family
May Flowers
No, not THE Mayflower.
May Flowers.
These grow in my little garden behind the kitchen door. They have tiny little bulbs and I have no idea what they are or where they came from. They just started growing the year after my father died, next to a few of the beautiful iris he transplanted to this same garden at his last visit to my house before he became ill. The almost glow in the early Springtime, wide open purple and white blossoms atop slender but strong stems. I consider them a little “gift from heaven”. ❤
And here to the right is a picture of what my father and I called the “little blue flowers”. I don’t know what they’re really called. I looked it up once, but then promptly forgot. 🙂
Anyway, this little patch was transplanted from my parent’s yard into my yard about six or seven years ago. They grow prolifically all along the side of the old Homestead and have always been the first harbingers of Spring to me. He cut out a 12×12 square of sod with the flowers in it and we placed it next to my house. Every year they come up and I look forward to seeing them (though they haven’t spread much, even though my father had thought they would considering how much they spread at the Homestead…not enough direct sunlight at my house, I think).
These little signs of spring and the thaw of winter’s ice and snow fill me with joy. They are signs of new beginnings, while being at the same time lovely connections to treasured memories long past.
Happy Spring to all of you! I’d be glad to hear some of your stories connected to plants or spring renewal (and if anyone knows what either of these flowers is really called, please let me know!)
It’s National Siblings Day in the US
As the sixth out of seven daughters, with two bonus”sisters” thanks to the Fresh Air Fund program (children from NYC who spend summers up “in the country”…we were blessed to have the same two sisters each summer for most of my childhood and have remained in touch with them both for 40+ years), much of my memory from growing up revolves around my family.
I wouldn’t trade having these sisters for anything in the world. Being in this big tumble of a family helped to form who I am and how I view the world, and I often recall those times with great fondness and love.
I wonder how the dynamics might have changed if there had been a brother or two in there? 😉
Happy Easter!
Wishing those of you who celebrate a joyous holiday.
We’re all ready at the McCall house to host dinner after church.
The table is set with my mother-in-law’s Easter tablecloth and our wedding china, purchased by her for us some 25 years ago.
On the menu: glazed ham with pineapple and cherries, brown-sugar sweet carrots, steamed green beans, mashed potatoes, and my mother’s recipe of cauliflower cheese puff (which is a family favorite). 🙂
If I can snap a photo quickly before it’s eaten, I’ll do a recipe post for it. It’s yummy!
Easy Baked Apples (Courtesy of Clara’s Great Depression Cooking)
The prepared apples before they go in the oven
It’s springtime where I live, but it’s still very chilly (in the 20 degrees farenheit range) and therefore still suitable for baking all sorts of things. While apples are traditionally an autumn fruit, for me, baked apples are good any time of the year.
This recipe is both simple and delicious. And it’s been around a while. I’ve made baked apples before, but this particular incarnation of them is courtesy of a lovely woman named Clara, who had a series of “Great Depression” cooking videos and cookbooks, in conjunction with her grandson. She lived in upstate New York, and although she has since passed (at the ripe age of 98), her work lives on. Here’s a link to the website that tells all about her: It’s called Great Depression Cooking With Clara.
So here is the simple recipe:
Wash, dry, and core three or four large apples.
Fill the cavities with 1 pat of butter and as much cinnamon sugar (three parts sugar to one part ground cinnamon) as they can hold. Dot with a pat of butter.
Put into a pan; pour in a little water to prevent burning, and bake at 350 degrees for about 30 minutes. Let cool a bit and eat!
You can watch Clara in action making these delicious and nutritious treats right here. I’m telling you, her videos are addictive, not only because of the simple recipes but also because she weaves in little memories of her and her family’s experiences during the Great Depression. She was such a wonderful, down-to-earth woman; I only wish I’d been able to meet her in person. Enjoy!
Old Kitchen Nostalgia
I enjoy home improvement shows. I particularly like those where renovations happen to bring a “bargain” purchase up to modern speed…but my “weirdness” comes in during the first look at the “before” aspects of the homes.
It almost always makes me feel a little twinge of poignancy. A pang. A bittersweet sense, of nostalgia for those times and places gone by.
Beautiful 1950s kitchen
I can’t help envisioning, sometimes – especially with the kitchens – the happy times, the meals cooked and eaten by countless people, the gatherings enjoyed, and holidays and birthday celebrated. It can be places from times long before I was born; it doesn’t matter.
Kitchen from around the time I was born in the 1960s
The room(s) that hosted those events is being cleared out, emptied, stripped down. That wallpaper or those cabinets and countertops so lovingly selected in 1957 or 1963, or 1990 are nothing more, now, then a mark of a bygone era, and the people who chose them and lived there have moved on, literally or figuratively, to greener pastures.
It makes me kind of…sad.
peeking into a lit window at a cozy scene
Perhaps my feeling is connected to the game my mother and I would play (and that I still do sometimes even now, I confess) when we’d be driving somewhere, especially at night, and I could glimpse through some open shades or curtains a lit room or two in a home as we passed by. I was always fascinated by that, imagining the people who lived there by having that quick look. What were they like? What were their hopes, dreams? Were they happy or in the grip of a tragic or challenging circumstance? That “What if?” game led to me writing novels, I’m sure – but it’s also part and parcel of what niggles at me during those home improvement shows.
I’m pretty sure that makes me weird (so if you’re akin to this, or even understand what I’m talking about here, please chime in through the comments, so I know I’m not alone, LOL)!
Do YOU ever get a bittersweet sense of poignancy about something that doesn’t have personal meaning to you?
Falling on Your Face
That is about how I’ve been feeling lately. Just when I think I might have my head clear of the water, another wave comes and I’m submerged again, LOL.
But I like this saying…there is still progress, even when it doesn’t always feel like it. 🙂
Keeping a Balance
This feeling can sometimes overwhelm (for those of you who’ve read Moose Tracks on the Road to Heaven, Pa called it the “black cloud” in the final letter of the book, in the Epilogue).
But I try to remember this sentiment, also, that my dear mother has always told me.
Sometimes easier said than done.
Can anyone else relate?
PS: I love how the color schemes of these two pictures reflect the moods of their messages (I’m holding on to the fact that blue is my favorite color). 🙂
Going Out On a Limb
I’ve had a few limbs break off behind me. I’m still pumping my wings like mad to keep from hitting the ground, though every now and again, an updraft helps lift me up.
Sometimes it’s an unexpected, nice comment or even a review of one of my books. Sometimes it’s a hug, or seeing something beautiful out in nature or the world. Sometimes it’s a piece of music that seems to pierce in a wonderful way to my inner soul. Sometimes it’s a cup of tea and a quiet night in, with the wind howling around the house while I’m snug inside.
What are your little updrafts, when you’re pumping your wings to stay afloat? 🙂
About Fishing With Pa…and Surprises
I’ve come to understand a few things in the almost half century I’ve lived, and one of those is the realization that sometimes, people can surprise you.
Sometimes those surprises can be unpleasant, but since I try to focus on the positive, I’d like to share a moment from nearly 20 years ago that surprised me in the best of ways. I remember it so clearly, and it has stuck with me so well, that I even wrote one of the “past” scenes in Moose Tracks on the Road to Heaven around it.
Adirondacks Rainbow Trout Fisherman Wall Art by Paul A Lanquist
It involves a fishing trip I took with my father on a beautiful, sunny summer day when I was in my early 30’s, and Pa was nearing 70.
Now you have to understand that my father was a dedicated, lifelong trout fisherman. Some of my fondest memories involve Pa helping me learn how to bait my line with an earthworm, cast, “feel” the fish mouthing the bait, and setting the hook to reel in a beauty. We often released the fish we caught back into the river, lake, or stream, but never before admiring their beautiful markings and color.
On this particular day, we hadn’t gone fishing together in more than a year. Real life had intervened for me…I was married, living more than an hour from the Homestead, teaching full time, and had a young child, so opportunities to get away and spend an afternoon together fishing or even just visiting by ourselves didn’t happen too often. My husband had offered to watch our young daughter on this Saturday, and my father and I agreed to meet up at a fishing spot about halfway between each of us. It was a kind of dam with a running stream below it – perfect for active and hungry fish.
The bank of the stream was formed by a combination of large rocks and tall flowering weeds. The sun beat down hot and bright on us as we fished, and the sky was a perfect blue with puffy white clouds. Here’s a picture I took of Pa during some of the quiet time…we stood farther apart as we fished, so as not to tangle our lines in the gently moving water.
The surprise came at lunch time. We’d reeled in our lines and were sitting up on the bank; I thought we were going to decide where to head for a quick lunch, but Pa walked up to his vehicle, pulled out a small cooler, and proceeded to take out cups, napkins, two cold orange sodas (one of his favorite flavors of soda back then), some chips…and two submarine sandwiches of mixed cold cuts – salami, turkey, ham – dressed with mayonnaise, cheese, lettuce, tomato – the works.
When I realized that Pa had made the entire lunch himself, I was shocked to the core. My father had always been very self-sufficient (he was a US Marine after all), but my mother was such a good cook that, except for the occasional turn at the grill or undertaking a project like making homemade sauerkraut, my father had never “cooked” or prepared anything to my knowledge. And this was the best sandwich I’d ever eaten, without a doubt in my mind.
Another picture I took of Pa, smiling on the banks of the stream, just after our wonderful lunch
Pa got a good chuckle out of my astonishment, and we enjoyed the nicest lunch I’d ever had, not because of fancy food or ambience (though the setting WAS right up my alley and the food, as I mentioned, was delicious), but because of the moment. Because of the beauty of sharing that peaceful time and place together, sprinkled with the magic of learning something new about a man I’d thought (in my youthful arrogance and ignorance) I knew pretty much everything there was to know.
I learned much more about my father in the years to come, all interesting and some amazing, including talents I didn’t discover he’d had until finding some papers after his death.
However that day of fishing on the sunny banks of that little stream provided me with one of the first of those kinds of happy surprises. I guess I needed to be an adult to experience it – to start becoming aware that people often posses depth and complexity far beyond the surface we tend to assume. It’s an experience I’ve never forgotten…another important lesson learned, thanks to Pa, and one that has never left my heart. ❤
M. Reed McCall, Author 