Thanksgiving Chronicle: Ordinary Times and Travels post 6

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We all love a road trip in the rain, right? Yeah.

We met at the coffee house for a quick group goodbye and whatever breakfast we could handle. Bob and Elizabeth had already left for their drive, and ours was about to start. We were headed to Pennsylvania.

The husband grew up in the row mountains of central PA and over the years we have made some pilgrimages back to visit, but not as often as we should have. We’d been trying to arrange it all summer but there was one disruption after another. With winter setting in we knew the time was short before safe travel would be uncertain and Mom had graciously offered us the chance to go there on the way to Florida, in her car. Upon hearing this, both daughters, who also had not been there in quite a while wanted to come also. And because we didn’t all fit in Mom’s car, poor Ryan, Esther’s friend, (who perhaps did not have much of a choice) decided to share his rental car and go visiting with us.

Who calls up relatives they haven’t seen in years and tells them six people, some of whom are not even related to them, are “dropping by” for three days, and, by the way, do you have a place for us to sleep? Me. I do.

Visualizing the trip in my imagination, we would swap around at each stop and share time between the two cars. We were going to read to each other and have meaningful conversation, especially between us women – you know how valuable “car time” can be.  That didn’t happen. As it was, we started out divided into elders and youngers and that’s the way it stayed the entire time. We just couldn’t seem to end up at the same place in spite of frantic texting at 70 mph.

“We are at service plaza at mile 169 for gas and likely Burger King (one of Gram’s favs) 12:46 PM”

“We will probably miss you unless you linger but I think we’re closing the gap. 12:47 PM”

“There’s a Panera here! We’ll take our time if you want to stop. 12:58 PM”

“We are at 162. We’ll stop if you are still there. 1:15 PM”

“Still here eating soup. 1:22 PM”

“Sorry. We thought you’d have left and went past it :/ 1:22 PM”

Our trip planner, Julia, who blanched at the thought of never getting beyond Interstate fast food, had picked out a mid morning coffee stop for us, and a dinner stop, both designed to give us some local culture and a significant memory of some kind.  The coffee stop got scrapped before we were past Detroit, however, we elders did not hear of it until quite a bit later. We stopped at an Interstate fast food place, ho hum.  The youngers went downtown Detroit to some more trendy place as I recall.(Great Lakes Coffee)

This trip was purported to be around 8-9 hours. I think for us it was about 12 as we leap-frogged past each other on I-80, taking different lunch stops and fuel stops at different times. We did finally get together for dinner in Danville, PA. This time our trip planner hit a home run and we all had a good meal and an interesting time at the Old Forge Brewery. Spacious and rustic it was, and the food was good. These days the young crowd puts a lot of stock in craft beers and exotic coffees, which is okay – everyone has something they care about.  Someone has to keep all these brew pubs and coffee houses in business (although they didn’t do it for my brother in Michigan, did they?)

Our last most scenic miles were in the dark so we had no views except for the twisty, turning, hilly road in our headlights and the farmhouses and villages built, literally, right next to the road. We arrived at Ron (the husband’s brother) and Deanna’s house and sorted out our sleeping spots, visited a little, and went to bed. But, there were some plans, and we had three days….

Thanksgiving Chronicle: Ordinary Times and Travels post 4

Here we were on Thanksgiving Day, in Michigan, preparing to gather at the coffee house and cook our festive meal. Since the plan was to see if we could snack/taste/eat pretty much all day, breakfast was out on the bar when we arrived. Hmmm, coffee was no problem since the place was still basically a coffee house. While some of us talked and lost track of time, others of us got busy in the kitchen fixing up the next round of food.

This was the BIG meal, the one with the turkey. My brother, the host, claimed the job of cooking the bird. He has done it several times and has gotten good at it. None of us gave the turkey another thought. I made a gorgeous veggie tray with several dip choices, just so none of us would have to stop eating between meals. Julie was busy putting together her signature salad, glazing pecans to toss with the lettuce and mandarin orange. Somehow, we all got a bit distracted when the spatula she was using began to melt (who knew?) and glaze the pecans with plastic along with sugar. Pick the plastic out? Start over? Waste all those lovely nuts?

At this point, there were a lot more people in the kitchen because it was nearing our appointed meal time. It kind of sneaked up on us and there was a “hurry up” atmosphere. Ryan was suddenly on to his mashed potato job (Aside: Did you know adding a sweet potato in with the white ones make an interesting contribution? #newtome). Jamie was finishing up her pilaf. Esther was roasting her brussels sprouts.  Jon was getting his tofurkey warmed up. The cold dishes (cranberry salad and others) were being taken out to the line-up on the bar. Gary had finished the turkey and he and Bob were carving. Richard was getting his Thanksgiving song ready to play for our blessing on the meal.

wp-1481649557967.jpgWe were at the very last moment, when Mom asked if there was gravy. She had that big-eyed look that said it wouldn’t work as a meal if there wasn’t gravy for the mashed potatoes. She must have weathered crisis like this before because she had good ideas for making it – hunting up some turkey juice, some canned cream soup, and a few other things. We even found some odd fish shaped dishes that worked for serving it. We rocked it, really.

 

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It was a lovely meal. Unlike many who photograph their food before it’s eaten, I mostly wait until the plates are decimated to take pictures, so I can’t show you the “before” loveliness, but you can see that we did have a good lively time at the table. Such fun, and it only got better when it was time for pie and coffee. Plenty of good food and hours of good company gave us a lot to feel thankful for.

Celebrating for only one day, when people come from a long distance, would be a waste of travel expense. We also have other “near traditions” that are emerging in our family and they take at least one more day of celebrating to accomplish. The Friday after Thanksgiving (not Black Friday for us) will be in tomorrow’s post…

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Thanksgiving Chronicle: Ordinary Times and Travel post 2

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Up here in the north woods, we always have the weather to contend with when we travel.  The threat of rain turning to snow was scaring us to start our trip a day early. Mom was mentally planning this early departure yesterday when we rolled in from the Minneapolis airport. She had nearly finished her packing and had all the ingredients for the Thanksgiving meal that we had promised to provide, ready to be put together. I baked my pies right away.  We planned to pack up in the morning and stay ahead of the storm.

We were making the drive in Mom’s car, which I love to drive. Mom likes to sit in the back seat surrounded by travel food and her pillows and blankets. The husband sits/sleeps in the “death seat” in front, although I try not to think of it that way. We have become fairly comfortable travel companions; the husband talking (a LOT) and Mom listening and passing us sandwiches and celery sticks at regular intervals. I kind of zone out as I drive. My text messages pop up on the Bluetooth digital screen on the dash, which is a really nice feature of the car. It is a Chevy Captiva. I have trouble remembering the model name, but I’m working on associating it with the mental image of a small SUV strapped into the middle seat of an airplane. That should bring it to mind.

It was a beautiful day for our many hours of driving, with no snow, not even a drop of rain. We were on the road by 9 am after packing the car – always a fun challenge. Mom’s part was the hardest since she was trying to think of everything she would need for the next few months. She started weeks ago putting things aside. As we put it all in the back of Captiva, the only thing she couldn’t locate was her money. She knew she had put the bank envelope in some reasonable place, some safe place where it would be easy to find when it was time to go. So much for that. We all searched everyplace we could think of. But I am so proud of Mom. She is able to laugh and let it be all good. We left and the money was either with us in a place we hadn’t remembered yet, or still back in Hayward, to be found later we hoped.

We drove about 9 hours. We traveled east across Wisconsin and for the first three or four hours we encountered only two trucks which we passed. What a change from the places I usually drive. The two lane road was bordered by forest and marshes, pine trees and birch, lots of rivers, streams and lakes. The dominant color was soft gray in varying intensities, with brushes of deep green and brown. We traveled through Winter, Florence, Minquoa and Eagle River before crossing the border into the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, Escanaba and finally the Mackinac Bridge. We spent the night in the Super 8 in a town called Grayling, leaving only a short trip for the next day.

One of our last conversations driving down I-75 went like this;

The husband, as we were driving in the dark approaching an exit:  “The moon looks really strange tonight”. I looked for the moon in the direction the husband was pointing but what I saw in the sky above the tree line was a bright, round orb with a large M on it.

Me: “That’s a Marathon station at the exit. It’s not the moon, in spite of being marked with an M.”

Husband: “Oh, I thought it looked weird.” We were tired and it was only day 2.

 

The Election

The Inner Life of Someone’s Mother – Tales from the Archives

wp-1477433725677.jpgWe are at a meeting of 4-H Leader Council. I am on the ballot for First Vice-President, chosen to run by a committee, so I agree. The committee gives their report a month before elections, so everyone can think about their choices. The other nominee for the job is a lady who stays with her child in Youth Council meetings instead of coming in with us so no one knows her. I feel funny while they tell about her and what a good leader and responsible person she is and then just read my name off. I feel like maybe I should have been given equal time but do not say anything, having already decided I don’t really want the job. I’m not even sure why they nominated me. I haven’t acted like officer material, and all I’ve done to draw attention to myself was to overflow the coffee pot and create a big mess at a meeting early in the year.

When the night for elections comes, everyone is joking and kidding. Campaign slogans are written on the board. Well, my opponent has declined to run so nominations are opened to fill her spot. A very popular man is convinced to run. He doesn’t even know the most important task is to provide refreshments for each meeting. His wife is up for president and all he worries about is whether he’ll have to take orders from her if they’re both elected. He clowns and tells everyone how unreliable he is. For a minute I am afraid they might actually elect me so I mention how my club was supposed to bring refreshments for the Youth Council meeting in January. We forgot all about it and were embarrassed in front of the largest, hungriest attendance in Youth Council history. Having established equal incompetence in the eyes of the voters I go confidently into the election, writing Joe’s name on my ballot.

The counters leave the room and return five minutes later with grim expressions. They hurriedly hand out blank papers and we know there has been a tie for one of the offices – but which one? I am amazed to find out it is between Joe and me! I am surprised and flattered to realize half the people there must have voted for me. I am also amazed that “Joe-come-lately” charmed his way to the other half of the votes without even being serious about the whole thing. Now I know I am going to feel bad if I lose. It is pretty clearly a popularity contest.

But then I look at Joe and see this great guy who clearly enjoys being involved with his family in 4-H. I know that he deserves to be sucked into some responsible position, just to make it hard for him to leave. The truth is, 95% of leader’s council members are women and any man who comes is likely to be elected to something at the earliest opportunity. It comes clear to me – a vote for Joe is a vote for masculine leadership in family affairs. He’s a shoo-in. I know I can organize refreshments for meetings. Joe needs to know he can do it too.

After he is elected I am able to go up and congratulate Joe and tell him I voted for him. I don’t mind losing the popularity contest. I enjoy reminding him what his new duties will be and even though he blanches a little, I don’t feel sorry for him. His wife wasn’t elected as president so not only will he not have to take orders from her, he’ll probably have her organizing refreshments before long.

Cleaning Your Room

 

I helped you clean your room

Not because it was a toxic death trap

But because I knew we might find something,

Something you’d been looking for.

And we would laugh at the candy wrappers, the moldy apple,

The discarded clothing, the random bits of paper with

Life scribbled on them, anguished life, raw life, devotion, angst

And dreams, scribbled on bits of paper.

 

I helped you clean your room

Because the hours spent with you were precious.

We talked and small traces of order would appear,

small traces of calm and pleasure, even though we knew

they were temporary. Your room, your life was meant

to be lived in, sometimes messy,  sometimes organized but

always uniquely your room,  your life.  And I was

always happy when you let me sit there with you. Always.

 

I helped you clean your room

And it was with the same strategy used in cleaning

My own room with its messes and secrets and disorganization.

My room never stayed clean either, but I always enjoyed making

It different.  I could always make a difference,  move the furniture,  clear the floor,

And feel fresh and renewed.   A messy room was just an opportunity, not an indictment.

I perhaps never told you these things, but I want you to know why

I helped you clean your room.

(A reflection on possible messages of shame, unwittingly communicated, deeply regretted)

 

I Remember You

Today I am remembering Lee. Lee’s family attended our church. His father was our elementary school principal. His mother was our Sunday school teacher. My younger brothers, after their half day of kindergarten, would walk to her house and stay until time to go back and catch the school bus home. Lee was the youngest of their three sons.

Lee was somewhat older than I was – I don’t remember the age difference. He, his good friend Tom, and I were all in church youth group together and spent a fair amount of time at meetings and after church talking, joking, teasing and tormenting each other. I also don’t remember the details of Lee’s departure. He may have gotten drafted because it was the beginning of the Vietnam war era. He may have decided to join of his own free will. At any rate, he was gone to boot camp and soon off to combat.

It was surreal to hear that he had died. He had been just fine so how could he so quickly be gone? At that age I had not been around death that much and didn’t know what to think. There weren’t grief counselors. I wasn’t in on any adult conversations that might have taken place around that time. It was a short obit in the paper that broke the news. It hurt Lee’s family deeply – I can only imagine – and more trouble came their way. They finally moved from our town and I’ve lost track of them completely.

That’s some of why I want to remember Lee now, because I wasn’t a part of remembering him back then. He so quickly went from shy, silly teenager, to soldier, to deceased and it didn’t seem right that there was nothing I could do about it. It happened so far away, before we even knew. I do remember him and I wish I could tell his parents and brothers that.

I’ve known other friends and relatives who have served in the military since then. I want to thank them this Memorial day and honor their commitment to serve. Not all of them paid with their life, but they all paid a price. Thank you all, and thank you Lee.

A to Z Family Stories: P for a couple different things

Picture board

Mom has been sorting through her pictures for years now, organizing them into albums for each of us kids and albums on different subjects.  She has so many printed pictures because she has lived so many years when printed pictures were the only option – there were no digital cameras.  .

My first camera was a Brownie box camera.  There were little, square lenses that you could take out on the top. In fact, you could take the whole camera apart and put it back together again. It was that simple.  You bought rolls of film with only 8 frames on them, put them in the camera and turned a knob to roll them into place.  If you were lucky you got black and white photos several weeks later when you finished the film and sent it away to be developed.  If you weren’t lucky you got underexposures, over exposures, pictures with no subject in them, pictures of your fingers over the lens, etc… There were so many things that could go wrong, and commonly did.  This was the only way to preserve memories of important times, but it resulted in lots of terrible pictures.

Color film came along but was much more expensive.  Then cameras improved and film had 24 and 36 frames so we took more pictures.  Still, there was no way to know if the picture was good until after it was developed and printed. And it still had to be sent to a developer for the prints (expensive) because few people knew how to process their own films.  Now we have digital photos and don’t know how we ever managed without them. We only print the best, for special reasons, and store the rest on disks or hard drives.

Mom’s photo albums show this history of pictures, from the small black and whites to the present near-perfect digitals.  In addition to the albums she has made picture boards of her favorite family pics.  She is not afraid to crop them, trim them up with decorative edges, and paste them on a cardboard.  Her philosophy – get them out where people will look at them more often.  If they sit in a box or a drawer forever, no one enjoys them and they are forgotten.

I found myself in this pic with my brothers
I found myself in this pic with my brothers

The picture boards hang in the guest room of her house.  Everyone loves to look at them and see how many times they can find themselves.  We see how we all have changed over the years with growth spurts, changes in hairstyles, added weight, and more recently, the wrinkles.  It’s not fancy, or expensive.  There are no real frames or glass (which would be alright too) and it doesn’t seem to matter.  We all love looking at pictures of our crazy, lovable extended family.

Mom's picture board collage
Mom’s picture board collage

Peanut 

We had a single milk cow.  For some reason which I do not recall, we named her Peanut.  This was the time in my family history that my dad was almost finished with farming, but it was still nice to have a cow to provide milk for the family.  She was a Holstein and a pretty good milk producer.  One cow is not enough to justify having a milking machine so my brothers milked her by hand morning and evening.  I might have done it a few times too but I was now away at college so I didn’t know Peanut very well.

There was enough milk that we also provided some to neighbors, which required that it be pasteurized for safety. The milk was heated in a metal pasteurizer, a gallon or two at a time, in our kitchen.  When it reached the right temperature it would shut itself off and we would cool it as quickly as possible.  Sometime our refrigerator would be so full of glass one-gallon jars of milk that there was little room for anything else.  As the milk sat in the fridg, the cream would rise to the top and we would skim it off and make butter. Peanut butter. There was also plenty for making ice cream, and just for drinking.  We were known as the farm where you could get Peanut milk.

There is something good about the memory of leaning up against a big,warm animal and hearing the rhythmic sound of that stream of milk filling the pail.  There’s a good dose of nostalgia in remembering the fun it was to try to squirt the cats when they came running by. It was good to live on the farm… just sayin’.

A Holstein, just like Peanut was.
A Holstein, just like Peanut was.

A to Z Family Stories: C for Cat Tamers

This is a collection of family stories that are told repeatedly anytime the Smith clan congregates during a vacation or a holiday.  I’m sure some of them are told more from my perspective than others but I welcome added insight from those involved. These stories are part of who we are and I want them recorded. Not all of them are pretty, but that is ok. 

Young ones growing up on a farm had an important job. It was taming the kittens.

Cats are an essential element on a farm. Barns and other farm buildings are like hotels for mice if there are no cats around to keep them in check. Most of our cats were not the pampered, brushed and combed, vaccinated and neutered kind that are fed fancy food. Barn cats were and are excellent hunters who feed on small rodents almost exclusively and travel around the farm at will. And even if some cats were neutered or spayed, there was no guaranateeing that the neighbors cats were, therefore … kittens abounded.

You found them in the hayloft. You knew to look because a cat who had been looking kind of hefty for a while was suddenly skinny. We loved going into the loft to look for kittens because it was the ultimate scavenger hunt. You could follow mama cat if you were wiley enough to not let her know, otherwise you just had to start searching the crevices between the bales and hope you got lucky. The prize was finding that sleeping pile of gorgeous kitten fur, four or five of them most of the time. They were often a variety of colors and patterns, tiger stripe, calico, orange tiger, black and white, or maybe even solid black. It was best to find them when they were very young and let them see you often as they grew, but sometimes the mother would be skeptical of motives and move the family to a new hiding place. So the hunt would resume.

Older kittens were more difficult to deal with. They would instinctively hide and bite and scratch, but if they weren’t tamed they would grow up wild and too many wild ones would result in a cat population growing way out of bounds. Our job as children was to find, tame and help the kittens be people friendly so they could possibly go to a new home.

One time, my brother Stubby (we don’t call him that anymore) had been working on an older kitten and was making some headway when he heard of a family in need of a cat. He very much wanted them to take this kitten and was able, with difficulty, to get it into a box. With glowing reports of how pretty this kitty was he took them to the barn to see their new pet. Unfortunately, every time the box was touched it exploded into a shaking, jumping, growling, banshee shrieking package that was not very inviting. Amazingly, they took it.

As a young mom, I was able to live once again on the farm where I grew up. My own children learned the art of cat taming just like I had. They carried kittens in their arms, dressed them up in doll clothes, put them to sleep in dresser drawers (which was the first place we looked when one was missing) and in general subjected them to all sorts of handling. They were gentle and bomb proof by the time they were grown. Caring for them provided many lessons and so much fun for my own two cat tamers.

Esther and White Necklace (they always had descriptive names)
Esther and White Necklace (they always had descriptive names)
Julia and Rebel, asleep for the moment.
Julia and Rebel, asleep for the moment.