End of Summer

August is upon us with the chatter of the cicadas and the smell of freshly mown hay along the country roads . It is supposed to be the dog days of summer, but the weather is variable from cool to hot. No consistent pattern of hot sweaty unbearable nights that make the days long and miserable. Local county fairs are benefitting from the milder weather but the tomato crop is not. To ripen properly, tomatoes need some hot August nights. I miss the sweetness of a just picked tomato.
We did not have a garden for the second year but did plant 6 tomatoes, 5 peppers, and 2 cucumbers behind the garage. The cukes are the long burpless variety recommended by my cousin Willa, and as of today, I have picked 15. Well worth the money and time. I used several to make cucumber salad with onions and mayo/vinegar dressing. Yum
This summer has busy for us. We took our first family vacation in the Smoky Mountains. The cabin we rented had plenty of room for 5 kids to run and scream as well as privacy for each family. We were still speaking to each other at the end of the week so I think it was a success. Great to have my quiet early morning broken by "I'm hungry grandma" from soft little voices. Meanwhile, my daughters and sons in law slept on in comfort.
In July, we went to Eastern Kentucky for several days for the annual Callie and Maudie Howard Reunion. This was our 14th year of gathering to honor my maternal grandparents. I am gradually transitioning the arrangement duties to other cousins because I experience too much fatigue to take care of everything myself.  One goal I was able to accomplish was the compilation of the photo book of all their descendants. It took me 4 years of begging, borrowing and stealing photos to reach completion. I wish my grandmother was here to see it. As we gather each summer, I think of how proud she would be to see the growth and successes of her family. She came from such humble stock and lived an often hard life but that never stopped her can do attitude. Or made her waver in her faith in our God.
When we make the reunion trip, we always try to visit the family cemetery at the Head of the Licking River and to stop at the old homeplace to visit our family friend and distant relative, Hazel. The graveyard is high on a steep pine covered hillside on Howard's Fork. The sun shines warmly on the  stones thru the tall forest there. Soft music is provided by the shallow trickling river. What I remember from my youth as a raging river is now barely able to wash the stones left from other times. But that does encourage my wading enough to just wet my hot feet.

Life's Rocks

When I was a small child, I lived in eastern Kentucky at the Head of the Licking River with my Grandmother Maudie Howard and my Aunt Lucy. One day, Aunt Lucy and I walked over the mountaintop to Grassy to see Aunt Alta’s family. On our way, we passed thru an area of giant rocks. We sat and rested. That place always made me feel safe when I needed a place to go in my mind.

I always yearned to return there in reality. Thus begins Karen’s journey to find my rock place. In early September 2015, I was able to convince my friend and relative Hazel Shepherd’s daughter, Sadie Bailey, to guide me to those high rocks. They live on the old home place that belongs to the Howard family still today. I arrived around 9:30 on a cloudy morning. After visiting with Hazel a bit, we discussed several rock  formations atop the ridges and determined that my place was probably at Mandy House, a gap on the property of Berlin Howard, and too far and treacherous for an inexperienced old hiker like me. Sadie and her brother Danny told of a least 3 other areas we might try. We decided to start at the home place and climb that ridge to the first rocks then go around to the other two and back down the hillside at the graveyard. Sadie and I both had walking sticks and we swung them lightly as we walked down the road to find a good start spot along the gas line. I clumsily climbed straight up for ten feet and was out of breath and energy. We rested near a tree and continued on. This pattern repeats itself for the next hour or so. We finally reached a more level spot still not at the top of the mountain. I huffed and puffed. Finally, in the distance, I could see the first rock cliffs. As we walked, Sadie related stories about her family. How they loved the land and the mountains. She said they would come to the rocks on a regular basis as they ran and played on the hill sides. They kept paths worn to the levels and even used the rocks as a playhouse. I could see why as we approached the site. One large rock lay atop several others creating a “house”. In the early days, Indians used the rockhouses for shelter, but Sadie said they had never found any remnants there unlike in her garden that turned up arrowheads at every plowing. We carefully climbed the rocks with me following Sadie’s lead. At last, I was on top those great boulders looking all around at the tall untouched old trees. I was breathless. In awe of Gods beauty. And from climbing. Ha! After some silent reverence for the place, I named it “Sadie,s Playhouse”. Now others will know where I have been. And we have the photos and small rocks to prove it. Yes, Sadie carried the rocks in her backpack.  Now began the next leg of the hike. She told me the next 2 formations were much bigger and higher up the ridgeline. I decided at that point that we should return while I could still move. Finally, I made a wise decision and admitted my health limitations.

The best way to descend looked to be along the gas line. The company had recently trimmed a ten foot wide swath on each side so the area was free of undergrowth and saplings. My first step landed on my behind and I slid several feet. So be it. We slid down the rest of the hill to within 10 feet of the road. Our total time was around 2.5 hours and it looked like rain. Upon siting us in the drive, Hazel commented “Why, you’uns didn’t go no place”. Then she snickered into her hand and asked me “how old do you feel now?”  I guess I have given her a story to tell also.

Hazel invited me in for a dinner of green beans and cornbread and fresh corn and apple cobbler. And for story telling about her younger days and things she knew about my family. Her sister remembered seeing my Mother’s first child Sandra Faye before she passed at the young age of 2 years. Hazel and her husband William were there when my great uncle Henry Mullins preached in the yard at the funeral of Callie, my grandfather. We talked about the rocks I brought down with me and how she does the same thing, even going so far as to packing them in her purse. And how my Italy luggage was heavy due to my sea rocks and glass from Positano.

William’s family lived just down the road and were 2^nd or 3^rd cousins to us. Hazel’s parents were Sadie Crager and Chester Shepherd. We have not figured out our ancestral relationship yet but we are related by heart.

Hazel shared stories of her trips to Walmart in Prestonsburg and how as she sits near registers waiting for a daughter to shop, friends and strangers stop to talk. She often ends up giving them counsel about life and God. As she did for me that afternoon. She told me of her baptism and the joy she feels from her relationship with God. She told me that I will know when God takes ahold of my heart. He already has.

That day, I realized that I find the same peace in listening to others as I find among the mountain rocks. That place has become about me visiting with Hazel as well as visiting the land and the graveyard.

Hazel’s family has lived there over 40 years. She had 12 children and 6 of them still survive. They take care of her. They cook and clean and call every day.  She has chickens and small ponies for pets. Her front porch built by Sadie and Jane provides a view of the traffic, the mountains and memories.

Those other rocks still beckon, but it will take a four wheeler. My mind is still young enough to trick my body into trying it soon.

Link to art on Pinterest

https://www.pinterest.com/karenredhead/my-art/

The Weight of Memory

 I have a photographic memory (when my MS leaves me alone) of events and people and places. My mind is full of details from long ago happenings and stories. Most everything I have read or viewed is like a picture in my brain. On school tests, I answered questions easily because I could visualize the page of text from where the information came. I can find places when traveling because I see the map or the address. In recent years, due to brain centered MS, I have forgotten whole blocks of events. But that is okay because I guess my brain was too full anyway. And I might not be able to remember what I did yesterday.

I recently read from my FB friend Floyd Davis in an interview with an aged aunt that "the memories weighed heavily on her mind".
 That phrase often describes my state of mind. Memory can be a burden.
Some days, I wonder why I have to remember all the stories I have heard of my family. Even the ancestor stories I have heard from my grandmother or other relatives. I have been researching my family's history for over 35 years. Now I feel like it is my responsibility to keep the grandparents and others before alive in memory.  I want to write their names and show their faces. Missing all that family often leaves me feeling lonesome.

Memories of childhood days come to me when I least expect it. The details of that past event often make me ache to be there again. I want to be that little four year old in eastern Kentucky who ran and played on the hillsides. The path to the cemetery around the mountain  is still fresh in my mind.

And when it comes to people, if I know you I know you. That is, where you came from, who your family is and something you have done in life. Anything you have revealed to me stays in my thoughts.

Memories have also caused me other problems in the last few years. At flea markets and garage sales, if an item struck a chord in the brain pleasure bank, I bought it. If Mother or Grandmother once owned one like it, I bought it. Who needs five bunches of lucite grapes from the 50s? Must have been me. Or who needs every "really good" book they have ever read? Yes, I have saved them all. I do remember the content if not the specifics.

Memory makes conversation difficult. When relating an event, I forget details that embellish a story. So I recount my activities as lists. Or I can share in a manner that is reminiscent of texting.  This results in much miscommunication between Gary and I. Sometimes I forget to share important details. If I am interrupted in mid story, I have no reset. The story is gone for awhile. Also when others are sharing, I have to adjust my listening and responses to avoid correcting factual information or acting like a know it all.

Memory issues were a contributing factor to my inability to perform my job as an HR Associate several years ago. I found it necessary to record notes of all my HR activity and any interpersonal actions with employees. Very stressful and tiring.

Memory is ever changing. Pleasant childhood events become soft and idealized. Even the spankings from Mother lose their sting. Traumatic incidents fade a little to make them bearable for living. Aging brings introspection about what memories we need to leave our descendants. Even the less desirable stories can be shared in that senior stage of "tell it like it is". And we are wise enough to realize what is important enough to retain and share.

Time

We have a clock in every room and on every electronic device. Half of the clocks show incorrect times because they need new batteries. Growing up, the home clock was in the living room centered over the TV set. We got the big sunburst style with Top Value stamps. And my mom had a Westclox windup in the bedroom with the alarm set for time to awake.  Those days we had enough time to walk into the living room and check the time. Now we panic if we are in the bathroom and don’t know how much time we have left to get ready for the mad dash to somewhere. 

We were lucky if we had a watch. I received a Bulova on my 16^th birthday, and I still own it. The delicate watch still runs when I look at it in the jewelry box and take time to wind it. My cellphone in my hip pocket now gives me the time.

Today I can check the time on the Miller chime clock in the alcove, the digital numbers on the DVR box, the table side phone, the oak Regulator clock in the dining room, the clock in the laundry /bathroom (which reflects in the mirror over the sink as one sits on the throne) and every bedroom and the bathroom upstairs. When I am in the vehicles, I am faced with the time there. On quiet days, we hear the chimes at 12:00 noon and 6:00 P.M. from the Methodist church down the street in New Haven.

Fisher Price used to teach children how to tell time on the wooden wind around clock. Our daughters learned using the digital numbers on the VCR. On Sunday mornings, one or the other woke us with, “Mom, the VCR says 8-2-3”. Time to get up.

Time, time. We want days back to relive a good memory. In the present, we want time to stop to savor dear moments. We talk a lot about heaven and the end of time.

Time marches on.

It gets away from us.

We have lost so much time.

Where does the time go?

Finally…

And maybe someday we will find
That it wasn't really wasted time. DH

February

  February fools us into spring thinking. We had a few short days of 40 degrees, and now this weekend, we have wind chill of 20 below. The warm days stay in our heads though, and we can start counting the days until the first day of real spring. Which can easily involve snow. Gary and I were married on March 16, and it snowed that day. One year in the 90s when the girls were still home, we had several days of blizzard like weather at the end of February.
  February-where does that word come from and why is it such a difficult word to spell? I just corrected three misspellings.

Origin-
"February, second month of the Gregorian calendar. It was named after Februalia, the Roman festival of purification. Originally, February was the last month of the Roman calendar."

Spelling and pronunciation-
Disimilation may occur when a word contains two identical or closely related sounds, resulting in the change or loss of one of them. This happens regularly in February, which is more often pronounced \ˈfe-b(y)ə-ˌwer-ē\ than \ˈfe-brə-ˌwer-ē\, though all of these variants are in frequent use and widely accepted.

  As time passes and we become less as spellers and readers, I believe the word will transform to Febuary from just general usage. Or it will simply change to 02 as we all say into the robotic phone voice when asked for date of birth or as we write on the official forms requiring vital information. For me, now it is easier to think in terms of the numbers.
  Number dates such as 12/12/12 even make the news. On these repeating number dates, superstitions about luck play a part in marriage, birth and even gambling in Vegas. Any event on a palindrome date can mean prosperity or luck. Not much is mentioned about a death on i.e. 2/2/2 or 9/9/9. It might only be important to a genealogist as an easy way to identify and remember grandma. My grandmother died on April Fool's Day, 2001. That says a lot more than 04/02/01. She is probably laughing about her day to die.

So February gives us a forward look into sun and warmth. And it is short. My sister Leah was born on Ground Hogs Day and was teased for it. Every four years, the month has an extra day added to bring time, the calendar and the sun into compliance/adjustment. I do not know anyone with a 02/29 birthday. Oh that would be confusing telling your age since at 20 you would have only had 5 birthdates.

Presidents Day is now a third Monday holiday in February. That way we can celebrate all great presidents, not just Washington and Lincoln on the 22nd and 12th. When I was in school we drew pictures of their silhouettes to hang on the bulletin boards. How do children notice them now? Certainly not all their silhouettes or do they get to pick a favorite. Nixon had quite a nose for his profile. Does anyone remember Martin Van Buren's likeness? We used to see their photos on the school calendar.

That brings me to another random thought. When I meet my Mother in heaven, which face will she have? I hope she will be the young guitar playing redhead of her youth who I never knew. She looked carefree in the old pictures. I cant think that she will be the tired worn young mother of seven. Nor will she be as I knew her in age after years of factory work and worry and stress. "We shall be like Him". Enough. Glorious.

Todays is Valentines Day. A day to celebrate our sweethearts. Time for roses and candy and now jewelry. I made cards for Gary and the grandkids this year. They like to get mail and money. And I helped make 4 valentines boxes. We used colorful patterned duct tape. Checkered racing stripes, camouflage, and flowers. And some hearts glued on. I hope someone still uses tissue paper flowers. In pink and red.

Another random thought. I wrote a story from my memories and thoughts. It is true. That is all I know. When my sister reads my story and remembers a shared event differently does it mean my story is false? Please let me know your opinions.

14 more days until March. In like a lamb, out like a lion and vice versa.

Lost homes

All along highways and country roads, dark windows stare from forlorn empty houses. Lost houses that sit among the stiff weeds and over grown shrubs tell a story of a family that no longer cared for the memories in a home. A family that needed to move on to something new and better.

Houses show the transitions of current residents and sometimes whole extended families. Back when a family consisted of eight or ten kids, someone always stayed home and took over the original homestead. Now that a family might average two children, those two benefit from their parental attention and are able to attend college and find jobs away from the old hometown. No one is left to take the home and it might be sold to strangers or left unsold among the weeds.

Either way, the setting is changed. Many older homes go to people with no vested interest in maintaining the original aesthetics. That well planned Japanese garden layout needs to be updated to hostas and lilies that are beautiful but take little care in working busy lives. Or the new owners do not relate to the sweat and tears expended to build a home. They paint over oak woodwork and do not trim the hedges. They need an above ground pool for the kids that is soon abandoned and used as a dumpster for broken lawn chairs and red and yellow plastic toys with wheels. Centuries old barns are left to the weather as their roofs wrinkle in storms and never get repaired. Randomly placed pole buildings easily take their place.

Sometimes older homes move into the lives of the young and energetic. New landscaping appears. Twigs are planted in the front yards with wishes of tall flowering shade trees for the hot afternoons of retirement. Every spring, new annuals appear in newly made beds to be mowed around. The house is resided or painted, shutters added or a whole addition appears on the house. Porches and decks appear with fake rattan furniture that will withstand the ages. The home comes alive with activity. The lights are always on.

Other well established homes move past this stage to the empty nests with another flurry of rejuvenation that soon wanes as retirement approaches and the aging couple realizes the children do not come home often, and when they do they urge them to move into a condo. In northern Ohio, many successful retirees are not comfortable in the cold, and they buy Florida condos for the season. Their Ohio homes get pared to a minimum of landscape and care as their bright light is now in the sunny south. Even in the summer, it gets too hot so residents once again abandon the home for a lake house.

As I travel, I try to guess which stage a home might be in. New plants and drives and furniture show love and activity. Pride in the place. Homes to rentals move into disrepair and lack of care for even mowing the grass. Curtains and blinds are awry. The big house on the main road- someone in the house is missing-has a well manicured lawn but no rows of zinnias along the drive. The house goes dark early in the evening. What happened to the family on the corner that made them abandon their home to the bank which has let it all deteriorate beyond hope? For years, I have watched a nearby family home slowly lose its parts till very little of it has a roof and the window left frames a cornfield in the backyard. I wonder if the family fell apart as their family home did.

I feel sad when I see the leftover remains of once thriving families. God bless the people who now demolish the homes they no longer want. They are erased from the land leaving only a stand of shade trees to remind of their existence. And when I forget the house, it will finally be gone. Perhaps next generations, when missing their grandparents, will look at old photos of the homeplace and have reunion picnics under the trees.

They say you can never go home again. But everyone keeps that longing for the original place that really cared for them. We all wish to return to that aged, idealized time and home that was our childhood.