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Empty Nest Flight

Jun5

My husband Arnie sat down at the dining room table and announced, “I want to see mountains when we vacation this summer. Mount Rainier is on the top of my list!”

I placed bread and butter on the table, settled into my chair, and pointedly commented, “Seattle, Washington, is a long drive from here. In fact, to visit any decent mountain would be a long drive for us since we live in Wisconsin. I hate spending most of my vacation in a car! What fun is that?”

Starting when our daughters were six and ten years of age, I occasionally took them on camping weekend vacations during the summer months. Then, as they grew older, Arnie began taking the whole family on late summer vacations to places like Mount Rushmore, Kentucky, and to Canada for a sightseeing train ride and to visit Sauté Saint Marie. These vacations were always taken by car and at times I suffered motion sickness.

I asked, “Didn’t you get your fill of mountains when we visited Mount Rushmore?”

Arnie exclaimed, “But that was ten years ago! I want to see the mountains again!”

Our eighteen-year-old daughter, who was at the table with us eagerly suggested, “We could fly! Do you want me to use the computer to find the cost of the tickets and other attractions we could see while in Seattle?”

Having found an ally in Tammie, my husband smiled broadly as he ordered, “Find whatever information you can for us. This’ll be a special vacation because you’re leaving home this fall.”

At that time, Arnie and I were far from comfortable navigating the cyber world in a computer. I didn’t even know that a computer could be used for comparing prices and buying tickets, organizing places to stay, and signing up for tours.

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Hooked and Cooked

May29

Once supper was over, I washed the dishes and cleaned the kitchen. My husband Arnie left the house once he finished eating. From the window over the sink, I spotted him walking into the shed where he kept his boat. Golden evening sunshine streaming into the dining room and living room windows made me feel happy and content. I loved the longer, warmer days of spring. I was reaching into one of the cabinets to put away kettles when I heard the back door slam. Arnie walked into the living room.

Having finished my evening chores, I strolled through the dining room, sniffing appreciatively. The scent of our delicious supper still lingered in the air. We’d had one of Arnie’s favorite meals; potatoes, pan fried in my trusty old cast iron skillet, kielbasa, and Van Camps pork n’ beans. I came to a sudden halt when I reached the living room. My husband was sitting on the sofa. He had his fishing tackle box on a small tv table in front of him and was sorting through the fishing supplies.

 I exclaimed, “Arnie, what in the world are you doing? And why would you do that in the living room?”

My husband defensively replied, “I’m going fishing on Saturday, and my tackle box needs to be cleaned and put in order. I thought I’d do the job here so I can watch television as I work.”

Dropping into a chair across from the sofa, I warned, “You’re going to be in big trouble if you drop a fishhook in the carpet and I end up stepping on it.”

Arnie promised, “I’ll be careful.”

The next day I cleaned the house and vacuumed the living room in preparation for having my daughter Tammie home from college for the weekend. Figuring she’d arrive late Friday afternoon since she was hitching a ride with a friend, I decided to run a few errands after work before going home.

I heard Tammie screaming the minute I unlocked the back door. Rushing into the living room, I found her laying on her belly in the middle of the carpet. “Help me!” she demanded. My mouth dropped open in amazement. A fishhook from Arnie’s tackle box was tangled in the carpeting. Its sharply hooked end had completely gone through one of my daughter’s finger pads, effectively preventing her from being able to get up to call for help.

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Learning to let Go

May22

I thought, “I’m going to do it. It’s dangerous, but I probably won’t die… Probably? Anyway, I hope I don’t die.” Pulling myself up out of the sandy bottomed shore water, I slowly followed my brother Billy to the other side of the park picnic area. I felt like I was carelessly stepping out onto a wobbly, dangerous ledge.

Being the coddled youngest child of our family, I felt fearful to try new things. At seventeen years of age, I became fully aware that in one short year I’d graduate from high school and would need to find a job. I recognized that my fears and inhibitions could prevent me from living a normal, functional life if I allowed them to. I resolved to grow up brave and strong because the one thing I desperately wanted was to experience being independent, to get married, and to have children.

After Mass earlier in the day, Mom made lunch for a Sunday picnic at the Eau Pleine park. Using her old crank grinder, she ground a large chunk of bologna and several of her dill pickles into a mixing bowl. Then, after stirring a large dollop of Miracle Whip into this mixture, she generously spread it on slices of bread for sandwiches. Cookies made yesterday were packed in the cooler, along with potato chips, a watermelon, several bottles of Marshfield brewery beer and a jug of green Kool-Aid.

            After enjoying our meal together at a park table, several of my siblings went boating and water skiing. Mom and Daddy sat under the shade trees to visit with other folks their age. I put on a life jacket and wandered to the beach. I knew there was a sudden drop-off further out in the water but wasn’t sure where it was. Earlier in the summer I had taught myself to dog paddle, but I wasn’t sure that I could do it well enough to save my life if I got in too deep.

Playing in the cool water felt wonderful. Confident that the life jacket would hold me up, I practiced different swim strokes. When I was tired, I sat in waist deep water to rest. That was when my brother Billy came to the beach and yelled, “Kathy, come on! You’ve got to try getting up on water skis!”

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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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