sing me a song

When I think of my childhood mother, I place her squarely in the kitchen - a large room flooded with sunshine. And laced with that sunshine is music. Mother often had the radio on, but beyond that she sang - hymns, popular songs, old nursery tunes from her childhood or school days. We all sang. Coming from a tradition of four-part harmony at church, singing at home was a natural extension. Sometimes we would gather around the piano, or later an organ, and sing together in harmony, but what sticks in my memory most is the extemporaneous singing - just for the joy of it. 

And I find myself continuing my mother's tradition of song - nothing approaching high technical quality, but full of a heart at peace.

And from childhood to now, whether it's a popular song,  hymn,  beloved classical symphonic passage, nothing can bring me to tears quicker than music. Through the years, the layers of flooding emotions riding on those notes engulf me and I am no longer alone. 

From my mother's kitchen to the Kennedy Center music brings me home.

do you like butter?

Remember how we as children used to hold buttercups under our chins to see if "we like butter"? To me, the buttercup always transports me back to halcyon summer days when the Good girls and I were lazing on the grass, idling, talking, pulling out stems of grass to blow pressed between two thumbs and checking for "butter likers"! (Who doesn't like butter??? I have yet to meet anyone and I'm running out of time!)

Turns out scientists have been intrigued by the buttercup for centuries, studying it's unique reflective qualities that provide powerful attraction for pollinators and providing reams of data! 

Still to me, little girls in ruffled summer dresses, with skinned knees and slouchy socks and sandals, contemplating culinary likes and dislikes seem more akin to buttercups than the scientific world!

repeating history

Unbelievably, quite by accident, a book that I placed on hold and had no idea of its theme, just knew I enjoyed the author, came on-line to me during this siege and it is a novel about the 1917 pandemic. Bright as Heaven is set in Philadelphia where the family shares an apartment with their undertaker uncle. Talk about a front and center seat!

There is a curious kind of comfort knowing the world has gone through this before and survived - with no internet and telecommunications blaring out the detailed nuances on a minute by minute basis. Everyone in Philadelphia had flocked to a patriotic parade and of course compounded the contamination exponentially. 1917. 2020. Same type of event, same results. Comfort in knowing they survived; despair over lessons unlearned.

This bright as heaven day beckons and I will go swim a few laps in the sunshine. But I will return to my 1917 Philadelphia sisters and brothers eagerly to find out how they are weathering their storm.

 And look again to ours.

so little time

People react to this pandemic in all different ways. Obviously. But I was thinking about how the internal landscapes of each of us - sown, fertilized, harvested throughout our lives - prepare us for the adversity of isolation. And those of us who have always enjoyed retreating within are in luck!

Each of my siblings are uniquely different, and yet to a person we all love solitude and would test out as I's on any Meyers/Briggs scan. And as introverts, time to be alone to read, journal,  dream, think, watch movies, do crosswords or jigsaws or play solitaire - anything not involving others is welcome time! As children we played together constantly and participated in groups 24/7 willingly, but given a choice now, I think we all pick solitude. I find that somewhat of a conundrum, but perhaps the balance of life comes through contrast. Growing up most of life was a clamor of voices/activities and thus we grew to cherish stillness.

Whatever the reason, while I do long for the easy freedom of life before the pandemic, right now I have four books on the go, a couple Netflix series, aspirations to bake cornmeal bread, four-mile daily walks, etc., etc. The days aren't long enough!!

home schooling

I stumbled on to an available loan of Michele Obama's Becoming in audio form, a few days ago, and now she has become my walking partner for the last few days. I don't want to begin to compare her childhood days on the South Side of Chicago to my pastoral days of growing up in rural Lancaster County as a whole, but in some important ways I do! What resonates with me the most about her childhood was her sense of security with her family. They lived in an apartment, there was very little extra money ever, but she always happily knew who she was in the context of family and I just wanted to say to her, "Me too!" 

And at one point she was describing how she would come home from school and tell her mother every single thing that happened. Her mother listened, sympathized, sometimes tried to shift viewpoints, but most importantly, was there as a sounding board. The emptying out of the day unto someone else's shoulders flushed her system of hurts, victories, longings, dreams giving space for rest and recovery. 

I've thought a lot about that because that's exactly what I did with my mother. And that simple act of pulling up (often with a glass of chocolate milk as dark as I could get away with) beside Mother - who was usually ironing, cooking, sewing - not just sitting down listening to me telling my stories - gently rounded off all the edges of my day and put them into our family values perspective. 

So many years later, I give thanks for the "home schooling" that took place after the books were closed.

lilac time

All this spring, pandemic or no, my four mile walk has been bringing me beauty. Yesterday it brought me exquisite scent as well. I discovered two lilac bushes along my way! Nearly giddy with the discovery, I inched off the path and snapped off the tiniest bloom my conscience would allow and carried it with me the whole rest of the walk. At home I put it in a favorite wee Chinese vase in my bedroom and behold, glorious aroma for the entire night! Just an illusive silken thread of scent wafting thought the room for hours!

I have always loved lilacs. We had a bush on the property line of my childhood home and the next door neighbors. It's blooms were a pale purple and their scent - the joy of childhood! The blooming of the lilacs meant barefoot time, furrows of shiny dark soil to plant, dandelion greens to gather, end of winter and burgeoning freedom. 

The mysterious scent that so quickens my senses has eluded all soaps, lotions, perfumes that claim it. I keep trying hopefully, but always the disappointing, no, disgusting, result! Lilacs' aroma simply can't be captured.

And perhaps that truism applies to many pure joys - they can't be stoppered, contained, preserved. They should just be enjoyed for the moment, like blowing a liquid bubble and watching it slowly form and awkwardly tear away from the rim, catch the rainbow sunshine and sail away.

A few brief moments of deep breath delight. Ah.

pickles in a Fostoria dish

We were dining at my sister-in-law's home a week ago and we sat down to a simple soup meal, with side accoutrements and crusty bread. The minute I saw the pickles in a  Fostoria relish dish I was borne away to my childhood!

 Although Mother didn’t have Fostoria, my aunts did and always had pickles like that in those dishes on Sunday or holiday tables. The dish evoked a bustle of women – head coverings, capes, aprons, wisps of hair framing their steamy faces as they worked to get the turkey, mashed potatoes, corn, lima beans, peas, noodles, filling, gravy boats on the table at the exactly right temperatures (how in the world did they do that from tiny, inefficient kitchens), and gracing those groaning tables was always a beautiful, quiet dish of pickles – just waiting to complement all that delicious food! I have such wonderful memories of those boisterous, generous family times and they all came channeling through to that simple pickle dish.


Also the dish conjured up rows of canned pickles on dark shelves in the basement – a bare bulb illuminating all the colorful fruits of Mother’s summer labors and those little bumpy pickles to me were as enticing as the bread and butter variety although I loved them too.

 Those recollected times were ones of planting the seed, harvesting, and  preserving the bounty - all by the skill and deftness of our own hands. These were courtesy of Trader Joe's! 

Nevertheless, the taste was spot on. And the memories rested as sweetly on my heart as the pickles on my tongue.

what price

When I was nine years old, my adventurous father gathered up his wife and four of his children and traveled west to Yellowstone National Park. My sister, with an ear attuned to the future kept a diary, not only of our activities, but finances. There have been small changes since the early fifties! Dinner for a family of six, $5.00. Just savor that for a moment - $5.00 today buys a specialty cup of coffee at Starbucks for one person! I know it happened 50 plus years ago, but what a leapfrog to the present!

Yet, proportionately it cost a lot of money in those days as well. But just think of that investment in experience. I still remember vividly scenes of the national wonders, the ever-changing landscapes, the lakes, mountains, forests and farmlands. And yes, of course there was the inevitable boredom of long prairie stretches, the irritation of too close, hot bodies in an un-air-conditioned car and in long un-peopled stretches being relegated to getting our J's for the Alphabet Game from Henry J cars that passed! But we sang childhood songs, played word games, snacked, fought for the TripTik, drank water from a large thermos, read comic books(how did I not get carsick in those days) squabbled and dreamed away the miles. The sheer fun of discovery and comradery that largely reigned within that wood-paneled station wagon as we conquered state after state will never be forgotten.

How can you put a price on memories?

up close and personal

I listened to a most interesting feature on restorative justice on NPR the other morning. I had been acquainted with the concept for years, but largely in conjunction with some church-oriented program. But to have it being promoted as a purely pragmatic approach other than love thy neighbor gave me new hope. It makes so much sense to have victim and perpertrator eye-to-eye. One of the assailants said one of the hardest thing he ever did in his life was to come face to face with his victim. I just let that thought percolate through my heart all day long.What percentage of conflict would be completely changed if people sat down with one another? To see the pain, tears, worry lines inches away instead of being clanged away into prison, sealing apart forever the deed and doer, might it not change the course of entire civilizations?

And on a much smaller one-to-one scale, if Twitter or Facebook combatants had to face each other, how different would the thrust of language be?

freshly minted

Mint tea.

I don't mean bagged mint tea, I mean steeped mint leaves. Since retirement I finally take the time to thoroughly wash and dry fresh herbs immediately when I get home from the market. What a difference it makes! I bought this batch the week before we went to Christmas mountain so it has lasted 2 1/2 weeks! It has tumbled with other greens and vegetables in salads, garnished fruit platters, accented Middle-Eastern dishes and dips, and best of all, provided cup after cup of steaming, fragment refreshment on dark days. Like today. We are supposed to get a bit of hyped snow but so far its just dark skies that I'm toasting.

Mint to me is delicious in all forms - sweet or savory. But I remember longing for a cup of mint tea in Newfoundland and the family looked at me sideways and wondered if I was sick, as that was the only thing they used mint for.

Vive la difference! But, oh, what they have missed in life!