Garlic From China, Honey From Where?

Sometimes when I’m grocery shopping I throw things in my cart without checking the country of origin. With the exception of exotic fruits and spices, I’m naive enough to think most editables are products of our country. Silly me. You’d think by now I’d have the common sense to check, but you know how it is. You’re in a hurry and don’t bother. Recently I was rushed because I’d left the Aztec running in the parking lot. The starter is iffy, and I didn’t want to be stranded. Maybe that’s a poor excuse, but it’s the best I have.

I don’t know what came over me, but as I shopped I spied a small jar of peeled garlic and put it in my cart. Garlic is supposed to be good for you, so I always buy bulbs and avoid the pre-peeled stuff. I think I was more impressed by the glass jar than what was inside it.

Anyway, when I got home I put the jar in the cupboard and didn’t open it until I was making spaghetti sauce. That’s when I realized the pristine peeled pieces were from China. Well, I thought, now isn’t that crazy. Why would anyone buy garlic from China when we grow the stuff right here in Michigan? So I checked the honey I had purchased that same day. The plastic squeeze bottle said it was from Argentina, India, or Vietnam. Well, if Thrifty Bee didn’t know, I sure wouldn’t venture a guess, but I promised myself from now on it’s local honey for me.

I expect real vanilla to come from Mexico or Madagascar and cinnamon to hail from Sri Lanka, so no surprises there. But when foods as common as garlic and honey are imported, I wondered what else traveled thousands of miles to land on my shelves. Like Inspector Gadget, I got out my magnifying glass and did a little sleuthing in my kitchen cupboards.

What I found was disappointing. Most foodstuffs are distributed by major corporations so it’s impossible to tell their country of origin. A few items proudly proclaimed they were products of the U.S.A. I’m leery about things saying Made in U.S.A. because I don’t know if they’re talking about the packaging or the product within. Corporations fool us every day, not just on April 1^st when we expect a good joke.    

After a few minutes, I gave up and poured myself a glass of water that came straight from the well in my backyard. I thought about the days when food traveled no farther than the distance from the barn or Lake Superior to Mom’s frying pan.

That was a century ago.

      

Democracy or Plutocracy: You Decide

Recently I watched a Hulu documentary entitled “Four Horsemen.” If you’re unfamiliar with Hulu, it’s a free website offering informative and entertaining shows. What caught my eye about “Horsemen” was the brief synopsis stating “there is still hope in re-establishing a moral and just society.” Any documentary making such a declaration in a country infested with lobbyists was one I wanted to see.

           

This is not a video kids will enjoy because they’ll be terrified, not of monsters or zombies, but of our country’s financial or governing system. “Horsemen” is a commentary on debt-based economy, the fiat monetary system, and the practice of investment banks loaning money without reserves to cover the loans. It also warns of plutocracy, a form of government by the wealthy.

The Four Horsemen are described as crooked financial systems, escalating organized violence, worldwide abject poverty, and depletion of the earth’s resources. Interviewees contend legalized corruption in governments and banks creates a form of socialism for the rich ultimately resulting in a plutocratic system, one apparently rampant during the early industrial days of our country. Men like Vanderbilt, Carnegie, Rockefeller, and Morgan were called “Robber Barons.” These men may have been geniuses, but some argue their wealth was built on the backs of impoverished laborers, manipulated congressmen, and figurehead presidents.

Successful zillionaire capitalist Nick Hanauer says: “We plutocrats live incredible lives, surrounded by luxury, insulated from risk and discomfort. We have a long and proud history of controlling human societies. We got a $700 billion rescue of the financial system, and corporate wealth is at a 50 year high. The false belief we are ‘job creators’ is essential to justify our status and power.”

In a Politico article he wrote: “If we don’t do something to fix the glaring inequalities in this economy, the pitchforks are coming for us.” Noam Chomsky, a “Horsemen” participant, suggested plutocrats use their wealth for the betterment of society. Sounds like Hanauer might agree.

Plutocracy creeps into democracies as unnoticed as fiat money crept into our monetary system. It’s interesting to note the term “democracy” is not found in our Constitution or Declaration of Independence. Does that open the door for plutocracy or is it already here? As the divide between rich and poor increases, one might pause and wonder.

What’s going on in Washington and what form of government runs this country?

Retiring My One Speed

Now that morning temperatures are above freezing, it’s time to get out my bicycle and ride like the wind. Well, maybe that’s an exaggeration. I should say pedal like a gentle breeze. Without gears, you won’t see me going up one hill and down the other at a breakneck speed. I coast as far as I can down the hill, then walk the bike up the rest of the way.

My bicycle has been faithful for over 30 years, but I’m thinking of retiring it. My travel route is the same. I go from my sideroad to Six Mile to Birch Point Road, a distance of 10 miles round trip. That doesn’t sound like much but when you’re doing it at one speed, it’s a test of endurance. This summer might be the one I trade in Old Faithful for a slick model boasting a dozen gears.

It’s something I’ve considered for years, but I don’t like change so I’ve been hesitant to retire a bike with so many memories. When my daughter was a toddler, I put her in the carrier seat attached to the handlebars and we explored the neighborhood. At that time, we lived in Ypsilanti Township. Our apartment was surrounded by farms and cornfields. While her dad was at work, Stef and I traveled the country roads.

Once we moved to Brimley, she traded in her bicycle for a horse. As Star trotted down the road, I attempted to keep up with little success. Eventually Stef graduated college and left home. Her horse became a memory, but my bike remained steadfast. Every summer I get it out, squirt a little oil on it, and climb aboard. But now as I apply a dash of liniment to my aching bones, I’m thinking an investment in a fancy new bike might be just the ticket to keep me on the road this summer. 

When I drive down Six Mile, I often see a bicyclist zooming down the road. The rider’s head is helmeted and bent over the handlebars. He’s wearing expensive clothing and riding a bike that probably cost more than my Aztec. Usually he’s hogging the road, mindless of cars behind him. Maybe he’s running from the law or escaping an unhappy marriage. Whatever the reason, speed seems to be his foremost concern.

I ride for exercise and enjoyment. I have no desire to go fast and blur the scenery. I like looking at trees and wildflowers. I wave to oncoming cars and folks out for their morning stroll. The only reason I need a new bike is to go up hills without stopping.

Thinking it over, a new bicycle might only be a nuisance.

    

   

Close The Fridge Door

Those four words were as much a part of my childhood as my dolls. Our Frigidaire was a step above a wooden icebox, but it wasn’t the sophisticated piece of equipment found in today’s kitchens. It was roomy, though, and the shelves were sturdy, not like the puny plastic found in modern refrigerators. Vegetables were easily stored in two large crispers. There was no need to bend celery or chop off the top few inches to get it to fit.

In our fridge, the freezer was no larger than a bread box. It was drilled into us to know what we wanted before we opened the door because things would melt. This was particularly true if ice cream had survived the night. It was customary to consume it as fast as Dad brought it home. Anything left in the carton would be soft by morning and fit for nothing but the dogs.

For unknown reasons, Mom was always “saving” something for me to the disgust of my siblings. It might be a piece of pie, an apple, or a serving of Jell-O. “Save it for Sharon” was a chant my sister and brother heard daily, especially during summer months. Chances are I didn’t want the saved item, but that didn’t matter. It was “Saved for Sharon” and eventually landed in the slop pail.

Long before “energy efficient” became buzz words, Mom knew it was a bad idea to open the fridge door and stand there for five minutes, hunting for something good. She also knew we knew there was nothing new on the shelves. Nobody had been to town so whatever was in the fridge in the morning was still there in the afternoon. Maybe one of us had eaten the strawberries or the last of the chocolate pudding so there might be less of something, but there certainly wasn’t more of something else.

But you know how folks are. Even when we know there’s nothing desirable in the fridge, we open the door and gaze at the contents, hoping we missed something the first three times we looked. It’s human nature. It’s part of our genetic makeup. We push aside last night’s lasagna on the outside chance there’s a piece of chocolate cake hiding behind it. We check the crisper for the candy bar we hid there last week, completely forgetting we devoured it ten minutes after we hid it.

I don’t know why we think something enticing will magically appear in our refrigerator, but we do. No amount of common sense stops us from searching, and no amount of drilling will convince us to “close the fridge door” until we’re completely satisfied we really did eat the last of last night’s chocolate pudding.

Hockey Night, Popcorn, & Dad

In days of yore, “Hello Canada and hockey fans in the United States and Newfoundland,” was a phrase heard weekly from Foster Hewitt during hockey season. Every Saturday night when there was a game Dad was in front of the television, a bowl of warm popcorn in one hand, a cold beverage in the other.

When we were young, Jude was the designated popcorn maker, and I was the complainer. I grumbled about everything. There was too much salt, not enough butter, or too many old maids. Dad was satisfied with whatever Jude prepared unless it was Jiffy Pop. He drew the line when it came to popcorn in a tin foil bag.

I was no more interested in hockey than I was in Howdy Doody, but the rest of the family gathered around the TV, eager to watch the Red Wings defeat the Montreal Canadiens. In those days, there were only six teams and everyone knew and could pronounce the names of the players. Nobody wore a helmet or multiple layers of protective clothing, and goalie masks were sniffed at as something for sissies.

Long before the second intermission I retired to bed, but the chances of falling asleep or reading a book were slim as “See the U.S.A. in your Chevrolet” rang through the upstairs. I would yell, “Turn down the TV,” but nobody paid any attention to me except to yell back, “Can’t hear you. The TV’s too loud.” So although I was in bed, I heard every word Hewitt said and knew the words to every advertisement.

Flash got me thinking about hockey night in Canada and the blasting of our television. Flash is a little deaf in one ear. My hearing is exceptional so I’m always asking him to lower the sound. Whenever he’s home I make the same request. The other evening I tried to read while he watched Fox News. I was so frustrated I hollered, “Stick your hearing aid in your ear and turn that miserable thing down.” Well, maybe I didn’t say “miserable” but you get the picture.

Father’s Day and the endless hockey season reminded me of Dad and his love of the sport. In his memory, I usually watch the last game to see who wins the Stanley Cup. With the volume at a moderate level, warm popcorn on my lap, and a Canada Dry Ginger Ale close by, I imagine the old days when Dad cheered as Hewitt yelled, “He shoots, he scores.” 

If your father is still with you and enjoys televised sports, make him some popcorn, bring him a cold drink, and let the television blast as loud as he likes. You’ll miss the noise when he’s gone.

The Ticks Are Back

Three weeks ago, Little T brought in his first tick of the season. As an old cat, he doesn’t stray far from the trailer, but ticks find him when he ventures even a few feet into the yard. He stayed inside all winter and now meows for fresh air and sunshine. This might be his last summer so I accommodate his request, but I wish the ticks would leave him alone. Pulling them off Little T is disgusting, but it’s worse when they attach to me.

If you spend more than five minutes outside, you know what I mean. Every time we come in from chores, we check our clothing and various body parts. Just writing about these miserable things makes me want to scratch my head and neck. The longer I sit at this keyboard, the more convinced I am there’s something crawling up my back or down my leg. I know perfectly well there isn’t a tick on my person, but that doesn’t stop my imagination from conjuring all sorts of scenarios.

As much as I dislike the cold, it does have its merits. It keeps flying insects, creepy spiders, and lethal bugs at bay, but pests seem to thrive in any kind of weather. Their resistance to the elements and ability to survive 20 below or 90 above temperatures is amazing. Imagine how pleasant our days would be if we could adapt to our environment as easily as bugs do.

I don’t recall the tick plague as being part of my childhood, but now they seem to be everywhere. Yesterday I cut the grass and dressed as if going into combat. I wore a long sleeved shirt over a turtleneck sweater. I tucked my jeans into my rubber boots, put on a baseball cap and gloves, and doused myself with bug spray. I gave a wide berth when cutting grass around the spruce and pine trees.

Looking ridiculous when working outside has become a habit. I admire women who wear shorts, a skimpy top, and sandals when they putter in their yard. We’ve all seen them. Whether young or advanced in years, some gals ride the mower and get a tan at the same time. Maybe I’m approaching this all wrong. Maybe it’s the multiple layers of clothing I wear that attract ticks.

Anything as tiny as a tick probably doesn’t have a very large brain, but let’s suppose for a minute they are capable of rational thought. They might enjoy the challenge of finding my neck or arms or back as they burrow through my garments. There’s no obstacle to overcome when body parts are exposed.

I may have to rethink my outdoor summer wardrobe. How about you?                     

To Dye Or Not To Dye

My first silver hair appeared when I was 29. I was at my desk one morning when a co-worker walked over and snatched the strand from my temple. I was stunned. It was only one lonely lock, a solitary warrior struggling to gain a foothold among the brown. I chastised Nelly for pulling it out. It wasn’t her gray hair so it wasn’t her business. In the waning days of my 20s, I failed to realize people often stick their long fingers as well as their noses into the business of others.

Since then my brown hair has just about disappeared. Like many women, when I saw it slipping away I reached for a bottle of Clairol. For 25 years I doused my head with various shades of brown until my hair was multi-colored. But hair dye, like many other artificial products, can give unexpected results. Although I kept as close to my natural shade as possible, the dye had a mind of its own. In the dim light of the trailer, my hair looked fine, but the color changed when exposed to sunlight. 

One sunny afternoon my daughter commented on the pretty streaks of purple mingled with the gray. She said purple was more attractive than blue, and I should flaunt whatever color the dye turned my hair because I still had some. I left her apartment feeling rather satisfied with my appearance. 

That feeling of satisfaction lasted until I walked into Goodwill a month later and ran into a kid about 12 years old. He stared at me for a few minutes then said, “Hey lady, you’re in style with that cool purple hair.” Although he gave me a big grin and a thumbs up, I knew it was time to throw out the Nice ’n Easy and surrender. My battle with gray was over, and the victor was all too clear.

It’s been seven years since my last dye job. A reunion marking the 50^th anniversary of my high school graduation is almost here, and I’m getting a little apprehensive. Should I rub Lady Clairol into my scalp and fake my hair color? Should I pretend I’m one of the lucky gals blessed with the anti-gray gene? Should I borrow Flash’s brown wig? I have six weeks to ponder my dilemma. Maybe the reunion will be cancelled and I won’t have to worry. I can go about my business, content with my colorless crown.

It takes bravery to face the Brimley class of 1965, but I have no more intention of coloring my hair than I have of wearing four inch stilettos and a mini skirt. Bring on the reunion. I’m ready and waiting, gray hair and all.

The One That Got Away

Why is it when fellows come back from fishing it’s always the one that got away they talk about? They brag about the size of the fish and how hard they struggled to keep it on the hook. One would think they’re looking for sympathy, but how can you feel sorry for a 200 pound man who can’t wrestle a ten pound fish? Okay, I’ve never taken a fishing rod down the road to the river, so maybe I don’t understand because I haven’t been there.

Mind you, I’m not talking about deep sea fishing. I imagine that’s a totally different sport from rowing your boat to a favorite spot and waiting for the big one to bite. I’m thinking of your average angler who enjoys spending a few hours on a calm lake on a humid summer day. I imagine fishing is a great way to temporarily escape the stress of a nagging wife, ungrateful kids, and all those weekend chores. 

I have a feeling, call it intuition or just plain common sense, that while a fellow is alone in his boat he does a little more than fishing. He does some thinking, too. Perhaps he thinks about the tasty meal he’ll enjoy once he reels in the perch. He could be thinking about the Friday night poker game and the fish stories the guys will swap. Or maybe, just maybe, his thoughts turn to the gal who got away.

We’ve all been there, especially if you’re a little older. Once you’re past 60, you’ve probably been there two or three times. I’m way past 60, and I’ve watched some good catches swim in the opposite direction. I guess I just didn’t have the right bait. 

Sitcoms often portray men as shallow, heartless, non-communicative lugs. Television wives seem to bring two rings to the marriage altar. One goes around the husband’s finger, the other through his nose. I wonder when a Men’s Lib Movement will surface and gents will demand the respect and appreciation they deserve. On TV, males are humiliated in front of their children and often dismissed as a disagreeable nuisance by their wives.

If the picture I paint has even a hint of truth to it, either on television or in real life, who can blame a fellow for taking his boat and rowing as far from shore as possible. Oh, the pleasure of your own company. The delight in peace and quiet. The enchantment of what might have been. Who cares if the fishing is poor? The illusion of the one that got away is probably just that, but sometimes it takes an illusion to get us through the day.

 

A Room For Rochester

Over the years I brought home a number of things, but the most endearing was a blue parakeet Dad named Rochester. I was living in Dearborn at the time, and the bird was a gift from a friend. My cat had succumbed to cancer, and George thought a pair of parakeets would cheer me. Whatever put that notion into his Greek head was beyond me. Sure, I liked birds, but the outdoor kind. The kind that chirp in the morning, hoot at night, and peck on dead trees, not expensive picture frames.

Anyway, George bought two parakeets. One was blue and the other green. Since green is my favorite color, I admired Fern more than her brother. I didn’t even bother to name him, so you might say we had issues from the beginning. Things didn’t improve when I came home from work one day and found Fern dead, and her brother preening in the cage as if to say, “See what I’ve done.”

From then on, things went from bad to worse. I reached a point where I couldn’t stand his chirping as if he were a benevolent brother instead of the jealous assaulter I knew him to be. He had to go. George didn’t want him, nor did any of our friends. It wouldn’t have taken much to dispose of him, but I balked at the idea of George pinching the little fellow’s neck.

The solution was all too obvious. I put the bird in his cage and drove home. Dad instantly took to the blue thug and named him Rochester, a rather dignified name for a hooligan, but Rochester it was and Rochester it remained.

We put his shack, as Mom referred to his cage, on a fancy wooden stand I had brought home the previous year. The stand had two shelves. After Mom made one trip to K-Mart, Rochester had more food and toys than most children. After a half-dozen trips to town, Rochester got his own room.

Mom didn’t move his shack, but all his paraphernalia went into the spare room. Mom spoiled him as much as Dad. His shoulder was a favorite landing spot for Rochester. When he was offered a cracker, he nibbled until he was bored. Then he perched on Dad’s head or flew to a picture and whittled the wooden frame.

Rochester lived for seven years, passing away a year after Dad. Mom said the silence of the trailer was deafening, but memories of Dad and his feathered friend were everywhere. Slowly, Mom reclaimed Rochester’s room. She was in no hurry to dismantle it or forget the hours of entertainment that ridiculous bird had given her and Dad.

Junk Drawer Jumble

When you can’t find what you’re looking for, check the jumbled mess in your kitchen junk drawer. We all have one, that special drawer where we throw things when we don’t know where else to put them. Mine is stuffed with assorted lids, rubber bands, twisty ties, nails, thumb tacks, tape measures, various screw drivers, scissors, and a whole lot of other junk. Everything is connected by a ball of string that managed to tangle itself around the entire lot.

If you’re like me, some of your stash is perfectly useless but you don’t have the heart to throw it out. The metal lid Mom bought years ago to prevent bacon from curling when it fries remains in the drawer. Mind you, I haven’t fried bacon in fifteen years, but that lid brings fond memories of Mom so it stays.

Ditto for hundreds of red rubber bands she saved and wrapped around an empty tomato paste can. Although I did trash her supply of square plastic ties, I kept the sharp twisty ones covered with paper. They have a tendency to fall apart and jab my fingers as I rummage through the drawer, but I won’t throw them out because I never know when I’ll need one.

Last Christmas Flash gave me a nice big blue toolbox, but space in the trailer is limited so his present stays in the garage. He tried to convince me to transfer my junk drawer jumble to the toolbox, but that doesn’t make sense. Every time I need a tape measure or nail, I’d have to run out to the garage which is fine on a warm summer day, but when it’s 20 below the garage is the last place I want to be.

Once a year, I dump the contents of the drawer onto the kitchen table and attempt to sort through all the junk. Sometimes I find what I was looking for, I just find it too late. For instance, the birthday candles I needed six months ago magically appear. The spare Christmas bulb shows up in July. I find the missing shoelace to the pair of winter boots I threw out two years ago. The button to my favorite blouse turns up when the blouse is now in the rag bag. And so it goes.

Nobody can remember all the stuff crammed into that drawer, so don’t be too hard on yourself when you can’t find what you’re looking for. And if your spouse wants to know the whereabouts of anything, just point to the junk drawer. Sooner or later he will find that special fishing lure he bought in 1979, and he will be happy.          

A Trip To King Optical

The summer of 1960 must have been slow and boring. I didn’t have any friends on the sideroad, I was too old to play with dolls, and too young to appreciate the music of Elvis. I had stopped keeping an account of our daily activities. Nothing exciting or spectacular ever happened. We never went anywhere as a family because the cows required milking twice a day. Nobody’s going to volunteer for that chore, so our outings were limited to the Friday night grocery trip to town.

I remember going to the Soo Theater and watching cowboy movies. If we didn’t need much, Mom made a lightning fast trip to Callahan’s Market and there was no time for a show. In that case, we kids enjoyed a chocolate malt at the Midtown Restaurant. I was only 13 but thought Mike Silverman was the best soda jerk in town. Some of you might remember Mike and agree.

Well anyway, the summer of 1960 was the summer I convinced myself I needed glasses. I don’t know what put that notion into my head, but I pestered Mom for weeks before she finally relented and made an appointment at King Optical. Were there opticians in the Soo? I have no idea. I only know Canada was the place to go for spectacles, and I couldn’t wait.

Maybe my enthusiasm had something to do with Jude’s glasses. She had been to King Optical and returned wearing a stylish pair of horn rims. There were two things of my sister’s I coveted. One was her blue plaid shorty jacket, and the other was her glasses.

On the appointed day, Mom and I went to town and caught the ferry. I was aflutter with excitement. Mom was probably disgusted. She didn’t think there was anything wrong with my young eyes, and truthfully, neither did I. But you know how kids are. Beleaguered parents sometimes give in just to shut us up. Mom knew perfectly well I would need glasses because anyone visiting King Optical, whether 8 or 98, was diagnosed with poor vision.

As expected, my eyes failed the test. Within weeks I had my own pair of horn rims and couldn’t have been more proud. I wore them faithfully until Cousin Jack looked through them. He laughed and said the glass was no stronger than a window pane. His announcement was crushing. I knew they were only window glass and now all the relatives would too. It wasn’t long before I banished my fashion accessory to the bottom of my sweater drawer.

Hindsight told me I should have asked for something practical like a blue plaid shorty because I never did grow into Jude’s.      

   

              

A Pink Bicycle Summer

With summer right around the corner, it’s time for kids to get out their bicycles and ride like the wind. The best bike I ever had was a boy’s. I loved it until my brother pulled off the fenders. I was so mad, I never pedaled it again. None of my bikes were new and none fit. They were too big, too small, too rusty, too worn out, or just too ugly, but they all signaled freedom.        

Three years ago when my grandniece was five, I purchased a pink bicycle for her. It was her first two-wheeler, and Molly was thrilled. It took her five minutes to get used to it, and then she was off like Lance Armstrong. The safest place for her to ride was the school parking lot across the street from her home.

Molly’s riding partner was her grandmother, my sister Jude. One was on a bicycle, one in a motorized chair called Jazzy. On warm summer afternoons, these two pals covered every inch of the parking lot and inspected each crack, stone, leaf, and bug that came their way. Whenever Molly spied something out of the ordinary, she screeched to a halt and commanded Grandma tell her what she had found.

Every day was a new adventure. Everything was scrutinized and explained in minute detail. Patiently, Jude taught Molly the names of various birds, trees, wild flowers, weeds, and insects. Clouds were admired, mud puddles were examined for the pretty colors within them, ant hills received a thorough investigation, and new neighbors were hailed as old friends. 

Molly’s favorite game was the tortoise and the hare. She loved challenging Grandma to a race and guess who played the hare. Grandma, of course. My niece always gave Jude a head start which only seemed fair as the child traveled twice the speed of the adult. Shrieks of delight were heard as she flew past Grandma, squealing to a halt so fast by summer’s end Molly had worn the tread off her back tire. 

This summer I’ll bring her to the country as often as possible, but I’ll never replace Grandma. As Molly and I travel up and down the road, she’ll see new sights and hear new sounds. We’ll stand on the bridge, throw stones in the river, and watch the ripples disappear. We’ll listen to the bray of neighboring donkeys and respond with hardy heehaws.     

In other words, I’ll give Molly the special gift Jude gave her. It doesn’t cost a dime, needs no batteries or electricity, and can’t be purchased for any price. It’s called the precious gift of time. My sister passed away a year ago, but she would be happy knowing her legacy lives on. 

The marvelous computer we carry around in our head stores memories we have forgotten until something jogs them back to us. Holidays often remind us of days past when we were surrounded by family and friends. Places can do the same thing. When I look out my kitchen window, I see Jude. She’s not there, of course, but I see her in my mind’s eye. Sometimes she’s carrying milk cans from the barn to the wellhouse. Other times she’s in the pasture, searching for mushrooms after a gentle rain. 

Straining my eyes, I see her on the hay wagon, standing atop a load of hay as Dad drives the tractor towards home. She’s smiling and waving. If I gaze out my window long enough, I see her running from the barn to the house. I see her jump through the air and safely land on the front porch.

I’m always looking out my windows. I have no idea what I’m looking for or why I think I might see something of interest. My kitchen window faces east and is the one I look out most, probably because the kitchen is where I spend a lot of my time. I’ve always been a kitchen person. It’s a warm and inviting place especially when the aroma of freshly baked bread scents the air.

While gazing east a few years ago, I saw a bear cub trying to get at a birdfeeder. Last summer a moose wondered across my backyard. At first glance I thought it was a horse, but I didn’t need binoculars to confirm no horse ever looked like Bullwinkle. He watched me watching him before trotting away. Along with the usual parade of skunks and raccoons, a few turkeys strolled through my yard last month.

I never see anything of worth out my south or west windows, and I never look out those facing north. I know what lies north—a lifetime of memories because that’s the direction of the old house. The house of my youth haunts me like a benevolent ghost.

Recently someone posted an amazing picture on Facebook of a dog guarding the grave of his master. Every night the animal returns to the cemetery to mourn and wait. The caretaker won’t lock the gates until Capitan is settled, faithful beyond human comprehension to the man who loved him.

Maybe that’s why I look out windows. Maybe I’m searching for something that was lost a long time ago and will never return. As Molly grows older and looks out her windows, I hope she sees a little girl on a pink bicycle challenging Grandma to a race.

Such a cherished memory won’t be easily forgotten.

Don't Move That Chair

We all know folks who rearrange their furniture every few months. Visiting such people can be a challenge because we never know where we’ll find the couch or our favorite easy chair. On the other hand, visiting people who never change their furniture arrangement is a pleasure. We know which chairs to avoid due to shaky legs, broken springs, or cat and dog hair.

There’s something inherently comfortable about stability. I like walking into a friend’s house and seeing everything in the same place as it was a year ago. Chances are, if the furniture placement is stable, so is my friend. Stability is not the same as stagnation. Just because some of us never move a chair from its original place, does not mean our brains are as stationary as our furniture.

When I moved into this trailer in 1996, my stuff went into storage. After a year, the storage place went out of business and I had two choices. Either sell everything or redecorate Mom’s living room. She was horrified at the idea. Her couch and chair, end tables, and lamps had come with the trailer. It was unthinkable they should be replaced. It didn’t matter that the couch had a broken leg. Everything else was in good shape because nothing had moved in 28 years.

Mom wasn’t overjoyed at the prospect of change but eventually agreed that my bookcases and furniture could invade her home. My first improvement was to get rid of the green carpet and replace it with beige Berber. Mom sat in the garage while it was being installed and stayed there until I finished hauling in my things. By late afternoon, everything was in place and the trailer looked like new. Mom was still in the garage.

When she came in for supper, she was thrilled. All her worries evaporated as she looked at the couch with four legs, the pristine easy chairs, sturdy oak end tables, and various bookcases. Scattered among my many books were knickknacks and pictures of departed loved ones. Her wedding picture was on display for the first time. She loved everything and couldn’t believe the transformation.

Not much has changed inside the trailer since the historic Redecoration Day of 1997. If Mom were still with us, she’d see things much as she left them. I’m a creature of habit just as she was. It doesn’t matter if it’s a piece of furniture or a picture on the wall. Once I decide where something goes, it stays there.

Although I’ve considered replacing my couch because the back is coming unglued and its legs are shaky, I’ll stick with it to the end. Mom would be proud.           

The D-Day Lottery

Utah, Omaha, Gold, Juno, Sword. Such simple words betray the horror that occurred on these beaches on June 6, 1944. The soldiers who survived the Normandy Invasion, sometimes called the D-Day Lottery, are old men now. Many are gone, but for those who remain, the images of that day are unforgettable. 

How does a young fellow forget seeing the dismembered body of his buddy? Whether destroyed by a water mine or bullet before ever reaching shore or mowed down by waiting German artillery, the idea of war became a living nightmare for soldiers commanded to “take the beaches.” How do you take a beach when you’re being blown to bits? And yet that’s what they did.

Allied forces accomplished the seemingly impossible. Thousands paid the ultimate price. Thousands more paid with an arm or leg or other injury that crippled or disfigured them for life, but the word they clung to as blood rushed from their bodies was “life.” Watching a documentary or reading an account of that stormy spring day one thing becomes clear. It’s life that is important, not the missing limb or the loss of a handsome face.

It’s easier to understand the necessity for our involvement in World Wars, but I can’t grasp the current logic of sending troops into one conflict after another when very little seems to be gained. Ignored by visual media, recent wars have become like phantoms, rarely given a thought by the general public until a friend returns home in a flag-draped coffin or a loved one commits suicide as a result of battle stress.   

Politicians and generals warn us about terrorism if we don’t eradicate Al-Qaeda and ISIS. Like a Hare Krishna mantra, we hear the daily drum beat that 14 years after 9/11 war is still necessary to maintain our safety. If we stopped trying to colonize the Middle East, perhaps terrorist threats would stop and our soldiers could come home.

Recently an acquaintance said war is good for the economy, entrepreneurs, and contractors who rebuild what we have bombed. And furthermore, everyone knows there are no jobs for returning vets. I agreed some folks do get rich from war, but asked if combat was a viable means of employment and should the killing continue so McDonald’s can open a restaurant in Kabul. My friend made no reply.

I wonder if the soldiers disembarking from landing crafts in 1944 shouted, “Long live the economy.” Seems a little far-fetched to me and an insult to the memory of those who died on foreign beaches 71 years ago or in Afghanistan yesterday. When watching documentaries, I’ve yet to hear a dying soldier mention the economy. Amidst the noise of the battlefield, it’s always the call for mother and home that echoes the loudest. 

Hopefully, those who profit from war will share their bounty with our heroes, the volunteer men and women who fight the enemy and unknowingly pave the way for entrepreneurs to safely enter foreign lands. It’s something to think about on D-Day.   

Looking Out My Windows

I’m always looking out my windows. I have no idea what I’m looking for or why I think I might see something of interest. My kitchen window faces east and is the one I look out most, probably because the kitchen is where I spend the bulk of my time. I’ve always been a kitchen person. It’s usually a warm and inviting place especially when the aroma of freshly baked bread scents the air.

While gazing east a few years ago, I saw a bear cub trying to get at a birdfeeder. Like any normal person I ran from the window, locked the doors, and called for help. The fellow I phoned told me to stay inside and take a picture of my visitor. I said I was shaking too much to hold the camera. My friend laughed and said good-bye. Eventually the cub gave up, ambled back to the woods, and I breathed a sigh of relief.

Last summer a moose wondered across my backyard. At first glance I thought it was a horse, but I didn’t need binoculars to confirm no horse ever looked like Bullwinkle. He watched me watching him before trotting away. Along with the usual parade of skunks and raccoons, a few turkeys have strolled through the yard this spring.

I never see anything of worth out my south or west windows, and I never look out those facing north. I know what lies north—a lifetime of memories because that’s the direction of the old house. The house of my youth haunts me like a benevolent ghost. When I married and moved to Colorado, I dreamed about home for the first 13 months I was gone.

Every night it was the same. I was in the gray shingled house, either playing with my dolls or reading a book. Mom, Dad, and Gram were there, and I felt safe like nothing in the world could hurt me. For months my husband awakened in the middle of the night from the sound of my weeping. His father retired from the Army so Chuck was used to moving. He couldn’t understand why I missed home.

Recently someone posted an amazing picture on Facebook of a dog guarding the grave of his master. Every night the animal returns to the cemetery to mourn and wait. The caretaker won’t lock the gates until Capitan is settled, faithful beyond human comprehension to the man who loved him.

           

Maybe that’s why I look out windows. Maybe I’m searching for something that was lost a long time ago and will never return. Whether man or beast, longing has no expiration date and requires no explanation. You know what I mean, don’t you?

An Old Cow Bell Rings Memories

The other day I was rummaging in the wellhouse and came across an old cowbell hanging on a rusty nail. The bell was in good shape as if Dad had just taken it off the lead cow. Maybe he planned on putting a new bell on Silver or maybe the strap needed mending and the bell was hung and forgotten. Dad had almost as many bells as he had chores, so my find wasn’t unusual. 

When my parents sold their last cow, a swarm of relatives descended on the barn and wellhouse. In the late1970s nobody farmed anymore, but everybody was anxious to grab a piece of nostalgia from our farm. Milk cans, the milk separator, curry combs, pitchforks, hay wagons, and heavy machinery were all fair game. It didn’t matter how small or large the loot because it was free for the taking. It meant family history was scattered among my many cousins.    

As a kid, I didn’t spend much time at the barn so my memories of farm chores are limited to feeding the pigs, gathering eggs, and filling the cows’ chop boxes. My sister, Jude, would have wonderful memories to tell about life on the farm because she spent as much time at the barn as she did in the house. I was just the opposite. I was the housecat.  Like Gram, I loved to read. So when I awoke on lazy summer mornings, I reached for a book instead of my barn clothes. Seeing that old bell reminded me of summer mornings when Jude helped Dad or Gram call the cows in from pasture.

If my bedroom window was open, I could hear the clang of the bell as the cows got closer to the barn for their first milking. There was something comforting about that sound. It meant the animals had spent another peaceful night beneath the stars. It meant Jude was helping Dad with the chores, Gram was supervising, Mom was in the kitchen, my brother was sleeping, and all was well.

The sounds drifting through the window screen were familiar ones. I might hear a dog bark as he chased a cat up a tree, or maybe the cry of a barn swallow warning someone not to get too close to its nest. When the milking was done and the cows put out to pasture, the rat-a-tat-tat of Dad’s tractor joined the early morning sounds of farm life. Shortly after the milk cans were filled and hoisted into the water tank, the milk truck from a nearby town took them away to the dairy.   

If I looked out the south window, I could see the dew on the ground as the fog lifted. I could also see the cows as they fed on the grass or made their way to the shelter of the woods. Often I played in the woods when the cows were in another pasture. Sometimes I liked to sample their salt block and, of course, it was great fun to feel the squish of a fresh cow pie between my bare toes as I ran through the field.  

Our cows got the same good treatment as our pigs. No animal around our place ever felt the sharp jab of a pitchfork or the flimsy tap of a tag alder switch. We were a tenderhearted family. The saddest days were when Dunbar’s truck came to the farm because that meant something was going to auction. I didn’t realize what that meant. I was simply told the animals were going to someone else’s barn.

Looking back, my parents protected me from many harsh realities of farm life. As the second daughter, Mom didn’t want another tomboy. While Jude helped Dad with chores and drove the tractor during summer haying, I played with my dolls and read books like Honey Bunch. My sister passed away in March of 2014. She was a marvelous storyteller, but alas, all her wonderful farm stories went with her.       

Every now and then I come across something from my childhood that jolts the past to the present. It might be Dad’s tattered and torn barn jacket hanging on a nail, or one of Mom’s fancy aprons tucked in a drawer. It could be the little stool Gram sat on while she milked the cows, or a dozen gunny sacks tied together by a piece of binder twine. It might be a picture of Jude feeding one of the workhorses. I don’t remember them, but I treasure that photograph. Jude was about five years old. Her back is to the camera and she’s handing hay to the horse as if he were a true and trusted friend.    

Well anyway, enough reminiscing. I left the cowbell on the nail and continued rummaging. I wasn’t looking for anything in particular, just trying to straighten up the wellhouse. Some folks refer to it as a pump house, but it was more than that to me because the second room was my playhouse. Many happy hours of my youth were spent in that room with books and dolls and dress-up clothes.   

Although the days of awaking to the familiar sound of a cowbell are gone, the old sideroad is still home to a few farm animals. Sometimes I hear the bray of the neighbor’s donkeys. Like the clang of Silver’s bell, it’s a pleasant sound reassuring me another peaceful night has passed and all is well.                

                     

Early Morning Fog

Years ago when the Great Lakes were heavy with freighters the sound of a foghorn breaking the morning stillness was a familiar one. The Soo Locks would be thick with ships heading upbound for Lake Superior and Duluth or downbound towards Lake Michigan and Indiana Harbor. When the horn sounded, we could hear it for miles.

When I was young, I never thought about the people onboard. The noise of the horn meant weather conditions were making sailing potentially treacherous for the captain and crew, but I never thought about them. I only thought about the nice dream I was having until the horn awakened me. The blast announced fog was enfolding the ships and care had to be taken to avoid danger.

During the summer I could go back to sleep, but once school started that foghorn was not my friend, especially if it blew hours before I had to get up and get going. If it wasn’t the horn blasting a signal, it was the Canadian loons keeping me awake. The call of loons used to be as familiar as foghorns, but like the freighters, loons are also disappearing. I moved back to this area many years ago and have yet to hear the wail of an early morning loon.

It’s not just the passing of aged loved ones that denotes the passage of years, it’s also the loss of familiar sights and sounds. There was a time when birds were wing-to-wing on electric lines, every pasture was home to milk cows and beef cattle, and summer fields were dotted with round or square bales of hay. In our modern world, milk cows rarely see a green field or daylight, Herefords have all but disappeared, and the harvesting of hay is done by a bale spear, not men with pitchforks and a hay wagon.

Well anyway, now when I hear a foghorn I think of the sailors onboard the freighter. My friend, Flash, sails on the Joseph L. Block. He doesn’t talk much about life on the ship because he says there’s not much to tell. And maybe that’s the way life is. There isn’t much to say unless something goes wrong.

Our daily routines are fairly mundane and predictable, and I guess that’s a good thing. I was fortunate as a youngster in the 1950s because life was uncomplicated. Whether awakened by a foghorn or Mom calling from the foot of the stairs, I knew I was in safe harbor. Nothing interfered with my childhood. Days melted into each other with all the ease of a raindrop drifting down a windowpane.

As freighters cautiously venture into the fog and hope for clear skies, I hope any mist surrounding you today lifts and gives you a day full of promise.   

       

           

 

Get Out The Blow Torch

Opening items encased in hard plastic is a task worthy of Hercules. Everything from household batteries to toy Ninja warriors is tightly bound in packaging that requires the patience of Job and the strength of Ferdinand. The revenge of Chinese factory workers is apparent in each product we struggle to open. We cut, rip, cuss, and threaten to get out the blow torch as we try to release our purchases from their plastic prison.

We consider ourselves lucky if the sharp edges don’t slice through our fingers and the kids don’t lose interest in their presents long before they’re opened. We rejoice when AAA batteries roll to the floor. We cheer when screwdrivers can be used instead of merely admired. 

I don’t remember how items used to be packaged, but I’m fairly certain it didn’t take 20 minutes to wrestle them open. Every child’s toy not arriving in a box is firmly sealed in plastic so strong it could float across the ocean without showing any sign of wear when it washed ashore. And the challenge doesn’t stop once we’ve sawed through the clam packs.

Those little plastic ties that further secure our purchases have to be dealt with. We get out the scissors, but they’re rarely strong enough for the job. We reach for a sharp paring knife with marginal success. In desperation, we search the garage for tin snips. When all our efforts fail, we hunt for the receipt and return the Chinese junk to Walmart.

There is one redeeming aspect to the little plastic price tags attached to clothing. They’re easy to snip off. They also make it harder for shoppers to wear something and return it to the store. I recall an aunt who was an authority on buying, wearing, and returning shirts, slacks, or fancy dresses. In the old days, stores ran a straight pin through a little piece of paper that was attached to clothing, making returns easy. It wasn’t from lack of money auntie bought, wore, and returned things, it was from common sense.

If junior needed a white shirt for his first communion, there was no point in spending hard earned money on something he would never wear again. Ditto for a mother-of-the-groom dress worn only once. If uncle needed a suit for a relative’s funeral, the suit was bought one day and returned the next. It wasn’t like the garment was worn for a month. It was merely borrowed for a day or two.

Looking back, there might be a good reason why things are cemented into plastic now-a-days, but I doubt it. I think it’s done to test our skill with a blow torch.

Saved A Lot Lately?

Remember when Save-a-Lot first came to town? I referred to it as the Poor Man’s Store. Those of us brave enough to enter through the front door without wearing a mask got some real bargains. We kept our head down because we didn’t want to run into anyone we knew.  People who were better off shopped at Glen’s. Middle income folks left their money at SuperValu. Seniors did their marketing at the Soo Co-op. It was only us poor folks who ventured down the aisles of Save-a-Lot.     

The shelves were a close match to Mother Hubbard’s cupboard, and we couldn’t find a name brand no matter where we looked. The clerks were helpful and friendly, but we could sense their compassion as we dug in our purse for our last dollar. Placing purchases in box bottoms was further humiliating, but bringing a paper bag from home was even worse. If we made it out the door without being noticed, we breathed a sigh of relief and ran for our car.

My, how things have changed. It probably took two years before the concept of Save-a-Lot caught on with affluent folks. Their stamp of approval must have encouraged management to add a few brand names, order more stock, and offer a better selection of produce. The negative stigma lifted. Now we proudly walk into the store, head held high, and look for our friends and neighbors. If the corporate wizards who decided on a name had called it Spend-a-Lot, they would have made a fortune within the first few weeks.

There is one drawback to this popular supermarket. With all the new items, brand names, and teeming shelves, prices have increased to match the clientele. Most things are still a few cents cheaper than Walmart, but gone are the days when a twenty dollar bill bought two box bottoms of groceries. The shelves groan from the weight of the new merchandise and probably yearn for the early days when their burden was light. Now everything you want can be found stacked, lined, or hung from a hook. You can even buy fancy plastic bags if you don’t want to rummage through cardboard.

What got me thinking about this store was the coffee I’m enjoying this morning. Years ago I was a tea drinker, but somewhere along the way, I discovered coffee. There’s no better way to start my day than with a slice of homemade almond biscotti and a cup of good strong coffee. I’ve tried lots of brands, ground fresh beans, sampled gourmet products, but the best coffee I’ve tasted in a long time is McDaniel’s Special Roast Medium strength straight from the shelf of Save-a-Lot.

Who would have thought?