, I admitted that Mom was right. “When I’m supposed to go to bed, I’m never tired. In the mornings I feel cozy and sleepy. Before a bath, I dread feeling cold and uncomfortable when it’s time for me to get out and get dressed.” At ten-years-of age, Mom expected me to be a little more independent than I was.

Finishing my breakfast, I put the empty milk glass next to the sink, and questioned, “Is Casper going to start building his boat in the old house today, despite the rain?”

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Nibbles

May8

At the top end of the garden, I looked down and exclaimed, “Oh no!”

My sister Agnes, who was walking a few steps behind me, questioned, “What’s wrong?” 

Feeling exasperated, I sputtered, “Nibbles, nibbles, everywhere I look, I see nibbles taken out of plants that aren’t surrounded by a fence!”

Familiar with my Elmer Fudd-like hatred for rabbits, my sister glanced around at my mostly barren garden, she asked, “What did those naughty rabbits even find to eat?

 Pointing to a row of fresh, green onions tops directly in front of us, I explained, “Last fall I didn’t bother taking in the onions because they were too small. The coldest temperatures of this mild winter didn’t kill them. During this past month, as the weather became warmer, I noticed that they started to grow again. Since I don’t plan to till my garden for another month, I thought I’d let them grow. I like the idea that maybe they could possibly give me an early, worthwhile onion harvest.”

Leaning down to make a closer inspection of the freshly chewed bulb tops, Agnes commented, “Wow, I didn’t think rabbits would bother onions, but they clearly chewed on several.”

Sighing, I suggested, “Let’s finish our walk. There’s nothing I can do about the rabbits right now.”

My favorite thing to do in April is taking what I like to call ‘bud-check walks’. So, when Agnes arrived for a visit, I invited her to join me. Bud-check walks require close inspections of all flowerbeds, shrubs, trees, and bushes. Early in the spring it is impossible to see if life has returned when looking from a window. But close-up, I get to see the first green sprouts pushing up from under wood chip mulch, and the tiny swelling of tightly furled leaves on the tips of trees and bushes. Some plants send up life at the first hint of spring, while others wait to make sure spring has really sprung.

Two winters ago, the rabbits in my yard spent the winter nibbling away all chances of my having any blueberries. So now my five blueberry bushes have a fence around them, too. Then, last winter, rabbits completely girdled the fire bushes below my office window. I expected them to all die. Much to my surprise, although I had to cut off several lifeless branches, the shrubs survived. To prevent that from happening again, last fall I put up fencing to keep rabbits from being able to sit near their trunks where they can nibble the bushes to death.

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The Plum Grove

May1

Flowerbeds in the yard had been flattened by heavy snow drifts during the winter and were now bleak and washed out from the recent heavy run-off when the ice melted. Apple trees in the orchard were naked, with gnarled branches reaching in every direction. A cool breeze swirled around me. It carried the scent of the nearby barn and the sound of a calf bawling and the mother’s long-winded answering moo.

All my siblings were at school. Next year, I would be attending school, too. Today, for the first time in my life, Mom was allowing me to wander around our farmyard by myself. Not sure what to do or where to go without having my sisters or brothers to shadow, I glanced around. I spotted Mom peering out of the kitchen window, checking on me.

I loved the cows, calves, and even the smell of the barn. They all reminded me of happy times I’d spent with Daddy following him around as he did his daytime chores. However, Mom said I couldn’t be in there today, though. It would be too dangerous. Daddy had to let the bull out of his pen. I shuddered, thinking about the huge, nose-ringed monster being on the loose. I once stood close to his pen, and he snorted and bellowed, acting as though he wanted to break down the bars to get at me.

Walking away from the farmhouse toward the garage, I spotted an intriguing sight. Just beyond the garage was a small grove of wild plums. Despite the dreary day and all the other bare-limbed trees, these had limbs tipped with clusters of small white flowers. As I got closer, the swirling spring breeze carried their sweet, spicy perfume to me.

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Thinking in Pictures

Apr24

I sat on the floor playing with building blocks, using them to outline floor plans of an imaginary home. While I did this, I also had a story playing in my mind. In the exciting story, the heroine’s bravery and cleverness amazed everyone. Occasionally, when she spoke, I’d say her words under my breath because she was me.

My sister, five years older, looked up from where she sat nearby giving my Debbie Reynold doll a new hairdo. She scolded, “You’re a big baby, making believe all the time!”

The mini movie in my head screeched to an instant halt. I felt like my sister had dumped a pail of cold water on me. Imaginative stories ran through my mind almost constantly when I was by myself. I wondered, “Is that normal, or is there something wrong with me?”

I did not share the bravery and cleverness of my characters in the stories. In real life, I tended to be a scaredy-cat and overly worried about things that my sisters said were dumb.

Getting up from the floor, I went into the kitchen and found Mom standing at the stove preparing supper. I sat down on a chair nearby and asked, “Mom, what are you thinking?”

Mom’s practical answer made me realize she didn’t understand the question. She said distractedly, as she checked the kettles of vegetables, potatoes, and meat cooking on the stove top, “I’m thinking that someone should set the table because supper is almost ready. Daddy will be in from the barn soon.”

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Lucky Seven’

Apr17

Mom escorted me to my first-grade room on a blustery day in September of 1957. She introduced me to the teacher, Sister Donna. Having never attended school before, not even kindergarten, I nervously stared up at the young woman. She wore a black, floor length habit, just as two of my aunts did. This wasn’t surprising since Sister Doris and Sister Ritana were members of the same convent as my teacher. Only, her white wimple and scapular collar framed a young face, instead of an old face. The long veil on her head cascaded down her back like beautiful, black-cloth hair. I felt amazed because my teacher was so young and pretty. Sister Donna looked as young as my oldest sisters!

As time passed and the days grew colder during first grade, Sister Donna assigned numbered hooks in the closet at the back of the classroom to hang our sweaters and coats. She called it the cloakroom and directed that when we came to school wearing boots, they were to be lined up in neat rows on the floor below our coats. To my delight, the number by my hook was seven. I rejoiced, “Of course it’s number seven! What else could it be? After all, I’m the seventh child; the baby of my family!”

Mom was twenty-eight years old when she married Daddy, who was a full year older than her. They had six children between 1935 and 1945. Mom was forty-four and Daddy forty-five years old when I was born. When I tell how old my parents were when they had me, some people instantly assume that I was a menopause ‘accident’ baby.

Nothing could be further from the truth. As I grew up, Mom liked explaining to me that she was pregnant several times during the five years before I was born, but each time, she spontaneously miscarried the baby. Mom’s doctor examined her and informed her that she would never be able to carry another baby to full term. Then one day in early 1950, Mom babysat some of my young cousins. She said, “Taking care of them made me wish very much for one last baby, so I prayed, ‘Lord, please allow me to have one more baby.’”

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Different Models

Apr10

I walked into the living room munching on a cookie. Arnie looked over the top of the newspaper he held in his hands and asked, “Is that a cookie you have?” As I took another bite from the sweet treat, he demanded, “Get me one of them, too.”

Knowing my husband wouldn’t be content with just one cookie, I put three on a plate and set it on the side table near his elbow. Sinking into a chair across from where Arnie sat on the sofa, I asked, before taking a bite from another cookie, “Do you remember the summer when we were kids that there was an invasion of June bugs?”

Arnie chewed the cookie in his mouth before asking, “Why in the world are you asking about June bugs?”

Self-consciously, I explained, “I want to write about a memory I have of them. One summer they were everywhere in the farmyard. Because they were so large, catching them was easy. It was as if they had Velcro on their feet, making them cling to our hands. At night we heard the June bugs chewing on tree leaves. When we went into the house after it was too dark to be outside, the June bugs scrabbled at the window screens. Their rapidly flapping wings made a loud buzzing noise. It appeared they would fly through the screen if they could.”

Looking mystified, Arnie claimed, “I don’t remember anything about June bugs.”

My husband seldom recounted memories from his childhood. If I worked at it, I sometimes managed to get Arnie to remember small things. That day I succeeded in pulling a small treasure out of him. He finally remembered a summer where he found huge June bugs and put them in a toy truck bed while playing in a sandbox.

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Winter Never Happened

Apr3

I stood at the kitchen window sipping my morning tea and watching a few chickadees busy feeding at the birdfeeder. Blue jays perching in the white birch took turns stripping a seed cake. The little snow we had earlier in the winter, had completely disappeared during a long stretch of refrigerator winter weather. The snowless late February yard alongside the house looked dreary and comfortless like a hard, lumpy bed with neither the luxury of a pillow nor a blanket.

Thinking back over several decades of my life, I wondered, “Have we ever had a winter with so little snow and such warm temperatures?” Some winters had less snow when I was growing up, but not because the snow kept melting away in unnaturally warm December, January, and February weather.

Most families don’t avidly discuss the weather, but mine did, just as I suspect many farm families do. Unusual droughts, heat waves and unexpected freezes are the reasons many farm businesses have fallen into ruin. Delving deep into my memories, I tried to remember some of the things Mom and Daddy had said about unusual weather.

I recall Daddy saying, “There was one year without a summer. A huge volcano in Indonesia blew up and put so much ash and debris into the atmosphere that the entire northern hemisphere had dark, stormy weather, and frequent freezes all summer the following year. Because of it, crops failed, farmers went bankrupt, and many people starved.” The way Daddy spoke of that disaster, it seemed as if it had happened during his own father’s lifetime.

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Moments of Grace

Mar27

I put down the book I was reading. My husband, Arnie, fresh from having taken a shower, stretched out next to me on our bed. We talked about our day and who we had seen and talked to. I told him what our children, Niki and Tammie and I had done that evening. Then, yawning, Arnie turned to his side.  He said, “I’m tired.” Then he fell instantly asleep.

Placing a bookmark in my book, I set it on the bedside table. The lamp’s light made our pale peach bedroom walls glow a warm, happy color. I glanced over at my sleeping husband and experienced a moment of total appreciation for the love we shared. In that blessed moment of realization, I leaned against my husband’s warm body and breathed in the scent of his freshly showered skin. I very clearly remember thinking, “Remember this! I may not always have this for as long as I’d like.”

After my husband died in 2007, I remembered that moment with especial tenderness and recognized it as a moment of grace. Memories like that one gave me comfort amid the loss.

A moment of grace is a time where a person is totally aware of the preciousness of what is possessed. Sometimes it is a moment of respite between the troubles of the past and whatever future troubles that we might have come. My husband and I had weathered the loss of an infant and had raised another one with a handicap, but that was all behind us. We anticipated growing old together. I had no idea that soon a radical change would take place in my life. I never dreamed that Arnie would die at such a young age as 56.

Now, looking back, I recognize that I have experienced these special moments of grace on several occasions through the years. One of these moments happened when I packed and moved out of my childhood home. I stopped at the door of my bedroom to look back and remembered my growing up years. I was happy to be a young adult, but the future felt both exciting and scary. Another moment of grace in my life happened the moment my first baby was placed in my arms. I looked at her and understood, “This baby needs more care than the average baby, and I’ve never been a mother before!” Sadly, Christy only lived two months.   

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Fancy Fish

Mar20
Sprouted chia seeds in a tray.

I held up the clear-sided, water-filled container and stared intently at the beige snail shell rolling around inside. It looked hollow. I said to the salesperson, “This snail shell looks empty, like no one is at home inside. Could the little snail be dead?”

Shaking his head, the salesperson responded confidently, “No. It’s alive. That’s a mystery snail. You don’t see its foot because this type of snail has a little trap door that can be closed when they want to hide.”

Snails with trap doors! I’d never heard of anything like that before. because I decided to buy it because I think snails are fascinating. I would just have to watch to see if it eventually moved. Turning back to examine the various betta fish for sale, I wondered which one to buy. There were small reddish ones with small fins. I figured they were females. One black betta had long, dreadlock-appearing fins. Two of the fish had large, fan-like fins. The fish I picked to take home was black with white fins. Its ruffled white pectoral fins reminded me of Victorian lace as it fluttered nervously when I picked up the small container it was in.

My daughter, Niki, gave me a small aquarium for Christmas. It was equipped with a water pump and three seed growing trays to cover the top of the tank. In the trays are specially coated “growing” rocks. Wheat grass and radish seeds were included in the kit. The sprouts from these seeds can be harvested and eaten in salads. The water pump keeps the rocks constantly damp, which makes them a perfect place for seed germination. I loved this setup because it would keep my cats from trying to go fishing whenever I wasn’t looking.

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Dead Fish Omen

Mar13

While helping a surgical patient take his afternoon walk, I noticed the delivery girl from a local floral shop delivering plants and flowers to our hospital unit. Later, when I returned to the nurse’s station to chart, a beautiful bank of flowers lined the front desk. Deciding that my charting could wait, I began to deliver the flowers to their specific rooms.

One arrangement caught my attention. It consisted of a large, clear glass vase filled with water and topped with a bareroot peace lily, secured so that it would neither sink in deeper, nor fall out. In the water among the plant’s white roots, was a lone betta fish.

Holding the vase up, I commented to a nurse, “Look, this is the latest fad. People have been giving these fish and floral arrangements as gifts to our patients for the past month. What do you think of it?”

The nurse studied the fish and the greenery above it, before answering, “It’s pretty, but I always forget to water house plants. Neither fish nor plant would do very well at my house.”

I carried the vase into the room that was written on the gift tag, and announced, “Someone loves you and they’re saying it with flowers!”

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