Entertaining the Grandchildren

A large strawberry moon rose above the trees shadowing the youngsters chasing the lightening bugs. Their loud frantic voices brought the old dull neighborhood to life again. We heard a harrumph from the old man across the street. He still works so he is not yet 65, but he has lost his youth to the daily life of the job. We have been retired for about 7 years and have begun our next passage. We have a fast Camaro- my retirement gift to my husband. Travel is high on our list. We have been to New England, North Carolina, Kentucky (numerous times) Bowling Green, Ohio, Florida. And Arizona. I have been to Italy 3 times myself. Then there are the repetitive trips to doctors from Cleveland to Clyde to Mansfield that always include stops at Hobby Lobby or some antique store  Antiques are cheap now because this generation wants stuff easily thrown out in the trash. No treasures or keepsakes for them  
My 10 year old granddaughter who is one of the firefly catchers has a malfunctioning phone and her concern is about photos never printed and videos in a cloud.
Today I have five grandchildren guests ages 3,5,7,8,10. For compensation, they are supposed to help me carry and sort items for a garage sale. The 3 and 5 year old are most cooperative, the 10 old girl is begrudging with her help, always worrying about the actions of the 2 older boys who are tired and sly about avoiding assistance. The little girl comes to talk as I unpack boxes and to give me smiles and kisses. 5 year old boy does lots of shopping in the Scooby Doo section and finds numerous items he might need at home. The 3 older kids find the music and proceed to blow horns and beat a loud tune out of the xylophone that no baby ever played.
I do not remember any adult entertaining us as kids. The closest we came was one winter when my Uncle Harold visited us at Jackson. He was a teacher and knew lots about motivating children. On that trip he taught us how to cut paper houses and glue them with a mixture of flour and water. We made whole towns.
Now most adults plan events for their kids or grandkids. Mine have been here 4 days, and we have done the following: painted sharpie shirts, played with water guns, learned Yahtzee (on 2 consecutive turns I rolled Yahtzee), played croquet, shopped in my collection of small found objects, made found object robots, caught lightening bugs, twirled sparklers lit by Gary's torch, watched Pitmasters with Gary, shopped at my barely set up garage sale, had popcorn and Zootopia night, visited their cousins home one evening, made dozens of octopus with sculpey clay and had a science day with Aunt Leah. They always needed something to do. Don't get me wrong that they are not creative. I am constantly amazed by their humor and opinions on life. They are not very open to reasoning yet.
The planned activity regimen here is totally my fault. I want them to experience simple things that they create themselves. To learn self worth. And all of this is sprinkled with my stories and my love for them.

Summer Ages

Summer will never be the same. Last Sunday, as Gary and I drove to the lake at Huron, we drove past Valley Beach Swim Park south of Norwalk. As I looked over the hill thru the trees, I saw no sign life, of the crowds that packed the place on a hot afternoon. The large pool had little water, and the surrounding grass beach was uncluttered. We wondered if it was closed. Then today, I googled the name and found the posting from March stating that they would not reopen in 2016.

Kids and families have been going there for 61 years. My family belonged for 20 of those years. When the girls were little, I usually met my sister Carol and her 2 children there. We sat at the water’s edge while the kids played on the small slide. As the girls grew, every Saturday or Sunday after chores, at around 12:30, we dressed in suits, gathered towels, a quilt, snacks and drinks. And assorted pool toys although the park provided tubes and balls. Often we included friends of the girls which involved picking them up. I have since thought how easy those mothers had it to have their daughters occupied for the afternoon. They probably took naps.

We always sat on the west side grass to avoid looking into the sun. As soon as we spread the quilt for me to lay on, the girls were in the water. I usually had a book to read and a beer or two to pass the time. And in those days, I was a smoker. As soon as I was settled, I heard the “mom call”- “ Watch me jump off the dock”. I did the wave, shaded my eyes and watched for hours as they jumped and slid and paddled across the pool in the tubes. Snack time usually came during the hottest scene in the romance I was reading. They ate chips, pretzels, and granola bars. No apples or good foods. They needed energy. The second snack break required a trip to the concession stand for a popsicle that promptly ran down their arms and dripped on my quilt. They were sent into the water to wash off and with the warning that we would be going soon. Potty breaks meant crossing the bridge to the restrooms. And at 6, they went alone without fear. I watched as they dawdled on the bridge to see the stream flowing underneath and to spit.

As they swam and played, I watched the crowds. Many were regular members like me. Most sat in the same area each time. I watched their children grow from year to year without knowing their names. Visitors respected each other’s space.  One man chose to wear a speedo type suit. He stood at attention with arms crossed guarding the actions of his children. We referred to him as ”Dick”. Lots of laughter.

The weather was always a consideration. If it showered, swimmers ran out of the water for shelter. When we heard thunder, guests packed up quickly for home

Our stay was usually from 1:00 pm to 4:00 pm. At my final wave, I gathered equipment and waited for them with towels and money. Before we left, they always needed a candy bar for the trip home. Usually a KitKat bar. Chocolate for sure that would melt and make a last mess. As I walked to the Blazer, they trailed behind me with towels half over a shoulder and half dragging in the dirt of the drive looking like sad little urchins.

Isn't it funny how things work out

When I draw or paint my brain relaxes. Otherwise, most of the time it feels jumbled and breathless. Usually, I live on the edge of saying the wrong word or jumping in with a wrong decision. Any conversation interruption stops my thought process. I used to have a witty sense of humor with quick comebacks. Cant even recite a joke now. The jokes now come when I use an inappropriate or off the wall word in conversation. We look at each other like “where did that come from?”. My brain is also full of random information gleaned from being a voracious reader of fiction and apparently a set of encyclopedias somewhere along the way.

The status of reading has certainly changed in my lifetime. When we were kids, my parents thought we were just reading to get out of chores or being lazy. Reading was a lifeline for me. I went to different places and times. Not everyone was like Willard, Ohio. My travels led me to ancient Rome and Egypt. I was on the battlefield with Molly Pitcher and at horse farms with Justin Morgan. The Swiss Family Robinson tree was my home.  I fell in love with Rhett Butler.

But still it wasn’t cool to say that reading was one of your hobbies.

Today, the news is full of stories about the decline of books, libraries and reading in general. The public is concerned about the next generation being able to read. I worry about their overall education. So many things and places that young people do not explore in books. Everyone cant visit Timbuktu, but they can at least know what it is. Kids are required now to read a preset number of minutes for homework. My grandchildren still like to learn a new word. Rarely do you see anyone at the airport with their nose stuck in a book, oblivious to the crowds glued to iphones.  Will they eventually speak in the msg dialect?

I am now unable to read books because of confusion and focus. I miss the being lost feeling. But God as chosen for me to try art. Do you remember the pictures in TV guide to draw for art school scholarships? My drawings were always a little off. Now I use that to advantage in abstracts. But along the way, I trained to draw what I see. And that everything in the picture doesn’t have to be in the painting. And no, the painting doesn’t really look like the picture. It is a painting! The artist has his own unique vision.

My current project is titled “Waiting for Jesus”. It is one of a group series to celebrate the days of Holy Week for a local church. I chose Saturday or Black Sabbath as some call it. Yeah, like most of you, I thought that the Saturday after Good Friday was for coloring eggs and shopping for Easter clothes and candy for baskets filled at midnight. This assignment has led me through Isaiah in the Old Testament to the Gospels in the New to find out what happened with Jesus on Saturday. That was/is the Jewish Sabbath and all followed the traditional rules for the day. I could not find that anyone had mourned at the tomb for Jesus. But many awaited his anointing and resurrection- all who are captives of Satan until Jesus proclaims their freedom.

The process of the painting helped me realize my own captivity and that all I had to do was reach out to Jesus for salvation. Praise God for leading me here. And I have no trouble reading His book.

Material Baggage

Throughout our lives we collect a lot of material baggage. We save toys from childhood, souvenirs from vacations and even old rugs in case we need them. And if we don’t save the stuff, our mothers do. I am starting to admire people who change out their décor and just dispose of the used items. I save it for garage sales or ebay or sometimes Gary saves things in the garage instead of taking to the garbage. He has 3 lamps awaiting repair.

I am a garage and estate sale addict and attend the monthly flea markets in the area. You savers are appreciated by me. For me, the old things spark a memory of a time gone by. I am always on the lookout for any memento that reminds me of my mother or grandmother.

Since genealogy is another hobby, when I see old papers, letters, bibles, or cards, my interest is piqued. I used to think that ancestor photos and documents were the only important part of compiling a family history. Now I can see how the stuff used and left by people can tell stories of how they lived. At a recent sale I picked up a Masonic bible, a lamp with the tag still on it, and some artwork. The bible had the homeowners name along with other members. The lamp was purchased in Chicago at Marshall Fields. One piece of art was a straw picture from Mexico, another a signed and numbered lithograph. From the bible, I learned that the man was probably a businessman since he was an officer in the local Masons. The lamp indicated that they may have travelled to Chicago and that she was interested in fine things. “Good friends” had given them the Mexican souvenir in 1953. What a long time to keep such unusual décor. One piece of art was a winter scene painted on cardboard and signed in the corner by the lady of the house. A bible that I did not purchase had her maiden name written on the owner page.

Sometimes I pick up some ephemera at auctions or flea markets, then try to track down a relative on Ancestry who is interested a piece of family memorabilia. I always wonder why people sell letters and family photos at sales. Did no one in the family want such precious items? Well, you just can’t keep everything. And often the younger generation has lost track of who the photos belong to. The names of friends and relatives that grandma and grandpa knew easily get lost with time and distance from the past. Unless a younger family member takes an active interest. For instance, when I visited my grandmother, we went through the old photos box and she told me names and stories about the ancestor. I related to them through her and now through the pictures. On her death, my Aunt took possession of the boxes of family valuables and pictures. That usually happens in families. One daughter takes care of those items, and the possession and knowledge should be passed down. Photos and family memorabilia is not shared enough. For instance, my aunt has no children. I hope she has made an arrangements in her will to pass it all to someone who will be responsible with them. Pictures used to be precious but now everyone can take numerous shots with the Iphones and save in the cloud. Where do those go when you are gone from the cloud? And many never print those digital images to share. From our children we receive an annual family shot and the infamous school pictures. And a few from relatives as Christmas cards.

As pictures become less important, some “little thing” from grandmothers and aunts become more precious and can tell something about them. I received a gold pocket watch from my mother engraved with her uncle’s name. He drowned in 1925, two years before her birth. The uncle was her father’s twin brother. She cared for the watch like it was worth a million dollars. I think she treasured it so because it made her remember the uncle and thus her father. Grandmother gave her the watch but the story of how she came by it was lost. Perhaps my grandfather acquired it upon Uncle Romain’s death and Mother thought of it as “Daddy’s  watch”. After Mother passed, I searched for Romain’s son of the same name. He lived and died in Bellevue, and we never knew until my internet research. He left no survivors. I like to think that he would have enjoyed having something of his father.

My sister cherishes a small depression bowl belonging to our great grandmother Howard. From grandmother, it is passed to the oldest granddaughter in the family. So it travelled to Mother then Brenda and now to her granddaughter, Brittaney who will understand its meaning.

When I was a young girl we had a basket that we used to gather potatoes. One day years later, I viewed it sitting forlornly in the garden mud and asked my mom about it. She told me that my dad’s mother had made the basket. At my interest, she gave it to me and I have cared for it over the years. I imagine my grandma Margaret making the basket out of necessity as it is made from hand hewn thick wood strips. It is not a fine piece of basketry as those made by the Cherokee Indians and artisans.

When the family was dispersing my grandmother’s household, I was given hats belonging to her and her second husband, Callie. Grandmother’s was a straw hat with red plastic cherries. I still see her coming from the garden with a basket of beans wearing that hat. Or walking on the beach at Daytona. Callie had been gone for over 30 years and still she kept his hat. It deserves to be saved another 30 years by me as I remember him passing the day at Burning Fork rocking under the shade tree in the front yard. As we sit on the front porch watching all the cars in a hurry, catching a random wave or honk. No, I do not wear the hat yet but I drink an occasional beer there.

Already, I tell my girls which of our stuff is important to the family. Some books are old and valuable, but they will need to be checked to see what little item I have stuck in there. A common habit. And our will designates specific dispersals. We have instructed them to pass on that stuff they don’t want. I hope that my paintings and Gary’s hand mades will be treasures.

If you see either at the auction, please save.

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/