Empty Days of Summer

  It is only July 24th and already the empty days of summer have arrived. The 4th of July cookouts are long over and vacations are coming to an end for many families. The town streets are empty. Garage sales are unattended. The annual family reunions are endured for another year. The anticipation of summer events is over. TV ads already sell school supplies and football practice has begun.
  I remember these days as a kid. Weather was hot and humid as July slipped into August. Our annual trip to Grandmothers home at Burning Fork, Kentucky was only a bittersweet memory of days playing with cousins and visiting great aunts and uncles that I now wish I had known better. Aunt Sula lived in  a gray weather worn home with a front porch draped with drying beans and blue morning glories. She said we were a pretty bunch of children. Aunt Lula came out to see us in the car. Back then, people were allowed to leave their kids in a hot car. I guess they weren't afraid 7 grouchy, sweaty kids would be kidnapped. Lulas home was in a town and she had a picket fence with a wire gate. Her husbands name was Green. Fascinating to a young girl. On the trips that I remember, Mother and Daddy took us on day trips to the old places dear to them. For Daddy, that was Bull Creek on KY Rt 7 past Gunlock post office. The Ford station wagon dragged bottom to travel the dry creek bed used as a road. All that was left of my Dads home was a black barn in an over grown field and the family house remodeled and occupied by Clarence Shepherd. My dad pointed to memories grown up in scrub and weeds.
  Those vacations were  also filled with family photos, plenty of balloons to play with (my mom and dad worked at Pioneer Rubber Co.) and trips to Salyersville to the Dollar Store. One summer we went to bible school with Kathy Marshall and made popsicle stick picture frames. Kathy lived farther up the road from Grandmother and Callie with her brother Ricky and parents, Carl and Ruby. Carl knew enough stories to compete with my dad. Ruby's name suited her persona. She wore rich red on lips that were full  and usually held a cigarette. Her vibrant nature was evident in her laughter and her actions. They came to visit often, especially at breakfast time. Grandmother put everything on  the table for breakfast and there was plenty for everyone. During the day while we played, Dad and Callie sat in the green metal lawn chairs under the giant shade trees passing the time and throwing up a hand to passers by. Occasionally someone stopped and set a spell. They talked of relations and the old days and people in common.
  As a teenager, I worked at the Celeryville muck farms and did not have much free time to worry about empty days but they still crept up in different ways. Friends at work had to return to college or the boys had to start football practice. Summer romances and friendships came to an aching end with promises of next year. Town streets were alone as families made the last trips to the lake. We woke up hot and sticky and often stayed that way during the night. At home on the family farm, it was time to can green beans by the bushel and husk endless ears of corn for the freezer. Our garden provided for us then. The wheat was combined off leaving straw to make the square bales  that had to be thrown on the wagon for the barn. THAT was always the hottest day of August and most of the straw went down my bra to scratch my dripping wet skin. We had a lot of chores to do even after working all day.
  The days passed slowly then suddenly it was time for school and new clothes and a perm. I would have benefitted from that short hair more throughout the summer days. Glad we now have hair bands for the long hair.
  Now , having learned to relax a little, Gary and I sit on the front porch listening to Merle and JT and Seven Bridges Road and the cicadas call and then a quick thunder storm. We hear thunder in the distance again as slight showers hit the hosta leaves along the front. We contemplate how to end the constant yapping of the neighbors lonely dog missing his owner. Sweet scent of the stargazers and sweet williams becomes overwhelming as the dampness stirs them up. Lots of drivers see us here and wave. We don't know anyone anymore. Used to be that we knew everyone up and down the road. Not even names on the mailboxes now. New neighbors come without children or memorable names or faces who stay private in their lives.
   We are comfortable together and realize that quiet and rest on a summers day is okay.

Friendship Journeys

 As we age, our old friends are dearer and acquaintances become closer. When we travel, strangers respond to our open smiles and share their lives for an hour at dinner on a riverboat. They tell their stories from wheel chairs in airports and waiting in doctors offices. Now we can surmise their life stories from facebook and through other social media.
 Recently at a sale, I ran into two girls/ladies/women that I knew from school. The two Cindys. And they are aging well. They were a year behind me in high school. We did not run in the same circles,  and my friends and I considered them rivals of a sort for the attention of the available males in town. Their group - Cindy, Cindy, Nora, Carolyn, Jan and Becky-cruised the "ave" in a Cindys station wagon. As we passed on Myrtle Avenue, they were always having a good time. We were jealous of their good time and that they belonged together to something. Now I know that "something" just turned out to be a long lasting friendship of girls.
 Over my years at Pepperidge Farm, I went to Cindy with my insurance problems. She was open and helpful to me, and I responded to her friendship. Then we worked a short time together in quality control, and we became better acquainted. I liked her and wondered at that jealousy of my younger years. I knew Carolyn from grade school at Steuben where we were buddies together with Ann and Kathy. Our daughters, Amy and Jennifer, were in school together and even in each others weddings . We crossed paths often and shared chatter about families. I never did get to know Nora. Jan worked at the hospital in registration where she occasionally had to help me. I think I offered friendly conversation, but she never accepted. That's okay. The same with Becky who also worked at Pepperidge. They did offer me respect though in the work positions we shared.
 The two Cindys spoke their enjoyment of the recent get together of the group. They are still mourning the recent loss of Jan to cancer. I could feel their sorrow. It made me think of what a blessing it is to be able to share our lives with others and to empathize with the ups and downs of their life's journey. Jan will always be with them-not forgotten.
 The second Cindy (now Cynthia) greeted me that day with a smile and received one of my never ending hugs. I cant help my hugging. Somehow, I sense that is what people need from me at certain times. Cindy told me she enjoyed seeing my pictures of children and grandchildren on facebook. I also follow hers and am able to show concern and attention to her family's trials and triumphs. Her joy in her grandchildren is evident. And concern for her aging parents is a path I know, and I feel in my heart what she faces. Cynthia also worked at Pioneer Rubber/ Sherwood/ Mapa when I did. She stayed on in a management position when Mapa made a move to Tennessee and still lives there. When my Mother passed, she was able to help me with a life insurance question. At that time, her kindness to me meant a lot. Even now, it makes me tear up. Cynthia also mentioned that she enjoyed reading my stories on my blog. Little did she know that she would be a character in one. And Cindy mentioned quickly my art and talent which is a recognition I appreciate. My goal here is to bring at least one smile.
 Friendships can begin and end and rest awhile. Some are lifelong with wet and dry spells. They can be antagonistic and forgiving. I once did not speak to my best friend for over a year because of her use of the word hillbilly which I find very offensive.  After a time, I was able to let it go, and she welcomed me back as if nothing happened. A lot did happen to me during that time and someday I will share with her. A high school friend moved away for nearly 20 years, but has returned and our relationship is better because of separation and experience.
 People often say "I wish I knew then what I know now" and life would be different. Who can say different is better?  We are led by God who sees every move and thought we make. And lets us learn and develop into loving beings to shine His light out to others in friendship.

At the cemetery 2014

Yesterday I went to the local cemetery-Maple Grove-in New Haven with a friend to set out hostas at the grave site of her parents. Her mom died over 4 years ago and she has not been to the cemetery during that time. Not everybody has that ideal relationship with their parents that is advertised on Facebook. They leave us without saying "I'm sorry for the harm I caused you"-bitter and stubborn to the end. Even as adult children those wrongs can still shape our lives. It is difficult to forgive and let go. Maybe this is a step forward for her.
Anyway the plants looked nice, and while we worked, we spent time together talking of her parents and her children and how they deserved their own separate feelings and memories of their grandparents. Some things are better kept hidden.
I took a great photo of her in her work clothes and gloves and flushed face from the exertion of digging.
We drove slowly on down the lane to my mom and dads grave mentioning names of those we knew as we passed other stones. Some are early settlers of New Haven area and many names I know as distant relatives that I recall my parents speaking of. One section has names of Celeryville families; another has a black marble bench at one grave site. Most are decorated with bright silk flowers since Memorial Day is this weekend. At my parents grave, we pull the weeds around the thriving daylilies I recently set out inside the chintzy white plastic fence that prevents the caretakers from mowing them down or spraying with weed killer. I think of how Mother would like the attention to her grave and the memories I recall of her hours in the flowers. And the lilies even came from her farm on Townline 12-the bronze ones.
Memorial Day used to be known as Decoration Day when I was a child. Somewhere along the way -1967- it was officially changed  and then in 1971 it became a Monday holiday. It even used to signal the end of the school year and the beginning of summer vacation. But no longer.
My Decoration Day memory was a trip with my Aunt Lucy and my Grandmother Maudie along the mountain path to the steep hillside graveyard where numerous mystery relatives were buried. New plastic roses replaced those faded from a years exposure. They spoke in hushed tones about the familes buried there and even shed tears for my baby sister and Maudies lost child Oliver.
As we drove around Maple Grove, we  ended in the back corner where a small area segregates the lost babies and children from the main cemetery. How sad. Small graves with small stones or only name markers stuck away alone. Some were well cared for and others not. I went along each and pulled the weeds as Suzie read the names. They are remembered another year.
The day does establish a specific day to remember the dead. At least it reminds the living to care for the remains of their ancestors and to even speak their names once again.

What happened to family photos?

These days, we can take photos at a moments notice. I used to love my digital camera for the ease of use and  the instant pictures. No film to buy or develop. Just delete any unwanted photos.
The world is full of computers, cds and phones with photos of important moments. Few people print the pictures that can be passed at family dinners and reunions. There are too many options-print at home, email to the club store, take the card to the drug store, edit for perfection. We used to send the complete roll of film to the processor and a week later we received every shot-good or bad.

 I remember on every trip to grandmothers getting the photo box out. She told me about ancestors who were in the old pictures and shared those of new great grandchildren. My daughters take pictures of my grandchildren's accomplishments that I will never see. They are saved somewhere in space.

Now, I am the photo printer and keeper. Online services have printed books for me. I have a  book for each of the grandchildren, my first trip to Italy, my ancestors, places important in my life and other trips. Occasionally I print photos and send them to relatives. Pictures need to be shared. At the end, a picture of a loved one is what we cherish and keeps that long gone ancestor alive in memory.

Mothers Day 2014

Tomorrow is the official Mothers Day. But we all know that is everyday if you have children. Caring moms celebrate little moments at random. Chubby hands that reach for you in sleep, a one tooth smile, mama, the phone call that starts "Mom", and the list of special times goes on.
Mothers have special skills that are characteristic to women only. They can listen to numerous levels of conversations and demands at once. While tying shoes or changing diapers. Then they have the patience to answer each request. Sometimes it is in a calm tone and sometimes not. Moms don't have to be angels. Their hormones wont let them.
Mothers know all the answers. Just ask a question and they will tell you everything about the subject. Examples are used and follow up happens. When a child asks, "how do you make people?", you can explain sexual reproduction or show them how to draw a person which is what they really wanted to begin with. They want you to be well informed for life.
Mothers are several steps ahead of the rest of the family. For trips, they pack extra clothes (even a shirt for dad), always have a band aid or snack in their purse, and sense when their child doesn't feel well. Moms know how to get to the guilty party in a fight. They can distract whiny or unhappy children by changing the direction of interest or subject.
Mothers are entertainers, nurses, doctors, chauffeurs, peacekeepers, encyclopedias and the endless source of life supplies. All this on top of being wives, employees, gardeners, financial planners, cooks, vacation planners, travel navigators, and family calendars. My dream vacation is having it all planned for me-even someone packing my bags.
A mother shares her belief in God and teaches a child to pray when afraid, desperate, lonely, and thankful for goodness and beauty. And to rejoice and trust in His love.

As children age, they need to pull away from Mom to gain independence and learn how to live on their own. This can be a painful, antagonistic time and can go on for years. It is hard for Moms to let go and realize that they are needed in different ways. You no longer have all the answers. You're not even asked. A mother needs to make a new place for herself. Be an advisor. Be comfort. Be a babysitter. Do not be a bank.  Do not tell them how to raise their children. They still remember the mistakes you made on them. Admire and celebrate and comfort your children's success and failure. Show them by your example that life will go on. Be available when they need you. Children always come home again.

When your children have left the nest, that is a good time to go back and celebrate life with your own aging Mother. NOW that you have made the journey yourself, you can understand her struggle to raise all those children.

Mother and her flowers

Written on a cold winter day: 

 

 

 

Today, January 3rd, in the mail, I received my first seed catalog. Leafing through the pages, I was reminded of my mother’s love affair with her flowers. The family always had a large vegetable garden to feed nine people, but Mother’s true pleasure came from the flowers she nurtured. From the early sixties, at Ray, Ohio, I remember the begonias, coleus, geraniums and sultanas (now called impatiens) that she planted on either side of the front steps. They grew into profuse bushes in the early morning shade and wilted in the intense afternoon sun. She watered them using the metal bucket and dipper faithfully every evening, despite the other chores that a family of nine created. Visitors always commented on them and few left without a start of the plants. At the end of the season in the fall, she potted many of the little starts and took them inside the house. They grew slowly in the cool, sunless winter days. But when spring came, they quickly sprouted new leaves and were soon ready to be transplanted in the beds, starting the cycle for her all over again.

Houseplants, mainly philodendron, were always plentiful in her home. One year at Ray, the plant vined so much that she let it grow along nails she placed all over one living room wall. One of our Saturday chores was washing and polishing the many leaves. When she moved from the farm to the condo, she took a philodendron in a five gallon pot with her. She had it staked with a wooden slat and tied with twine. That was one thing about her gardening- she used whatever was available for a stake regardless of the appearance to the plant.  At the condo, the plant continued to climb and wind around the stake, and she worried daily what she should do with it. It needed transplanted, but into what and how would she do it. I finally convinced her that she could just trim it back and let it start over. Mother cut most of the plant away, but it was never the same. I think she let it decline as she was doing herself. She could no longer care to water or feed the plant.  When her furniture and belongings were divided, Carol took the philodendron and added it to her plethora of houseplants.

Mother spent most of her life on a small farm near Willard, Ohio. When we moved there in the early 1960s, the place was truly depressing. Junk everywhere. The house needed lots of work. My parents set to work right away cleaning the place up. Translated, that meant lots of work for us kids. There was lots of space between the house and the barn for a vegetable garden. While we hoed the beans on hot afternoons, it seemed like acres. Mother kept room for her flowers, though. Along the west edge near the apple tree, she planted orange poppies that bloomed every spring. One summer, she planted several rows of dahlias along the garden path that led to the barn. The showiest ones were the large dinner plate dahlias. They were wine colored (her word), yellow, and velvety red. Mother knew just how to arrange the plants for the best effect. When visitors pulled around the curve of the driveway, they could not help but see their beauty. The dahlias gave her great pleasure as well as frustration. The bulbs had to be dug every fall, tagged and stored in the basement after the first frost. The tagging was the hardest part. She did not have plastic tags we can get now at any nursery, but instead used an old white sheet torn into strips. Each strip had the color and size written on it with magic marker then was wrapped around its group of bulbs. Needless to say, sometimes in the spring, she had to deal with surprises since the cool dampness of the dirt basement was not the best environment for maintaining legible markings on the cloth. She often had to guess at color and size which led to a great variation in the color arrangement in the garden. When she began to set the bulbs out in the spring, she always saved some to pass along to friends and relatives. If you admired one of her dahlias, she had the bulbs to send home with you.

As the farm took shape, Mother was able to focus her attention to placing beds of plants and shrubs around the house. I remember the many flower and seed catalogs that came in January and how she spent hours planning her order. I loved her excitement. Her roses were from Jackson & Perkins. Unless she went to the greenhouse and could not resist a certain color. Other plants and seeds came from Burpees. Unless she went to the local greenhouse and saw a certain plant she couldn’t resist. As the years passed, a variety of perennials were available at greenhouses like Corso’s.

In the spring, she bought primroses and pansies. For the summer, she first bought begonias, impatiens and marigolds. Columbines, lupines, sweet william, hollyhocks, lilies and coneflowers and black eyed susans began to fill in a lot of spaces. The advantage to her was that the perennials came up every year and reproduced profusely. She would just thin out the new plants in the spring and start a new bed or find an empty spot. I don’t think she ever thinned them and threw them away. Another way Mother got plants was to start them from seeds that she gathered each fall. The seeds were dried and put in some sort of container-tins or in little white rags tied in bunches. Many zinnias and marigolds got their start in the big old washtub. Mother loved mums in the fall but became aggravated that they soon lost their exotic colors to the original white or yellow.  In the spring, she loved all the colors of the irises, but hated dividing the bulbs and pulling the nasty grass from between the rows.

One year she bought a small greenhouse. Together we bought packets of seeds and spent spring evenings filling the little pots with soil and pressed the seeds into the soil. We had flat after flat of all the varieties of our dreams. My brother Ralph built shelves to hold the flats of pots. He also rigged a heater for cool nights. We waited anxiously for the seedlings to arrive. They finally did -all at once. So many plants! Tall and spindly as if reaching for the sun. We had to thin and rotate and water. As they grew, we realized we only needed a small amount of them for ourselves. I think we gave plants to everyone we knew. We used the greenhouse for several years. I’m not sure why we stopped. I think we had enough. I know that I never had a place for all those plants and realized I did it to help her. And she did it to help me.

At any time of the day, Mother could be found doing some kind of work in her flowers. For the hot sun she conceded to wearing a straw hat and a long sleeve shirt to ”keep her freckles away”.  She did not wear gloves. If you visited her, she had to wash up for you. Any visit included a tour of her flower gardens. She had to show off a new variety or just any thing that was in bloom always offering a start of this or that  She forever pushed those begonias at me, but I still don’t like them even if they are red and double. While she showed me around  the other flowers, she continued to work and plan -pulling a weed here and there or wondering where to transplant overcrowded plants or some worry about a plant that wasn’t thriving. She is the only person I know that demanded her money back if a rose or peony or lily did not produce. Not only at a greenhouse but thru letters to J&P and Burpee’s. And she got satisfaction.

 

Over the years, Mother’s flowers grew far and wide. Not only into all the beds that she placed here and there in the yard and garden, and around the house and garage, but in my gardens and every garden of friends and relatives.

As I work in my own flower beds, I think of her. The wind waves the pink cosmos and I remember that she called them standing cyphers. When I get a whiff of the sweet william near the front door, I remember that she gave it to me. As I watch the humming birds on the coneflowers, I am reminded of  her full, wild gardens at the farm.

Each spring at the greenhouse, I still buy something just for her.

 

Transplants

Transplants

 

Sweet williams

Sweet memory

Of you

Growing near the front door.

 

Sweet scent

Chokes my breath

As I move back

To you and the days

We spent digging

Flowers for me

From your gardens.

 

Blooms that you spread

Through my years

To have you

With me

Each season.

 

Now I dig

For my daughters

And tell them

Of you.

Transplanting the sweetness

You still sow.