Traditions

"Hello, Grandma. How are you?"

It was my grandson calling from Michigan.

"How is school?"

"Well, it is different from high school, but I like it."

Those words were music to my ears. I had loved college, not only because it led to a great career but also it opened my mind to another world out there that was hidden from me during my years growing up in small town, America.

"Are you meeting kids from other places?"

"I am and I like them all. Some are from Europe and many from Mexico. They have different opinions from mine but I listen to their ideas."

We talked about his classes, his new friends, his dorm and his job that helped him to attend college.

After our conversation I thought back to my college years. I am still grateful for the classes and friends who were different from me, with both expanding my thoughts, feelings and opportunities for a richer life to carry me through adulthood.

I am thankful to my parents who supported me during my college years and to my daughter and son-in-law for carrying on the ideals of the importance of education to their children. Learning is more than an opportunity for a great job. Hopefully it will be the seed for a lifetime of growth, continued learning and independence of thought.

Here's to my daughter and son-in-law for showing our grandchildren the value of a lifetime of learning!

Beginnings

To anxious and proud grandparents everywhere:

When your grandchildren go to college you can only dream and hope for a succesful future. The parents had the hands-on preparation for sending their child off to create a better world while you had the hands-on in raising them. You see your work carried on through the third generation. Therein lies the hopes and dreams.

You wanted to protect your children from the mistakes you made, just as they do with their children.
Perhaps you did and perhaps they do, but in the end those young men and women beginning their journey into adulthood will make their own mistakes. The hope is that they will learn from those experiences and turn them into learning for a lifetime. There is more to knowledge than the years spent in classes.

Wisdom and growth come through academics, living and making those inevitable errors. As one of these proud grandparents I take encouragement from the lyrics of the familiar song by Peter Tosh:

"But I got to pick myself up
Dust myself off
Start all over, again."

Next generation, may you keep picking yourself up and growing in wisdom for the rest of your years on this earth!

The Bench

Bob's Fix  it Shop was filled with motorcycles, bicycles and lawn mowers all in line to be repaired. Bob is a one-man operation and if locals have patience and want to save money for repair, they leave their items with him.

I wandered into his shop this morning and off to one side was an old weathered wooden bench.

"Oh, you bought a bench?"

"No, someone brought it in for repair."

"I didn't know you fixed things like benches."

"Well, they gave the bench to their parents a while back and it was outside in the rains and snow. Their parents died and now they would like it fixed."

"What does it need?"

"Oh, there is a broken board and some loose joints. I had to get a new board to replace the broken one."

I stood silently for a few minutes, marveling at Mr. Fix It. He truly is into recycling and reusing. Also, I suspect he wants to restore an item precious to the owners. I am hoping as they sit on that bench they will have many fond memories of their parents.

Some stuff is too precious to throw away!

Once Again

It's that time of year for proud parents to brag about their graduating child. They have spent 18 years of teaching, admonishing, warning, encouraging, disciplining and loving that child. Now it is their time to rightfully brag, feel proud and send out the photos.

At the same time these same proud parents are grieving and struggling to let go. It is time to send out that child that they have nurtured and protected into the cold, uncaring, dangerous world. At least that's the way it must feel after the years that they have provided a safe environment in their home.

Now is the time for the "bird to fly from the nest." In the case of the birds, never to return. Parents forget at times that their child will always remain their child, to cherish and worry about for the rest of their lives. Once a parent, always a parent. Once a child, always a child, even after "death do you part."

                            The last formal occasion before the son leaves the nest.

                                                        Congratulations to the parents for a job well done!

From My Brother, Roy, in Response to "Farewell to Dottie" Blog.

Wedding photo, July, 1949
She was a cute red head.

A Farewell to Dottie

An email arrived from my brother. "Dottie passed away this morning."

It was the 40's, after WWII, years before the women's movement of the 60's and 70's. Dottie took care of her parents as they became ill, first one, then another. Her life was consumed by her duty as the dutiful daughter and college was out of the question. Into her life came a handsome young engineer who, when she was free from her care taking, rescued her to a married life of safety and comfort, enveloped by her family, her home and her love of the many animals who came to her back yard from the forested gully that wound past her home.

She fed the squirrels, the birds, the fox, raccoons and other woodland creatures who came to the feeders for nourishment. She loved the wild things and ignored the comments from her husband who fretted about the exorbitant cost of feed. Some wives spend a fortune on jewelry, clothes, cars or entertainment. Her life was simple. She preferred taking care of her family and the animals that crept out of the forest to partake of the bounty in her yard.

There were the occasions when she and her husband travelled back to Minnesota to visit with her in-laws and their relatives. During those times she asked her son, Bruce, to tend to her creatures who were fed daily through her generosity. Her son came to check on the house. He had no intention of feeding the critters. While walking through the living room he got the strangest, eerie feeling. He went over to the large patio windows and opened the drapes. Outside the window was a group of raccoons sitting silently, staring and waiting for the food they had been accustomed to receive from his mother. Bruce felt his skin crawl as he looked at this voiceless assembly and, needless to say, he went straight away to the food supply and threw out the food. During the rest of his time checking on the house he did not neglect the critters outside the window. After all, it was what his mother wished.

Dottie kept contact with her husband's family, writing lengthy letters each Christmas, informing us in detail of the her family's activities. She graciously took in her father-in-law for weeks at a time after his wife died. She also took me into her home for a time of healing while I was going through a crisis and had need of a sanctuary far from the problems facing me. I will not forget her kindness to me.

And now we say goodbye to this woman who followed her duty....to her parents, her family, her husband's family and the creatures who came her way. In her new life may she be surrounded by those who made her happy in this life. We can only hope.

Goodbye, Dottie....daughter, wife, mother, my sister-in-law and friend to all.....

Chicken Snatching

"Stop the car!" I yelled to Bob. "I see a chicken loose by the street. I bet she belongs to the neighbor across the alley. She looks like the photo the teen-agers showed me last week when they rang our door asking if we had lost a chicken,"

Bob hesitated but kept on driving. "If the chicken is still there we will stop on our way back from the store."

On our way back the lone chicken was no where in sight and we continued on our way home.

A week later my daughter and granddaughter were in my car driving down the same street. There was the chicken in the same spot near the curb! This time I was determined to rescue that loose hen that was picking industriously along the sidewalk near a garbage can, dangerously close to frequent traffic!

I stopped the car. My daughter and granddaughter declined to accompany me and cringed in the car, certain that that chicken belonged to that house. As I pursued the chicken, who managed to stay just inches out of reach, I looked up at the house and thought, "Maybe this chicken belongs to this house. It seems like a chicken house somehow."

I stopped the chase and went back to the car. I saw a gentleman in his yard a short distance away. I drove up to him, rolled down the window and asked him about the chicken.

"You don't want to tamper with Miss Chicky", he said solemnly. "She belongs to the lady in that house. We all like her 'cause she eats all the bugs around our houses."

Who would have thought? A chicken who roams the yard, avoiding the street with all the passing traffic, eats the pesky bugs and is quite contented with her lot! Somehow she has managed to avoid all the predators that roam the nearby woods, while a few blocks away other chicken owners have lost their entire penned flocks to a wily, hungry, mother fox.

Meanwhile, back in the car my family were in hysterics. I was called a "chicken snatcher", a "chicken thief" and other unpleasant names. My daughter delighted in sharing the story with all my friends in town.

"What if my mother had caught that chicken and brought her to the man she thought it belonged to? The man would have said, "It's not my chicken." "Then what? My mother would be a chicken snatcher!"

Summer is a time for visits from old friends and family. We share memories and stories, and during the visit new stories are created to share again and again with friends and family new and old. One that will remain into future generations, if my daughter has her way, will undoubtedly be My Mother, the Chicken Rustler.

Another Response to "Fish Stories"

My brother sent on my blog "Fish Stories" to his friend. This is her response:

Roy--

Thanks so much for this wonderful commentary from Mary Ellen on her childhood that was so like mine.

She writes so realistically that you can see everything she is describing vividly in your mind’s eye.

Your dad was fortunate to have had her as such an enthusiastic fishing partner.

Where you all had the Boundary Waters, we, here in Louisiana had the bayous & many lakes.

But the fishin’ & fryin’ sounds the same. Dad, the provider & mom, the preparer & preserver.

Wonderful memories of those depression days & gratitude for having had the parents that we did to teach us about resourcefulness & fortitude.

Thanks for thinking of me & sending this..........Barbara

E-mail from my brother regarding "Fish Stories".

My brothers, Roy (on the left) and Dave in 1945. 

Hi Mary Ellen,

  I remember the old photo below of Mother and Dad canoeing. I also remember the fishing we did from that old ribbed row boat. I don't know if Dad ever told you, but we(Dave and Dad) restored that 18 foot row boat from an old beaten up leaking like a sieve boat. Did a lot of caulking and gave it a couple of coats of marine paint.

 We would go out on Shagawa lake in the fall, drop a net in and catch these white fish(Tullipees) (sp?)

  We very seldom still/bait fished from that old rowboat.

 Although it was illegal to net the walleyes and northern pike, we still kept them. We kept a close eye out for the game warden! Mother would put the white fish in a salt crock, which kept the fish eatable for months.

 I don't recall hearing any wolves howling, nor did I see any bears raiding the garbage cans.

  You do write an interesting story though, and am sure your memory is a lot better then mine.  

Hi Mary Ellen,

Correction to my statement about the old row boat. It was not a ribbed construction design, but rather a lap strake design, also called a clinker built. Look it up in Google. I believe Dad got the boat from the Oliver Mining Co. They used it on Shagawa lake, and moored it in one of the old boat houses at Sandy Point.

  Roy

     Nice blog though!
Dear Roy,

You boys left home for the service when I was about 11 and  then I took over with netting the fish. The bears raiding the garbage were the years when the blueberries were scarce, long after you had left home. Dad would bang metal covers together to scare them away. They were bold when hungry. The wolves also made a comeback about that time. My memory is not better. I just came along 9 years later than you. You were the oldest and I the youngest. We have some shared memories. Others differ because of that wide time span. I appreciate your recollections that I was too young to remember. Then the stories before my arrival were passed down in the family and became vivid in my mind where they have remained to this day. We are united forever by those stories, and for that I am always grateful.

Your "baby sister",
Mary Ellen

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Hello, Goodbye, Hello

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Fish Stories Posted: 01 Jul 2016 09:00 AM PDT My parents during their honeymoon in what is now the Boundary Waters of northern Minnesota. Before the arrival of us four kids a small canoe met their needs. Later they added the huge rowboat that held all of us for fishing, swimming and all-day summer leisure activities. We fished from the dock, from the shore and from the large clumsy rowboat that accommodated our family of six, bait, rods, nets and lunches. Growing up in the north woods brought us intimacy with nature in many forms. The bears raided our garbage cans during the blueberry scarce years, the howling wolves sang us to sleep, the deer and rabbits fed us through the lean depression years and the lakes supplied us with fish, fun and ice for the winter Sunday supply of yellow rich ice cream with the milk furnished by our Jersey cows, Marie, followed by Cornet and lastly Lady who remained through  the end of the depression. Last weekend Bob and I went fishing for the first time since moving to South Dakota. What fun! I never tired of watching that bobber hit the water and bob about. The fish were biting frantically and we enjoyed three tasty meals of fresh fish. Unfortunately the deer flies were also biting in full force and the bites they left as mementos are still itching for this entire week. Lordy, how they itch! But the misery of the bites is displaced by the sweet memories of many years ago when I sat with eager anticipation in the bulky family rowboat, casting, reeling, baiting the hook with fat, squirmy night crawlers we caught the night before. The thrill of watching that bright red and white bobber float the waves and finally pop below with my line slicing the water has remained through these many years. I never forgot the quick tug on the line between my fingers, letting me know that a fish somewhere in those dark waters below had taken the bait and the hook, allowing me to reel him into the boat and later into the frying pan. (Or as often happened, had taken the bait, escaped the hook, and left me worm-less.) During those years of depression, the woods, our extensive garden and the lakes supplied us with abundant food. My father was jobless but we never wanted at our dinner table. Each fall, before the ice covered the lake, my father, the provider for his family of four children, would set out a net in a bay of the lake. Twice a week in the dark of the early evening we would head out to the net and I would help steady the rowboat as he hauled in the many wiggling fish that he would clean and my mother would fry and pickle in jars for the long, lean winter ahead. The wind was raw, the netting was difficult work and never gave me the thrill of fishing with a bobber, but in looking back these many years later, I realize that those nets brought in a rich harvest to fill our bodies with the needed protein to supplement the dwindling deer meat and waning rabbit population. Fishing, diving and swimming from that sturdy, unsinkable rowboat during the warmth of the summer days furnished the healing entertainment also sorely needed during the stark days of the 30's. Yes, we lived through the great depression, but the scars barely touched us kids. We were protected from want by the fertility of the land and the water in a home located in the heart of the north woods, guided by parents who knew their duty as providers for both our bodies and our spirits. Years later in 2016 in the Black Hills of South Dakota with a catch of 3 pound bass!

Fish Stories

My parents during their honeymoon in what is now the Boundary Waters of northern Minnesota. Before the arrival of us four kids a small canoe met their needs. Later they added the huge rowboat that held all of us for fishing, swimming and all-day summer leisure activities.

We fished from the dock, from the shore and from the large clumsy rowboat that accommodated our family of six, bait, rods, nets and lunches. Growing up in the north woods brought us intimacy with nature in many forms. The bears raided our garbage cans during the blueberry scarce years, the howling wolves sang us to sleep, the deer and rabbits fed us through the lean depression years and the lakes supplied us with fish, fun and ice for the winter Sunday supply of yellow rich ice cream with the milk furnished by our Jersey cows, Marie, followed by Cornet and lastly Lady who remained through  the end of the depression.

Last weekend Bob and I went fishing for the first time since moving to South Dakota.

What fun! I never tired of watching that bobber hit the water and bob about. The fish were biting frantically and we enjoyed three tasty meals of fresh fish. Unfortunately the deer flies were also biting in full force and the bites they left as mementos are still itching for this entire week. Lordy, how they itch!

But the misery of the bites is displaced by the sweet memories of many years ago when I sat with eager anticipation in the bulky family rowboat, casting, reeling, baiting the hook with fat, squirmy night crawlers we caught the night before. The thrill of watching that bright red and white bobber float the waves and finally pop below with my line slicing the water has remained through these many years. I never forgot the quick tug on the line between my fingers, letting me know that a fish somewhere in those dark waters below had taken the bait and the hook, allowing me to reel him into the boat and later into the frying pan. (Or as often happened, had taken the bait, escaped the hook, and left me worm-less.)

During those years of depression, the woods, our extensive garden and the lakes supplied us with abundant food. My father was jobless but we never wanted at our dinner table. Each fall, before the ice covered the lake, my father, the provider for his family of four children, would set out a net in a bay of the lake. Twice a week in the dark of the early evening we would head out to the net and I would help steady the rowboat as he hauled in the many wiggling fish that he would clean and my mother would fry and pickle in jars for the long, lean winter ahead. The wind was raw, the netting was difficult work and never gave me the thrill of fishing with a bobber, but in looking back these many years later, I realize that those nets brought in a rich harvest to fill our bodies with the needed protein to supplement the dwindling deer meat and waning rabbit population. Fishing, diving and swimming from that sturdy, unsinkable rowboat during the warmth of the summer days furnished the healing entertainment also sorely needed during the stark days of the 30's.

Yes, we lived through the great depression, but the scars barely touched us kids. We were protected from want by the fertility of the land and the water in a home located in the heart of the north woods, guided by parents who knew their duty as providers for both our bodies and our spirits.

Years later in 2016 in the Black Hills of South Dakota with a catch of 3 pound bass!

Happy Father's Day

Once a year we have a special day to honor fathers. Mine is always with me in spirit through the challenges that I face in daily living. My responses are often in reaction to what I witnessed in this amazing role model that I had while growing up.

My father passed on values to his children from early on. We observed a strong work ethic, honesty, respect for nature, interest in current events and past history, caring for others, openness to new ideas, the value of education and the persistent search for knowledge.

My father moved in with us during his final years and continued to pass on his values to his family. We were blessed to realize the continuation through our daughter and grand children.

It is with enduring gratitude that I thank you, Dad, for all you taught, that has inspired me these many years through my life's journey.

Happy father's day to all the fathers out there. Remember, you teach more by example than by words!

Happy Mother's Day

Today is the special day for remembering mothers. Mine has long gone, killed by a drunken driver as she and my father were leaving a Saturday night service at the church.

But I want to take this space in time to thank you, Mom, for giving me life. You taught me correct grammar, social graces and gave me room to grow. You hoped and wished for me as most mothers do, but in the end you followed my lead and the path I chose, supporting me as best you could.

I have written tributes to you in previous blogs and in my first book, A (not so) Simple Life. But today, after my daughter called to wish me a happy day, I thought of you especially, remembering your gentle, quiet, loving ways, and after three months of being in a coma after the accident, as you lived your life, you quietly slipped away from our lives forever.

You will always be there for me in memories and the social etiquette and correct grammar you taught and mostly the freedom to be me, have remained with me forever, easing my passage through my life.

What About Barney?

Growing up I watched my father live his life with enthusiasm. He hated his job deep in the recesses of an iron ore mine, but took pride as an underground foreman in maintaining a high safety record and encouraging the spirits of those under his leadership. He loved the fresh air, the woods, the lakes and farming, but to support his family he worked for many years in the damp and darkness of the tunnels under the earth on the iron range of northeastern Minnesota. It was a job he did with excellence and to the best of his ability.

As a young girl I would often meet him after work. I would stand, peering down, by the edge of the mine shaft, face in the rising, metallic smelling steam, waiting for the elevator to rumble up to the surface with that shift of miners, unrecognizable under layers of red dust. I always picked out my father from the weary group as they walked out past me, squinting in the harsh rays of the sun. He would greet me with a huge smile and wave as he walked to the showers and washed off the red ore and changed clothes before giving me a hug as we left for home.

                                           Forty years in the bowels of the iron mines.

At the dinner table we shared news, ideas and plans. My father never dragged us down into his working day troubles. He took an interest in the news of the world and our schooling, always encouraging the four of us to pursue a college degree. He, like many fathers, wanted his children to achieve more than he had with his eighth grade education.

While above ground he fished the lakes, hunted in the woods and edged as close to farming as he could with a huge garden, rabbits, a pasture for making hay and a Jersey cow that he purchased before the banks closed during the onset of the great depression.

I remember the summer days when I would accompany him on his weekend drives into the countryside while searching for a hobby farm. I think deep down he always knew that my mother would never move to a farm far from town. But he would scan the ads in the paper, "Small farm for sale" and together we would check them out. I shared his love of the country and farm animals. He pursued his dream for many years, and never once did my mother deign to take a look. She was settled in town and that was that.

Each of us follows a path searching for that which brings meaning to our lives. We read, reflect, admire our heroes, and observe. At times we act. I am grateful to have spent many of my years living with a model who found meaning through his work, love of learning, and caring connections with those around him.

My father set an example of a strong work ethic even into retirement when he volunteered to help others, be it shoveling snow, hauling wood or fixing a broken appliance. Neighbors, nuns, friends and acquaintances were all included in his circle of care and regard. In the evenings he would read. Our home was filled with magazines and newspapers. He was always curious about the world, past and present. After my mother was killed and he moved in with us, he continued to relish work, reading and making friends with neighbors.

While we were at work he would spend his days cutting wood for our fireplace and taking his daily walk down the alley with his dog before settling into his afternoon adventures with books or the Discovery and History channels on the TV.  He moved in with us shortly before his 87th birthday. I wanted to celebrate his birthday but since his move from northern Minnesota was recent, I thought he was still a stranger in our Twin Cities suburb.

I wondered to Bob, "I want to have a party for Dad, but he has no friends here yet and I don't know who to invite."

Bob replied, "Your dad talks about the next-door neighbors (he admired the wife's nice legs). Why don't you ask them to join our family to make the day a more festive occasion?"

"What about inviting Barney?" our neighbor said when I invited her and her husband to join us. "He and Doris will be hurt if you don't invite them. They admire your Dad."

"Who is Barney?" I questioned.

That was only the beginning. Each one I invited asked about someone else. By the time of his celebration there were 15 neighbors who joined us in our festivities. During the day when we were at work or school, my father had charmed himself into the neighborhood we never had time to get to know. It was less than two months since he joined our household and every retired neighbor in our block had come to enjoy the time they spent visiting with this man, my father, with his friendly, upbeat manner.

As one of the guests reflected, "This is the first time our neighborhood has every gathered together and it is all because of your father!"

For the next six years, until a few months before his death at 92, the neighbors came over to celebrate another year of exchanging stories and laughter with my father, a man who shared his love of life, work, learning and the world around him. His positive spirit was contagious. At his funeral, miles from the town he had spent his life in, the church and visitation were filled with not only his family members who lived in the area, but also by the neighbors who had been strangers to us, but who had entered our lives through this remarkable man.

Everyone searches.....for happiness or whatever they believe brings them that elusive nirvana. Some seek for meaning by making money, through buying things, using drugs, firming relationships, seeking fame, practicing meditation, religion, pursuing causes, volunteerism or love, and the list goes on.

Through the years I observed my father find meaning in his life through pride in his work, dreaming his dreams, connecting to others and nourishing a thirst for knowledge. He never had time to be bored or depressed. His focus was always on others. He lived deeply in the present and looked forward to the future.

 
                "I want to keep on living because I wonder what will happen next."  Raoul Goulet

Raining Cats and Dogs

"It isn't raining rain you know, it's raining violets."

That old song has sung its refrain in my head too often the past month. Don't get me wrong. We do live in high desert and that follows we live through many forest fires. My second book was all about a horrendous fire we experienced here in 2007 on 7/7/7 after seven years of drought. It changed our lives and I suffered PTSD for years after. So, that should mean that I welcome the rains. And, in truth, I do. Everything is green. We do not have to water our emerging plants in the garden. Our long unwatered lawn has recovered from mainly weeds and dirt to actual grass and green weeds.

On the other hand, one of the reasons we moved here was because of the weather.....more sun and low humidity. Now I am beginning to feel like a mushroom. Some days I want to shout, "Enough already!"

And so, I welcome the rains filling our lakes and aquifers, renewing plants long sleeping in the dry earth, and softening my dreams, no longer filled with smoke and fear. On the other hand.....

Oh, yes, we who live in this corner of paradise are grateful we do not have the flooding and storms challenging other areas. So stop complaining already!!

Then today I received a large envelope in the mail. It was from my granddaughter. She enjoys drawing and spends much of her time with her paper and colored pencils. She sent a drawing that was titled "It's Raining Cats and Dogs! Happy Spring Grandpa and Grandma."

Cats and dogs are falling from the sky, two with parachutes and one dog landing on its head. The grass is long and green and Bob is standing to the side with his hands on his head, mouth opened wide, shouting AHH!

Of course this grandpa and grandma chuckled at this gift from a long-distance grand daughter who shared her feelings about our situation.

Welcome rains. The long drought is over for now. The thunder rolls in the distance, the lightning lights up the sky, the rain spatters on the windows, the alley cats have disappeared into some secret shelters, the mushrooms are emerging from the soggy grass, and in my office above my computer, a colorful drawing brings smiles to all who stop by.

Horses, Firewood and Wisdom

The horses were racing across the TV screen, tails flying, followed by a cloud of dust. They were beautiful sight and I sat for a moment when I came home from work to join my father in his afternoon viewing.

"Dad", I wondered aloud, "Why don't you have the sound on for the movie?"

"I don't care anything about the movie. I just love watching the horses gallop across the prairie."

My father had made his home with us a few months before and with all of the commotion of moving to a house that would accommodate him smoothly into our lives, we had not noticed that his diminished hearing had interfered with his TV watching. Most of his day he read. He read all the magazines and newspapers we had and all the books I could borrow from the library. Each evening at the dinner table he would share what he had learned that day from his reading or TV.

"I visited China today", he would begin. Then he related something he had picked up from the Discovery channel. His world continued to grow from his living room chair, reading or traveling through TV, the travel he could never afford during his lifetime.

Bob and I had carefully purchased a house in a neighborhood filled with retirees and close to his church and stores that he would enjoy browsing during his daily walks. The house had large windows for light that we read was very important for the elderly, and a bedroom and bathroom on the first floor. While living in the north woods my father's favorite hobby was cutting trees for firewood. Because we lived in the Twin Cities, we had a large load of firewood hauled into our back yard so that my father could spend his days sawing and piling wood and moving smaller amounts into the house for daily cold-weather use in our fireplace. We also chose a fenced in back yard to shelter his small dog that I had brought to him when he still lived in northern Minnesota to keep him company after my mother died.

Dad move in a summer before his 87th birthday. He took his daily walks down the alley with his dog, greeting all of the neighbors, and then he would go back to our back yard and tend to his daily chores of cutting the wood. In the afternoon, after his nap, he would read, then turn on the TV, switching the channel to "Little House on the Prairie" when his granddaughter came home from school. The only time he did not adjust his schedule for her was during baseball season when he had to watch his beloved Twins team practice and play games. One year during their Spring practice in Florida he announced confidently when I came home from work, "The Twins are going to win the series this year!" And they did, and we celebrated with him, Homer Hankies and all.

Bob hooked up Dad's TV with headphones so that he could enjoy sound and the rest of us did not get blasted when we arrived home. During the years he lived with us the volume on his set gradually increased as his hearing decreased, but he did manage to not only watch his beloved horses in old westerns, but he could once more hear the sound of galloping, neighing and snorting.

Each year as we noticed the volume on the TV increasing, the sound of the chain saw decreased. During his first years with us, he cut, sawed and hauled, while keeping the fireplace burning all day and night during the cold spells. In his final years he still worked to keep the fireplace throwing heat during the day hours. In his last year the fireplace lay cold and dark except for the holidays when Bob had time to get it glowing for our holiday gatherings.

My father took pride in work and contributing to the household. He took his turn cooking meals when he first moved in with us. As his health weakened, along with his hearing, he fretted that he was becoming a burden, no matter how much we said to the contrary. He brought joy and love into our lives and until his death, he continued to share his wisdom through his stories of the past, his viewpoints of the present and his hopes for the future.

What great gifts he gave to our family! His uplifting spirit, positive attitude and forward-looking outlook will always be a part of us. Not long before he died he said, "I want to keep on living because I wonder what will happen next."

He lived through incredible changes during his 92 years. At times he struggled briefly with them, but for the most part he embraced the new advancements. As I grow older his words continue to inspire me. Today Bob and I live in the West where the horses are a common sight. I feel a quick tinge of regret that he did not live to see them in all their glory, in real time. Whenever I look at horses grazing in a field, I remember, and I am grateful. I am grateful for my life and warm memories of my father.

Changing Perspectives

As a child I looked at Christmas with anticipation. What would Santa bring? My help in decorating was minimal. Early on the tree was decorated during the Eve after we children were asleep and all presents appeared magically under that tree. The days before the holiday dragged on. A turtle could have whizzed by them.

As a young adult/teen I was focused on gifts for others....boys and other friends and my family, and what would I receive from them? Holiday parties were wrapped around what clothes would I wear, would I have a date? Time seemed to move at a quicker pace.

As an adult woman pre-holidays passed too quickly. There was work, gifts for co-workers, spouses, children and parents. Shopping and decorating took a chunk of precious time. During the sandwich years it was important to include parents in the festivities in one way or another. As my parents aged that involved lengthy drives to their home for the holidays.

Today, in my retirement years, the focus has shifted to the grandchildren. The search for the perfect gifts starts early. After all, isn't the job of a grandparent to spoil them? Parents are caught in those 'tween years"...work, children and their parents. Grandparents have shed the daily grind, have lost their own parents who once indulged them at Christmas, no longer want gifts from one another, having shed their appetite for things that may clutter their home and so, with the exception of token gifts for friends and one another, the urge for giving spot-lights mainly on those grandchildren.

Giving is a gift of love and caring for another. That never leaves, or, at least at this period in my life still tugs at my heart each time I see something that I think may give joy to another. When that certain item is spotted I tuck it away to be given or mailed to someone in my life for the appropriate occasion. At this stage of the game as parents and friends leave this world and my circle of gift-giving narrows, it is a joy to discover that special gift for the grandchildren, children and friends near and dear.

May all of you faithful readers find joy in giving during this holiday season and may you always have someone in your life that will feel special when they open that gift of love from you.

Ding, Dong, It's not Avon

"Anybody home?" Our family came in the back door, filled with hugs, smiles and bearing gifts from Michigan. What joy; it has been too long. Our sixteen year old grandson has sprouted taller than the weeds and flowers in the garden. He is now taller than both of his parents. Our granddaughter is shooting up....too fast, too soon. What happened when we weren't looking? Childhood is over in the blink of an eye. Both of the grandchildren are too big for stories sitting on Grandma's lap. But there is pride in seeing how much each has grown and blossomed and wonderment in what the future holds for them both.

The telephone rings. It is a long-time friend calling from the Cities, checking in before his long trip to visit us and the beautiful Black Hills. We have much catching up to do. The time will be too short with too much to share. He will be arriving the day after our children leave for home.

Ding, dong! Our family had no sooner gone out our back door for the evening when another friend rang our front door. She stopped to say her good-byes. Again our times for sharing have been too short and too few. She left with promises to visit us again in three months.

Friends and family come in the back door and the front. Other connect by telephone or emails. Life flies by, and the connections, if by phone, mail or in person are treasured. The warmth that flows through these renewals with those of importance in who we were, are and continue to be, can never be diminished. Each who have touched our lives, enrich and energize us, and help us to be the best we can be.

Remembering Mom

Another reminder to remember. The media nudges us into buying gift for those special occasions. I have no mother's day gift to purchase anymore but the day does bring memories, and for that I am grateful.

While in graduate school I was given an assignment to interview one of my parents and ask about his or her childhood. I knew immediately which parent to contact for this report. My father had always shared his childhood with stories of his parents, uncles, aunts, brothers and sisters and his many adventures. He entertained us and friends with amusing and fascinating tales of those "old days".

My mother, quiet and reserved, faded into the background during family time. In fact, since I was raised as a tom boy, wearing jeans and tagging after my father on his fishing expeditions, chores at home and in town, I had never really discovered much about my mother.

She taught us manners, proper English and all of the etiquette she often quoted from Emily Post, the good manners columnist. She was gentle, but insistent on good manners from each of her children. She kept an immaculate house. Anyone could drop in at any time and she would not be embarrassed by clutter. I learned early to pick up my messes and be casual in the out-doors.

The semester for this psychology class was soon ending and I had put off the assignment for weeks. I couldn't believe it would turn out to be so difficult, at least the thought of doing it was gnawing at me. With two weeks left, I drove the five hours to visit my folks and tackle the task. I waited until my father was out and about and swallowed hard and asked, "Mom, what was it like growing up and....."

I never finished my question and my mother put up her hand to her face, sat down and said, "I've been thinking a lot about that lately". She proceeded, with little prodding from me to share her childhood memories.

Her grandmother had died when mother was five. She was the youngest of six children. Her siblings were married and had established their own homes. For the next decade my mother was shuttled from married sister to married sister, always sleeping on sofas, helping out with chores and quietly remaining on the outside of their busy lives. She had a friend whose mother cleaned houses of the rich folks in town and at times she went with her and played quietly while the cleaning was done. One of the ladies in one of these elegant houses took a fancy to my mother and taught her proper table settings, posture and manners. My mother yearned for an elegant house with a bedroom of her own.

When she was seventeen she met a handsome French Canadian who rode an Indian motorcycle. He fell for the pretty, sweet girl and they were married a year later. My mother had three children within the first five years of marriage (I was an after-thought six years later) and she put aside her dreams of elegance and with the depression around the corner, was consumed with cleaning, cooking, baking, canning, ironing, diapers, and all of the toil that was the life of the housewife of the twenties and thirties.

As the depression receded and my three older sibling went off to the military and college, my mother became focused on making her home into the best and most tasteful in the neighborhood. She read Good Housekeeping, shopped carefully, spent little on herself, and gradually made a comfortable home for her family.

As my mother shared her stories of her lonely childhood I remembered how concerned she had been for a neat and clean house and how irritated I used to be over her "fussy" behavior. I had been a constant companion with my father and his books and magazines, ignoring her decorating magazines, preferring Time, National Geographic and newspapers. I remember thinking that her life was shallow and unimportant in the total scheme of life.  Somewhere along the way I had become determined to not be an ordinary housewife as she.

On the drive back to the Twin Cities after our visit, I cried for the entire five hours. I cried for my mother's bleak childhood, my years of being ignorant of her past and her years of protecting me from the pain of her early years. My tears brought understanding and forgiveness of both my mother and myself.

A few months after my conversation with my mother, she was hit by a drunk driver while leaving church on Thanksgiving weekend. My father had minor injuries, but my mother sank into a coma and died three months later, no communication between us again.

When I saw the movie, "The Ya, Ya Sisterhood" I thought that there are other mothers who try to protect their daughters from raw truths that they believed would hurt them. Now I believe that it is only in revealing the darkness, as well as the strengths that we can understand ourselves and others and accept ourselves and others, warts and all. Understanding leads to forgiveness and healing.

At least, in my experience this was so and I am forever grateful for that difficult assignment I was so reluctant to complete many years ago.

Those Sticky Nicknames

My home town paper had a piece on nicknames. While reading the list I remembered many of those names...familiar in a strange way. Actually many of those names, given after the birth of the child, stuck through the school years, and now and then, they clung to the person through their adult lives, even appearing in the final obituary.

When I was in high school I wanted to have a nickname like so many others. I was never fortunate to be baptized by my peers. Or, perhaps, I should be grateful I never acquired one of those "nasty" names. Back in my day most of the nicknames were just that...not positive or negative....just a title bestowed by the other kids in a teasing, friendly sort of way.

I tried to install the name Meg on myself. After all, those were my initials, but I soon discovered that self-naming did not have the sticking power. I could not even shorten my name like Elizabeth to Beth or Eliza. Mary Ellen was just that...no Meg.

My sister shortened her name from Patricia to Patsy or Pat, my brother David became Dave and my oldest brother...well, that is a longer story.

He was baptized Placid Raoul Goulet. His first name was after his grandfather, Placide and Raoul was our father's name, although everyone called him Roy. When my brother was born, the doctor placed him in my mother's arms and said, "Here is your little snookums." That name stuck with gradual changes from Snookums to Snooks and later, Nooks.

As my brother grew older he did not appreciate the name Nooks, but he certainly shied away from his given name, Placid. He suffered in silence when teachers called on him with his given name, and I think deep down he preferred Snooks or Nooks. As soon as he left home and could establish his own identity as an adult, he dropped his nickname and his first name and called himself Roy.

I do love the name Roy, but deep inside of me my big brother will always, in one way or another, be Nooks in my memories. Those nicknames really do have staying power.

Time for Memories

Feet elevated, I sit a lot these days. I wrote before that I would get long delayed reading completed. In truth, when I feel up to it, I do, but there are those times when I just sit, little energy for anything else. This is the rare time when special memories flow back.

This morning I was watching the Beta swim lazily around in his bowl. My eyes wandered to a memento near by that I had saved through these many years. That time included the fire that took most of our possessions, but left a few trunks of memories in our pole barn untouched by the unpredictable savagery of those flames.

The small figurine was one of my mother's collection of Hummels that she cherished and displayed proudly on her living room bookcases. As I recall, this particular  piece was titled "the little goose girl. "This story passed on to me, much as the Hummel. I am passing the story on to you, my readers.

My mother was fanatical about living in a clean, uncluttered house. She dusted, swept and vacuumed faithfully for as long as I can remember. One day she dusted the little goose girl figurine which depicted a little girl, a bouquet of flowers clutched behind her back, looking down at two geese who laid their necks and heads on the girl's chest. "Sweet" is the correct description of this charming scene.

One day as my mother was dusting the statue, she was startled to see that the little girl was looking up at her, instead of down at the geese. My mother was not one to question events in life as my father did, but rather she usually accepted whatever came her way.

Imagine her confusion when some time later the goose girl was looking in another direction. As she told me the story years later, she began to doubt her sanity. Eventually the truth came out, restoring my mother's mental state, but pointing the finger at my mischievous older brother who loved building model planes and who was equipped with the delicate brushes and paint necessary to re-do the wandering eyes of that usually steadfast little girl.

Hummels as old as this one could be valuable for collectors at estate sales. This Hummel lost any of its value after being painted and repainted many times, but the true value, priceless in my eyes, is the story and precious memory I will have whenever I look at, or dust that figurine, or re-tell the story to family members when they drop in to visit our home.