A to Z Family Stories: A for the Apple Tree

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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. 

 

 

 

It was a friendly tree for small people, having branches down low and plenty of climbing space. When the leaves were on you could hide in it, and that happened from time to time. We had to cross a small distance of back yard, squeeze between the barbed wire and the lower part of a fence, run up hill through a narrow field and at the edge of a woodlot of hardwoods was the smaller, evenly proportioned crab apple. All of us learned to get there quickly. It was far enough away to be secretive yet close enough that everything on our small farm was within sight and hearing.

There would be a time each spring when we would suddenly notice the tree getting white with blossoms. It was an obligatory ritual to get a bouquet of branches for the house and we would always go up to the tree with excitement and then remember the bees. Lots of bees, and there would always be some on the branches that we wanted to pick. But the smell of apple blossoms was strong and wonderful, filling the air. We would be brave, grab our prize branches and run back to the house, imaginary insects chasing us down the hill.

The time would come when the ground beneath the tree would be white because the petals had fallen off, like snow floating on the breeze. Instead of being white the tree would get faintly green, then darker as the leaves grew bigger. The little green apples would appear where the blossoms had been. It was safe for climbing then. The bark was often marked with woodpecker holes – I don’t know why I remember that so clearly. You could read a book in that tree. Or play all kinds of pretend situations. I had dolls, but more often it was kittens that got dressed up as babies and put to sleep in a box under the tree while I went to forage for food in the woods. The tall grass of the field would be the walls of our house and the tree was the second story.

The apples didn’t need long to ripen. I think sometime in July we would see them start to redden. They were too sour for anything except apple butter that had sugar to sweeten it up. But it was these little apples that made their way into the story that my family tells when we are together thinking about our childhood. My four younger brothers were a tribe of wild ones and I was occasionally put “in charge” or so I thought, when our parents were away briefly. One time we had an inept babysitter who was doing very little to shepherd the flock and a disagreement arose. It quickly escalated and the rebellious leader of the wild ones, who knew better than to throw rocks, decided crab apples would be suitable. The hard little bullets were easy to throw. I ran to the house and locked them out which made them even more angry.

I got bigger. The tree seemed smaller. I don’t remember when it started dying and losing branches. Years later I visited the farm and the tree wasn’t there any more. I was sad, but it seems that is the way with all things that live, and then they don’t. Except in our memories, for a while.

A Mystery

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Earlier today I posted about my love of marbles.  Could it possibly be a coincidence that someone put a bag of 50 cat’s eye marbles in the husband’s pickup truck bed, at his work? He said he did not know anything about my post, and he was very surprised to find them there since nothing like that has ever happened before. I am having a fun day, and I now have twice as many marbles. Hahaha… just sayin’.

Those Standout Moments

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a happy wave of nostalgia
a happy wave of nostalgia

Don’t you know there are those times that become prominent, for one reason or another, and they stick in your mind like something that sparkles, or maybe like a flashing red light? My mind only has so much room in it and normally I want to save that space for stuff I’m really going to need, so one of the things I like to do is ask for God’s watchfulness over my mind each day.  I want him to be in charge of what looms large and what goes by the way. He knows me and he does a good job.

Three things that have been standout (is that a word?) moments recently:

This week there was a community garage sale in the neighborhood where one of my clients lives. My cousin and her husband shop these events and are masters at finding interesting things. They were at my client’s house when I arrived and started talking about what bargains they had scored.  Jerry had bought a large jar (water cooler size) full of marbles. Unbeknownst to most people, I have a inner fondness for marbles that I can’t explain, except that it reminds me of happy childhood times.  Kids today don’t know that you can get hours of fun and interaction with other people through marbles. They are antiques. When the snow would melt in the spring, our school grounds became pocked with marble holes and each recess was time to either lose or gain valuable marbles depending on your skill. Each long bus ride was a constant barter of boulders of various kinds, games of “odds or evens”. There was a whole language built around marbles, most of which I cannot remember now. I had a precious collection that I would hide around the house (because I had brothers). I don’t know what became of that bag of cat’s eyes and purees – did I outgrow my interest or did I lose them, forget where I’d hid them? Jerry took me out to his car and gave me some marbles and I felt like treasure had come home to me.  A standout moment.

Yesterday there was a knock on the door.  A young man I have known since he was an adolescent was standing there, wiping the sweat off his head because he had come on his bike and it was a warm day. The last few years I haven’t heard from him often – pretty much only when he needs money, which was why he had come this time too. He was moving north, taking a bus.  His mom had given him the money for the ticket which was all she could afford. She felt he needed to start new in a different place, but he had nothing for the trip. I listened to his story, we talked about his inability to thrive in spite of his talent, we talked about the faint odor of alcohol he exuded.  I don’t know where God is taking him – or just letting him go – but I felt kindness was required of me.  I gave him money. He let me pray for him and tearfully asked if I would continue to pray for him every day.  I made a promise.  This moment needs to standout so that I can keep that promise.

My inbox is constantly chiming at me because I’m permanently attached to my phone. Most of what comes in is junk mail, just like my old fashioned “snail mail” box.  But this morning there was a note from a family member.  Two sentences of sweet encouragement, which prove to me how much we can do to keep each other going forward.  Thank you MP, for acting on an impulse that was God inspired, no doubt. I love you too.

Three moments out of many that I could have included. Three is a good number and as I said, God does a good job of giving me things to think about and remember.

Why Is It Important?

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I haven’t been writing lately. I’ve been doing hard physical work in the yard, reading, walking, knitting. It’s been a bit of a holiday from electronic gadgets. It’s been nice but I have wondered why I’m not thinking of things to write and making myself follow up on them. Sometimes it takes so much effort to make meaningful statements about a rather ordinary life. I started thinking…

Why is this important at all?

Who cares?

Why this struggle to write?

And it was surprising to me when the same kind of question came up this morning in my study of the Bible. There is a chapter in Numbers that is a long list of places that the Israelite tribes camped over the 40 years they spent traveling around the deserts in the Sinai area. Probably over 30 records that go kind of like this “They left the desert of Sinai and camped at Kibroth Hattaavah. They left Kibroth Hattaavah and camped at Hazeroth.” and on and on. The question was  “Why was it important to record the stages in Israel’s journey to Canaan?” I wasn’t really sure why it was important and had to think about it. Imagine that, having to think…

The whole chapter reads a lot like something you’d find in public records today – place names and once in a while a fact or reference to a happening at that place.  To me that means it really occurred and is a historical record. Those people lived and they did that. And there was my answer, or one of them, as to why I write. It’s important to me to leave a record, whether or not I know it’s importance to anyone.  Numbers chapter 33 is not humorous, not really inspiring (well, maybe it is when you realize that 40 years of camping is really a LOT of camping), not much any variety of expression or word choice.  It’s about as lackluster as the details of my week’s activities.

I’ve come from a family of letter writers and journalers, some as far back as four or five generations.  Because of those writings, which I find very interesting, I don’t have to wonder what life was like for them, what they thought about, what their worries were, what kind of families they had, what hardships, what joys, what fun, what they believed and why. I find things in those letters that speak to me about who I am and who I want to be.  Only a few people have access to my family’s letters but there is an internet today that gives anyone with a computer access to what I write.  Who knows when it might be found interesting, or by whom?

The other reason it was important to record the stuff in Numbers 33 is because, as the author said, God told him to write it.  I guess we don’t always know why we’re told to do things, particularly when it’s God who does the telling.  I don’t hear God’s audible voice telling me to record that I cleaned the rain gutters on the house today.  What I am aware of is a lifelong love of writing things down and communicating them to others, an awareness that occasionally others affirm the worth of what I write. In a way that is a command to be using what I can do.  That’s why I get concerned when I don’t feel like writing, when I don’t know what to write.

You mean I have to write that!? No, please…

I’m just saying I wonder if the author of a book like Numbers felt the same way when he wrote chapter 33.

They were hand in hand…

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They were walking together holding hands, this lady and the child with the long, blonde pony tail. They were heading toward a row of seats in the front. I often sit in the back and watch as people filter in. Something about this pair caught my attention and held it. The small one, probably about seven or eight years old, was looking up at the older woman who presumably was her mother.

They were talking and the little one kept smiling and was so focused on her mom’s face, so expectant of something good. Neither of them were unusually attractive but together they were magnetic and beautiful. I couldn’t stop watching. They found two chairs in the fourth row and the girl laid her books down on the chair next to her, still turning to dialogue with mom, her face open, trusting, excited, hopeful.

Is it because I have daughters of my own that this simple familial scene made me suddenly feel like I might cry? I don’t even know what I was thinking – but it was kind of like nostalgia, maybe a bit of envy, a lot of sadness, mother angst.

My daughters are grown and it’s been while since I’ve walked hand in hand with either one of them. I don’t know if we would have had that same dynamic when they were seven and accompanying me to an event. It’s hard to remember what we were like, but I want that. I want that memory.

That mom, I wish I had taken a picture to give to her, I’m just hoping she is marveling at what she has, hoping her memory will be better than mine.

mother and daughters (2)

Wait a minute… March 2015

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from themedicinejournal.com

Today I am gladly embracing the state of “waiting”.  There is a tension involved in waiting for things that could actually drive me to be unhappy or frustrated, but I think it is also possible to just relax and pay attention to what happens when I’m waiting. Some good things happen.

I start listening with an eagerness to hear.  Listening to everything that might have a message.  Kind of like heightened awareness.

I rest more.  There is resting and there is acting, and of course, there is a time for both things. Rest is an absolutely necessary preparation for whatever comes next.  So if I rest while I’m waiting I’m doing something important.  Waiting is not the same as doing nothing.

The ability to wait calmly and purposefully is helpful and reassuring to others.  It’s kind of the opposite of panic and drama, which on an occasional basis is entertaining, but who likes that as a regular diet?  Not me.

In searching for something to do with my mind while waiting, I find some different, creative thoughts popping into existence.

The very definition of waiting implies that something has not yet happened.  There is hope in that and I love hope.   I choose to think chances are high that the next happening will be a good one.  Deciding to be positive, and expecting the positive adds to the chances for a good outcome.

Waiting is, in a sense, empowering.  I recently had a circumstance that was pretty much out of my control. But I still had the power to wait well or to wait poorly.  Waiting poorly is such a waste of energy and emotion – oh my goodness!  I’ve done that too and there was absolutely no benefit from it.

I think I was meant to learn through waiting.  Every time I have waited on God, for his answers, I have learned something valuable about him. And here again is the part about hope – God seems so unknowable at times and yet when I wait I end up knowing more and trusting more.   There are all kinds of examples of this in Biblical narrative.  Can you imagine waiting until you are in your nineties to have a baby – and then having it happen?  Yeah.

Right now I am waiting on a number of things, of varying importance. I’m just saying that it is perfectly okay to be waiting.

(No, I am not thinking of having another baby. Don’t even go there.)

The Simple Power of Genuine Kindness: a True Story – by Jeff Haden

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This is the way it should work.

Kindness Blog's avatarKindness Blog

Business people shaking hands after successful negotiationsMy client acquired a large company and I went along for his initial meetings with his new employees.

In the afternoon he planned a company-wide address. That morning we met for several hours with top executives. (Talk about emotions on full display: ego, anxiety, obsequiousness, defensiveness, fear, excitement… when the new sheriff comes to town all the icy-cool corporate masks quickly come off.)

The meeting ended at noon and when we walked out fifteen minutes later he noticed a big buffet set up on the other side of the atrium. There were plenty of people standing around in white coats and black slacks but no one in line or sitting at tables.

“What’s that for?” he asked a person walking past.

“The company arranged a meal for after your meeting,” she said. “A local restaurant closed for the day to come here.” She paused. “I think the chef and her…

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Read More

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As I continue on my path of becoming less of a nurse and more of a writer, I decided to attend a writer’s conference.  For me, writing takes  a lot of time.  Studying writing and learning about it takes even more time, which is why I don’t usually do much of it.  I know I should read more but life takes over.  I know I should read more but I fall asleep after about an hour of it (unless it is absolutely riveting).  I have a daughter who reads a lot and writes beautifully – she is the one who suggested I come to the conference, which she also will be attending.  I have a feeling that for three days we will be immersed in a world that is different from the one we normally inhabit.  I have asked myself, “how can I prepare for this?”   The voice in my head answered “By reading some of the books (untouched) on your shelf – stupid.”  My inner voice calls me stupid sometimes but I know it is said with affection and I don’t let it bother me.

I picked up a book this morning and read a poem that I liked.  I liked the way the author analyzed the poem too.  The book is “Praying through Poetry: Hope for Violent Times” by Peggy Rosenthal.  The poem is “The Translation of Raimundo Luz: My Imitation”

I sold my possessions, even the colorful pencils.

I gave all my  money to the dull. I gave my poverty

to the president. I became a child again, naked

and relatively innocent. I let the president have my guilt.

I found a virgin and asked her to be my mother.

She held me very sweetly.

I watched father build beautiful shapes with wood.

He too had a gentle way.

I made conversation in holy places with the chosen.

Their theater was grim.

I suggested they cheer up.  Many repented,

albeit elaborately.

I floated the wide river on a raft.

I set Jim free.

I revised every word.

One morning, very early, I was taken by brutes and beaten.

I was nailed to a cross so sturdy I thought

father himself might have shaped it.

I gestured for a cool drink and was mocked.

I took on the sins of the world and regretted my extravagance.

I gave up and died.  I descended into hell

and spoke briefly with the president.

I rose again, bloodless and feeling pretty good.

I forgave everything.  

-author, Scott Cairns

The Family Vacation

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Let me say first of all that I am very understanding of people who take vacations and go someplace where they don’t know anyone. That is a very healthy thing (not that it’s my experience but I’ve heard it said…). I, however, am blessed with family, all of whom on occasion choose to give up some “alone time” to bond and connect with other family members. I am also blessed to live in Florida. Like, who wouldn’t want to come visit this?

Yes, I live here. It's great.
Yes, I live here. It’s great.

Those of you who don’t get to have family vacations with other family members really need to see how it works. One of my brothers and his family decided to escape four months and several feet of snow and spend some time in my sunshine. The five of them arrived for the one week this year when there was fog and grey skies pretty much every day. This is a weather phenomenon that you can expect to happen.

I love my family and don’t want them to get sick on their vacation so I do clean my house (sort of). But I will say that if you don’t have time, just forget cleaning the floor, because after the group arrives you can’t find it anyway. Get people tired enough from their traveling and they will sleep anywhere, on the floor, on the couch, on weird mattresses. “Just find a place that looks good to you”, I tell them. And from that point on, don’t ask people how their night was and if they slept well. Don’t do it.

Refugee camp decor...
Refugee camp decor…
Blankets, pillows, bags, shoes, stuff X 5 = no visible floor.
Blankets, pillows, bags, shoes, stuff X 5 = no visible floor.

Maybe your family will need some down time after being in airports and cooped up in planes for a day, but maybe not. We went to the beach the first day. Nobody came here to sit in the house. The fog was thick but we found our way. The squirrels were plentiful, the waves were big, it was surprisingly warm and peaceful on the beach and we big people might have taken a short nap. There were a couple minutes of sunshine. I had a great time and learned that I can indeed carry two kayaks on my small car. Yay.

At least the white stuff isn't snow.
At least the white stuff isn’t snow.
Only people from up north go swimming in 65 degree water.
Only people from up north go swimming in 65 degree water.
The moment of sunshine.
The moment of sunshine.

The second day of my brother’s family vacation was also his wife’s birthday. She did not mind at all that the activity planned for that day was a zip line/ropes course high above the ground. Wouldn’t you like to test your youthfulness and defy aging in such a challenging way? Of course you would. It was awesome (watching them from the ground and taking pictures). That evening, in spite of terrorist mall threats, we had a superb evening meal at the new University Town Center – to celebrate the birthday and the fact that we had no significant injuries from the day’s activity. A fun, fun night.

Gearing up for hanging from high places.
Gearing up for hanging from high places.
High places. Yep.
High places. Yep.
More "down to earth" activity - at dinner after an exciting day.
More “down to earth” activity – at dinner after an exciting day.

The third day of family vacation, my daughter and my sister-in-law ran away to the shopping outlet for some quality girl time. The rest of us “elite” shoppers went to the flea market. But on the way, just to make it an educational outing for the homeschooling teens, I took them to lunch at the local Hispanic grocery store/deli. I find that this is one of the most fascinating places to experience a different culture. I will say that most American kids are not used to seeing whole cooked fish, with eyes and scales. It is so exciting to order a meal and not know exactly what you’re going to get. Who knew that “Fajita Mix” was a plate of meat big enough to feed all five of us? At the flea market we had excellent success getting the things on my nephew’s list – a watch, sunglasses and an antique teapot. He is a guy with very eclectic interests. That night we sat out in the yard watching a bonfire and dodging the sparks and smoke. For some reason this is a favorite activity with my family and they ask for it all the time. Go figure.

Humongous plate of meat. We took it home for another whole meal.
Humongous plate of meat. We took it home for another whole meal.

Day four. Did I mention my nephew has eclectic interests? One of his goals for me (bless his heart) was that I should help him sew a cape that he could wear to the Renaissance Festival. Because he might actually have picked up some sewing skills it was classified as a school activity. So, that day’s drama had a lot to do with floor sweeping, black velvet, hooded clothing. We did however take a break and a ride to Apollo Beach to see the manatees gathered at the electric power plant. The water was full of the large, gentle creatures just trying to stay warm. There were so many of them that I couldn’t help but wonder what they were all finding to eat. It was like a big family reunion where no one planned any food. But maybe I was just projecting some of my own anxieties, yeah, that was probably it.

Me and my sister-in-law with our manatee friend, appropriately blue with cold.
Me and my sister-in-law with our manatee friend, appropriately blue with cold.
Brrr... poor manatees.
Brrr… poor manatees.

And finally, the last day of their visit with me was today. We invited some more family over for breakfast, waffles and strawberries, conversation and reminiscing. They packed up their things in their rental car and headed off to spend time with another brother several hours away. They will come back briefly to spend the night before flying back to the cold,snowy north.

I love my family. We plan together, work together, play together and want to stay together. Because we live in such scattered places, sometimes that “family vacation” is the way we do it.

I want to write but,…

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I’ve started to write a couple of times lately and then had to delete sensitive material, leaving nothing worth posting.  There are times like this that if I wrote what I was doing I would have to lie about it, or kill all my readers. That would be very counterproductive.

I’ve been dealing with a lot of dirt this week, stuff you wouldn’t expect to find in high places, but there it is.  I have a very small portion of the world to oversee, but that doesn’t mean I take my job lightly.  I’m getting visitors this weekend, VIP’s, and making preparations for their comfort and safety and entertainment has been on my mind.  And three times this week I’ve met with a high ranking Navy officer to… there it is again, more of the stuff I can’t tell you.  And yet on the surface life looks so average, so normal.  Appearances are important.

Some day I’ll write a book and it will all be out there.  What a relief that will be.  Just sayin’…