So, This Is Christmas …

by Rev. Lou Kavar Ph.D.


It was quite unexpected. Her mother fell on a patch of ice the week before Thanksgiving. The broken hip was a concern, but following surgery she was admitted to rehab. It seemed as though all was well. But then there were complications. She died about a week ago. The family gathered for the funeral on the Saturday before Christmas.

Three adult sons are living with their mother. One had spent time in jail for a drug related offense. Another, well….the neighbors said that he was “a bit slow.” The third left a failed marriage. They were trying to get by on mother’s social security and working various jobs in big box stores and fast food restaurants. They were good neighbors and helped others, including doing yard work for those who due to age couldn’t keep up with the work. Just last week, the notice went up on the front door: the bank was going to foreclose on the mortgage. What would be next for them?

I met for coffee with a man I know. In his 40’s, he’s a successful business man … and white. His wife, working in government, is African-American. They have two teenage boys nearing adulthood. While the boys are mixed race, most people identify them as African-American. The man tells me that he’s afraid for his sons. “What will happen if they are in the wrong place at the wrong time? What if they have a run-in with the police? I don’t know how to help them.” Yes, it’s a problem Black parents face, but this white man finds himself confused and troubled on how to sort out his own experience of “white privilege” while being a good parent to young African-American teenage boys.

CONTINUED Here:
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Visit Lou's blog  here:

http://blog.loukavar.com/2014/12/22/so-this-is-christmas/

Listen

by David Griffin

A Christmas Symbol You Can’t Buy

A Christmas story from Monk In The Cellar, the novel about eleven destitute monks in a decrepit old monastery in New York State.  Through a strange set of circumstances, Brother Jesse finds his way to the Internet and writes a tell-all blog. 

It’s after compline now and I’ve come down here to the cellar as I like to do late at night.  Just to be with my thoughts.  I spent the afternoon working with Brother Winifred, who we call Kickstart.  We all have nicknames for each other, and his comes from his motorcycle days.

 I feel badly for Kick.  He is unsure of his vocation,  writhing in an agony of indecision.  I'm not sure he has a true calling to this life.  He may have only an attraction to its different-ness.   I can't tell him whether he is called to it.  He either is or he isn't.    If I could give Kickstart the answers he seeks, I would surely do so.  But it turns out we can never give people what they truly need.  We can only listen to them.  Sometimes we can  help them hear what lies deep inside them.

       On my first Christmas away from home after joining the Ardent Brothers as a young man, I was assigned to a Retreat House in New Jersey and was serving on a 4-day Retreat for retired nuns … 40 of them!  When my little travel alarm went off at 5:00 on Christmas morning, I woke up in my cell-like room in the dark.

I thought back to all the times as a boy I had come awake on this day,  sure that a surprise gift or two waited for me under a glorious tree festooned with colored lights.  There would be no tree or gift this morning and I felt lonely and rather sad, even at age 24.  I switched on the lamp and beneath it on the bedside table sat a small box wrapped in Christmas paper. Opening it, I discovered a pine cone,  round and open with square woody sprigs sprouting out.   The touches of pine sap had dried to a white frosting, making it very Christmas-like.  It was beautiful.  It was wonderful.  I’ve kept it for years.

The pine cone is an ancient symbol of enlightenment and no doubt one of the nuns  believed I was in need of a good measure of it  I laughed to myself.  She was probably right. 

     A half hour later I stood next to an old priest on the altar as he said Mass and I functioned as the altar server.  I looked out at the forty women in their religious habits and saw one who might have been the oldest smiling at me.  She was beaming and her hand gave me a little wave.

     Later at breakfast, I spoke to her.  “Thank you so much for the pine cone. Why did you do that for me?”

“You’re the youngest here,” she said.  “You would miss Christmas presents the most.”

I was embarrassed.  “I guess I’ll get over it someday,”  I said.

“Oh, you needn’t rush,” she said. “Embrace that longing you have for a gift from under the Christmas tree.  Feel it and let it remind you that something deeper in you is longing for Him."

“Longing for a Christmas present and longing for God are not the same,”  I said.

“Are you sure?” She laughed.  “Don't be so holy.  Let your desires show you what your soul already knows to be true."

"I'm not sure I know what I want," I said.

"You will know when you listen," she said.

 When I listened, I found strength to live by, and coincidentally the meaning of Christmas.  It is Emmanuel, the name that means He is with us.   There is someone who walks the path by our side throughout our lives, who shows himself at the oddest times through a variety of people.  It turns out our salvation is worked out among our friends and neighbors. And all we need to do is what that little sign tells us … the one we often see at this time of year hanging in a store, a bar, an office, a dorm room or a home.  It explains everything in one word, "Believe."  It's all we need if we want to see miracles happen all around us.

You know, I can't give Kickstart his faith.  But I can give him a symbol and pray that he listens.  I can give him my pine cone.

Listen and you will hear what’s inside you..

 Believe and He will be with you..

 Emmanuel.   Merry Christmas!

Copyright 2014, David Griffin

Your Cat is Dead and Your Car Burned Up

By Darlene Jennings 

It was 1994 and Traci had headed off to Colorado with her boyfriend for the winter. Because the boyfriend didn’t like animals she had to leave one of her prized possessions – her cat Zachery.  Now this was one ugly cat with a tooth that permanently stuck out like a dagger.  And it was mean too.  Once I had gone down to Charleston when she was in college to cook a nice Sunday lunch for her.  I was standing at the stove carefully turning the country style steak when that damn cat jumped up on the counter and slapped the fork right out of my hand.  I cut off the stove and left Traci a note that I could and would not compete with that cat and went back to Myrtle Beach.  This stupid cat “ran away” on a weekly basis that sent Traci out to post a million Lost Cat posters from the College of Charleston all the way down Rutledge and the surrounding neighborhood.  People all over Charleston actually knew this cat (and Traci) by name from the posters. It could be gone for days or weeks but would always show up again when you least expected it.

             But I digress.  So the cat was dropped off in Athens, Georgia with her sister Tami.  I don’t know what instructions Traci gave her but I bet they were quickly forgotten before Traci had crossed into Alabama. In addition to the cat problem with the Colorado trip she had to leave her other prized possession – her Mazda RX7.  The Mazda ended up at my house with explicit instructions about cranking it every week to be sure the battery was charged as well as moving it around so the tires would not sit in one position all winter. 

         It wasn’t too long before everything started to fall apart.  Tami called to say that Zachery had climbed into a neighbor’s car and hence suffered death by a fan belt.  She had taken him to the Georgia University vet place but they could not save poor old Zachery and he was placed in a deep freeze until final arrangements could be made.  Naturally she wanted me to call and advise Traci.  I pondered this for a couple of days but was having trouble finding the courage.  Just when I thought I could make the call another disaster took place.  Following Traci’s instructions I had tried to start the Mazda for that battery-charging thing.  I tried and tried to no avail.  Imagine my surprise when a neighbor knocked on my door to tell me “that little white car is on fire.”  OMG…..I guess there was a spark that ignited the leaves and by the time I got outside there was no saving it.  It was a charred mess.  No insurance of course as it had long been paid for and Traci was only carrying liability.

             I had still not informed her about Zachery and I was now confronted with having to tell her about the loss of the Mazda. What to do?  What to do?  Within a few days I did not have to worry about this anymore.  Traci called sobbing so hard I couldn’t even understand her.  Naturally I assumed that she had heard about the incidents.  Not so much.  I finally got her to calm down enough to tell me what was wrong.  Screaming like a crazy person she yelled “All of my jewelry has been stolen.”  (That was her third passion – her jewelry.)

             So there was only one thing left to do and I said as calmly as possible “Well, since you are already crying and upset you may as well know that Your Cat is Dead and Your Car Burned Up!”

             Postscript:   Traci had the University of Georgia perform an autopsy and cremation on the stupid cat.  (She still has his ashes and little bones.)  As for the car I gave her $2,500 to use as a down payment on a new one.  The new one ended up being a shiny red mustang that she drove for 18 years. Zachary was replaced with a terrier named Diesel who is now 12 years old and spoiled rotten.  Oh, and she found her jewelry. The moral of this story is that if you have bad news to give someone…..wait something worse will come along.

Copyright 2004, Darlene Jennings

Darlene Jennings is a native of Myrtle Beach, South Carolina and dates herself by remembering when "we turned off the two downtown traffic lights in the winter." She grew up with sand between her toes and sand-spurs to boot.  Proud mother of two and grandmother of two, Darlene has been self employed for over thirty years in Community Management.  (A job that sucks the soul right out of you, she says.)  Her relief is community service and writing spur-of-the-moment short stories. Many stories have been shared with family and friends who suggested she write a book.  But that just sounds like another job to Darlene!

The Beginnings of The Sunrise 4-H Club

by Delores Miller

So after the Second World War and life returned to normal, 4-H clubs sprang up in Waupaca County.  All students over the age of ten years were invited to an organizational meeting at the school house on November 17, 1948.  E. L. Niedermeier was the Home Agent, with Richard Halback the Club Agent.  Sunrise's charter with 24 members was signed January 1, 1949.  This was one of about 50 clubs in the county, today in 2013 there are 18.  90% were students with farming backgrounds.

Volunteer leaders were Laura Niemuth, Louella Genskow and Milton and Lucinda Hintz.  Projects were chosen, Foods and Nutrition, Sewing, Gardening and of course dairy.  I had little talent in any of these projects, but blundered my way through as shown by my record books from 64 years ago.

Monthly meetings at the school house, dues were a nickel, lunch was served by members on a rotating basis, favorite was ground baloney sandwiches with dill pickles, chocolate cake and of course chocolate milk.  Entertainment followed by trashing and making a mess in the school house.  Summer picnic at Little Falls.

The summer club tour to members homes to view the projects.  Dress review, judging food and sewing.  Monthly demonstrations.  I showed how to make a grated carrot and peanut butter sandwich, it was terrible. 

4-H float in the Marion Homecoming parade.  The first year's theme was 'Cook, Sew and Catch a Beau'.  On a flat rack hay wagon, a wooden cookstove, a hand treadle sewing machine with Adelaide Fischer in a bridesmaid dress.  Milton Hintz pulled the wagon in the parade with his new Ferguson 30 tractor.

Finale in early September was the Waupaca County Fair at Weyauwega.  Entries from all projects, and the hope of a Blue Ribbon.    Big excitement, with the carnival atmosphere.  It usually rained on our parade.

I pledge my Head to clearer thinking,

My Heart to greater loyalty,

My Hands to Larger service,

My Health to better living,

For my club, my community,

and my country.

Today in 2014 the Sunrise 4-H club is still going strong with the same values as in 1949.

 copyright 2014 by Russell and Delores Miller

 Delores Miller lives with husband Russell in Hortonville, Wisconsin.    In the summer of 2007 they  celebrated their 50th wedding anniversary with a party hosted by their five children and ten grandchildren.  It’s been a long road.  Dairy farming until retirement in 1993, they continued to 'work' the land, making a subdivision of 39 new homes on their former hay fields.

Remembering Grandma

By Harold Ratzburg

               

When an old Geezer like me (at 85 years young) sits down to put his memories of his Grandma on paper, you know your are going to go back a ways into ancient family history.  But here goes----

                My Grandma’s history goes back almost 130 years ago when she was born in Germany (1885) and somewhat later immigrated to the USA.  My records on Grandma are somewhat sketchy but we do know that she married Grandpa (William Ratzburg the Second) in 1901 when she was only 16 years old.  Grandpa was 17 years older, so it seems that they did things differently for match making back in the good old days. 

                They lived on the Ratzburg farm, out on Highway G, south of Marion, WI, where Tim Nolan now has his horse farm.  At first, they lived in a log house, where old family stories tell that Grandma had to take a broom to make sure that there were no snakes crawling around on the dirt floor at bedtime.  A frame house, with six bedrooms, was built in 1906 and things got a little easier for Grandma and the family. 

                Grandma had a difficult married life.  Grandpa was of the old German belief in that HE was the head of the house and whatever HE said goes.  He kept Grandma pregnant a lot of the time.  They had 12 babies born to them, of which 3 died in early childhood.  That time amounted to 22 years of child bearing, of which Grandma was pregnant for 108 months, or, 9 years total.  Talk about study German stock.

Continued HERE.

 Harold Ratzburg was born at the start of the Great Depression and raised on a Dairy Farm in Wisconsin.  He served four years in the US Air Force in the 50's and was stationed in Germany, where he met his wife Anneliese, who helped get him through College to become a Civil Engineer.  After a time as a Highway Engineer and College Instructor, he wound up as a City Engineer of a small town in New Jersey.  Twenty four years later he retired to become an old geezer telling old stories on his new fangled computer.

The Madcap Adventures of Eliezer Gurevitch

 by Sandra Gurev

My father-in-law, Elias Gurev, was fifty-nine when I met him. He was tall, broad framed with a thick thatch of iron grey hair.  His legs seemed mismatched with his body as they were thin. They didn' seem like they could support his broad chest.  I never got to know him well due to a signicant permanent hearing loss from German measles  at age sixteen.  Our conversations were monologues and my attempts to ask questions went unanswered.  His loss of  hearing led to some degree of paranoia thinking people were talking about him.

When our sons were born in the late 60's, their grandfather would take Greg or Keith on his knee calling, "Come boychick, come and sit on grandpa's lap."  They enjoyed being bounced on his knee and gave him their complete attention when he regaled them with stories from long ago. His stories almost always touched on his heroism.  For instance, he told us about riding with Pancho Villa on his trusty mule, Rosita.  I listened in on his monologue with the boys and envisioned him wearing a colorful serape, sombrero askew riding hard through mountain canyons calling to Rosita, "Andele!"  The sunsets were brush stroked in lavender, mango, and magenta.

Other stories revolved around riding with the Cossacks through the Russian Steppes or as a sidekick to Genghis Khan.  Some of his leaders were ruthless barbarians but it didn't seem to matter.  Adventure abounded in his stories. Our boys sat with rapt attention , their eyes growing wider with disbelief with each ensuing tale.

One day my father-in-law became serious and his story took on a decidedly solemn tone.  He described a memory of a time when he was about  twelve. He lived in an expansive richly decorated home with his parents and sister in some unknown country.  He spoke lovingly of running his fingers over the ivory keys of the family's grand piano.  Then he said,  "We had to leave and I knew that I would never see it again."  Again his hearing loss prevented me from asking for more details, questions that I yearned to ask.

It wasn't until 2012 that I began to get answers to my questions.  I came across a yellowed creased petition requesting citizenship to the British protectorate of Palestine.  The year was 1930.  I learned that my father-in-law was born into a  Jewish family in Theodosia, Crimea.  His father had a well paying government position working for the Czar.  His family had enjoyed a comfortable upper middle class lifestyle.  Their  lives changed abruptly when an empathetic Cossack calvaryman paid an unannounced visit.  He had learned that the Czar's army was planning to launch a pogrom against the Jews of Theodosia.  The man urged them to leave immediately.  They needed to get on the first ferry to neighboring Turkey.  The family hastily piled documents, photos, perhaps a pair of silver candlesticks for the sabbath onto sheets and escaped through the cover of night.  His father managed to go to a bank before leaving only withdrawing enough money as he could without arousing suspicion.  They fled their home leaving the door wide open and safely escaped by ferry.  Most of  the remaining Jewish residents were terrorized and killed by the army.

Continued, Click HERE.

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Sandy Gurev is a wife of fifty-one years and mother of two sons and four grandchildren.  Sandy was an elementary school counselor prior to retiring to Williamsburg, VA nine year's ago from Rochester, NY. Her volunteer work includes providing lunch to cancer patients and fitting women with wigs after they have lost their hair.  Playing competitive duplicate bridge and belonging to two book clubs rounds out her time.  Within the past two years she has written a memoir for her grandchildren and a couple of articles for the American Amateur Press Association. Sandy found that writing helped to reduce her perception of pain while she was awaiting back surgery.

Hello, House ...

By June T. Basemir

I was thinking about you today and how you sheltered our family for 44 happy years. Nine years ago I moved on and built a new house far away and you moved on too caring for a smaller family, albeit with some major surgery to your inside walls.

I wonder if the squeak in the attic over the master bedroom that occurred in high wind storms is ever heard? We sent our oldest son up there one time, in the height of a fearsome storm, to see if he could locate what beams were rubbing to cause the squeak – all to no avail. I was sure there was a flaw in the construction and after some stormy night the beds would be covered in the morning with broken wood and Sheetrock, but thankfully it never happened. 

Whatever caused that squeak couldn't have been too serious. Maybe you were just exercising your voice against the elements. I suppose it should have been mentioned at the closing but frankly we didn't think of it. Besides those high wind storms didn't happen very often. After all this is only Long Island....not Oklahoma!

And remember whenever it rained how the water in the gutters on your north side over the kitchen window would fill up and water would pour down into the window well below until there was no way to stop the cascading overflow as it ran down the inside of the basement wall - flooding it? It wasn't your fault. We tried a number of ideas including a plastic shield to protect the window well from filling up but the ground became so saturated with the brick path on the other side trapping the water, it naturally had no place to go but down the inside basement wall. Of course, we could have had a man dig out the window well and remove the clay dirt that he said kept the water from draining away but at the time the cost of $600. was more than we could pay. It just wasn't there. So with each heavy rain I continued to mop the basement. The number of times the basement flooded was never recorded. Each time it happened was thought to be the last. The N Y Sunday Times did double duty in soaking up what our old towels didn't. I shutter to think of it now. We eventually bought an indoor/outdoor vacuum which shortened the process considerably.

And speaking of the kitchen window(s) what about the “pollen” that I saw floating down from above one summer day? It turned out that it wasn't “pollen” at all but the shavings of the carpenter bees drilling their 1/2” holes in the fascia board behind the gutter. I thought to stop their activity with hammering in wooden plugs the same diameter in each and every hole to trap them. Little did I know the habits of Carpenter Bees...that they drill the holes and lay their eggs deep inside; then come out the same hole again. No exterminator that we called (and we called three) would touch the removal of the bees due to their fear of being stung. My youngest son and I removed the board; heard the buzzing bees; and quickly walked away. A new fascia board replaced the old one shortly thereafter. [The old one had 17 holes in it.

For years we woke up each morning with a rat-ta-tat noise coming from under the bedroom windows. Finally it was discovered that a beautiful but territorial male cardinal bird was attacking his reflection in the basement window. How he could see himself in that dusty cobwebbed “mirror” was beyond me. After several seasons, we finally felt sorry for him and hung some newspaper against the inside of the glass. Eventually he stopped but the next year he (or his son) was back attacking the side view mirrors on both cars parked in the driveway. I pictured his beak becoming shorter and shorter as there was evidence of residue on the mirrors. 

First I hung a fake owl on the bushes nearby but he was not fooled. Then I was given a Japanese garden “cat” with black glass eyes that Japanese farmers use in their gardens with success. It was placed on the same bushes but that didn't scare him either. The bird knew no honest cat would be sitting on those high bushes. So I finally hung a sock on the mirrors which did the trick...but what a nuisance when it rained and they had to be removed in order to drive either car.... where to put a wet sock when all I wanted to do was hurriedly go out grocery shopping.

Now I have to ask...Does the Cardinal bird or any of his male offspring visit? Have the Carpenter bees come back? Does your basement flood in heavy rain storms and what about the squeak heard in the master bedroom during high winds? 

I hope I haven't caused you stress by recalling these stories but I was just wondering................................................. and thinking of you today. Do you miss us?

copyright 2014, June T. Bassemir

 June Tuthill Bassemir is the widowed mother of four and grandmother of 10.  An artist and writer, she  volunteers as a docent in a 1765 farm house.   June loves old cars and antiques, and has also enjoyed furniture stripping and rug hooking.  "I used to say I was a stripper and hooker.but with so many trips around the sun, no one raises an eyebrow anymore. They only laugh."  June has given up furniture stripping, but is still an avid rug hooker.

Heaven On a Hilltop

Appalachian life today

 By Richard “Clipper” Naegele

I dedicate this short story to "Boots and Foster" with love and admiration.

 

A mist hangs over the mountain top, and the air is crisp. Sammy saddles the old mule and heads down the holler toward the local store. Sammy is legally blind, and barely sees, but the mule is sure-footed and carries him safely down the hill past the other farms and out to the main road. It is quiet and peaceful as the mule clip clops along slowly. 
The birds are just starting to awaken, and stretch their wings. The doves can be heard rustling in the pine trees where they have roosted for the night. As he passes his neighbor Gerry's house, there are no signs of life yet, except for the riding horse grazing in his pasture, and the dogs that come to welcome Sammy and the mule, and to accompany them to the next bend in the road.
 
Sammy has to dismount to open the cattle gate, as he enters his neighbors land, and as he leads the mule through, he can smell bacon cooking at the Collier's farm. As he passes by, his neighbor waves from the back porch, and hollers a cheery good morning, while grabbing an armload of wood for the cookstove. The chickens scatter, clucking angrily, as Sammy passes through the Collier's dooryard.
 
As they round the next bend, a doe and her fawn are grazing on the lush green grass along the roadside, and scurry for cover when they see Sammy and the mule. As the road drops into the creekbed, the mule stops and sips from the spring fed, bubbling stream, where it meanders through a glade lined with hemlocks. A male cardinal, in all of his bright red plumage, perches on a fence post, and chirps them a good morning greeting. The mule picks his way carefully along on the gravel bottomed stream for about 100 yards to a point where the road once again climbs out of the creek bed and crosses one more pasture before reaching the hard paved road and civilization.

 

Continued CLICK

http://morecontinued.blogspot.com/2014/09/continued-heaven-on-hilltop-by-richard.html

 

Dick Naegele, "Clipper," now hails from Tennesee, but most days find his heart in the Mohawk Valley of central New York State, where he plans to one day return. Living the life of the "Last American Cowboy,"  Dick was a trucker and logged over  3 million miles on the nation's highways.  He has owned his own business, been a government manager and also a professional firefighter.  A writer of many talents and experiences, his  writing sees the hearts of people that most of us often miss.  More of "Clipper's"  writing is located  on his blog,   "Along the Banks of Beaver Creek," at:   http://alongthebanksofbeavercreek.blogspot.com/

Waiting For Me

 by David Griffin

Clocks intrigue me.  I have five or six hanging on the walls of my little cave where I write and ponder the universe.  None of them keep the same time.  My favorites don't even work.  There's something about a stopped clock that means more to me than anything as mundane as the correct time.  At this stage of my life I don't need to be reminded of time passing as much as I need encouragement.  That may have always been true.

 I brought a clock home from a flea market last month and centered it in the middle of my desk, where it did absolutely nothing but sit there glowing in the pride of its century old craftsmanship, a 12 inch high pendulum clock with a white face of Roman Numerals behind a glass door.  I didn't wind it, but let it sit silent.  It brought back memories of my father, who once rebuilt a similar old clock.   

After a few days, I opened the little door on the front, wound the mechanism, set the hands to the correct time and gave the pendulum a tiny shove.  The clock went tick, tock.  In a few moments,  I reached in and stopped the pendulum.  I closed the little door, leaving the clock silent, and sat there thinking about the man who had provided me with so many lessons, some unwittingly.  More important, he had been present, in the best sense of the word.

 The clock Dad rebuilt when I was in high school ticked louder than most as it sat on the mantel in our living room.  In the small flat, my brother and I were annoyed by the ticking at night, and would get up after everyone went to bed and silence the clock.  Dad restarted it each morning without comment.  As I turned from the mantel one night after stopping the pendulum, I saw my father sitting in the dark in his easy chair.

 "It was keeping us awake," I said.

 "It's not very loud," said Dad.

 "I can start it again," I said, without much enthusiasm.

"Never mind," he said, "leave it stopped.  It’s a nice piece to look at, but we've got other clocks to tell us the time."

 "OK," I said.  Wanting to leave before he changed his mind, I said, "Gotta go.  I have a geometry test in the morning."

 "You’ll do well,"  he said.

 "I’m not very good at math," I replied

 "I mean you’ll do well in life,"  he said.

 I've always remembered that exchange.  I wonder if my father realized how much I valued his encouragement.  It was so much more helpful to me in those days than a lecture about buckling down and keeping my nose to the grindstone.

 Dad let the clock on the mantel stay stopped. The hands said 11:34 for the next twenty years.  Our little family joke whenever anyone asked the time was to answer, "eleven thirty-four."  When the mortician was ready to dress Dad's body before his wake, he asked for his jewelry. I handed him my father's old watch after setting it to 11:34. 

 Perhaps a stopped clock serves our real needs better than a working clock.  A clock in motion is a taskmaster.  It sets the pace and counts the hours.   A stopped clock has wisdom, it does nothing but wait. 

 I'd like the clock sitting on my desk to be like the one on our mantel in my teenage years, silent and wise, its  pendulum stilled from constantly swinging left and right like an ego's incessant hunt to find its own selfish purpose.  My father's clock didn't count the time and it didn't pester me with the lateness of the hour.  It didn't note my wasted days while I sought the purpose of my life.  When I wasted time and at first refused to accept my burdens and my gifts, it allowed me to cope with life at the speed of my own heartbeat.   It waited for me like an old friend or a mentor ...  like my father, who stood back armed only with hope as I searched out my own paths. 

 My father and I walked different routes on our journeys through life.  He knew that would be the case, so he seldom offered advice while I hammered out my plans and lived my own life.  He trusted I would find my way.  I have indeed found my way, but I sometimes hear his gentle laugh from farther up the path as he waits for me to catch up.

copyright 2012, David Griffin 

 For MoreStories click on the following:
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Picking Pickles

 by Delores Miller

 

     Poverty-stricken  mid-Wisconsin families began in the 1940s to look for ways of supplementing farm income.   Milk cows, pigs and chickens were not sufficient.   Cucumbers was a quick and easy cash crop, or so it seemed unless you were the poor individual picking pickles.

      A contract with the Bond Pickle Company and their representative Laura Mauel was signed.  Other receiving pickle stations were located at Big Falls with Otto Faehling as agent  and Eastling at Manawa.  Quarter or half  acre was the usual size.  Seeds were planted  with the crop maturing the end of July, and continued until frost, sometime towards the end of September.  Ten weeks of cucumbers.

      Picked and priced by size, ten dollars for a hundred pounds of two inch size gherkins.  A dollar for a hundred pounds of the over-sized pickles with various prices in between.  Hot, humid,  sticky days, rainy days, early morning, flies,  mosquito bites, made no difference.  The creeping vines, prickly, the blasted pickles still had to be picked.  I  was allergic, itched and suffered from hives, made no difference, rubber gloves solved that problem.

      Hauled in gunny sacks to the pickle factory, located near the railroad tracks in Marion, east of the Plywood  and the Ziehm Brothers livestock pens.  Laura Mauel  ran them through a conveyor belt and graded by size.  Put in the wooden barrels, to ferment with salt, dill  and vinegar, eventually being bottled and sold in stores.

      And what to do with all the money earned, you say?  Buy school clothes, supplies, perhaps a new winter coat and a few dollars to spend foolishly at the free shows.  Money was hard to come by in those early teen-aged days.

copyright 2014 by Delores and Russell Miller 

 Delores Miller lives with husband Russell in Hortonville, Wisconsin.    In the summer of 2007 they  celebrated their 50th wedding anniversary with a party hosted by their five children and ten grandchildren.  It’s been a long road.  Dairy farming until retirement in 1993, they continued to 'work' the land, making a subdivision of 39 new homes on their former hay fields.

The Isle of Devils

By Peter Schaub

Beautiful Bermuda was on nobody’s bucket list in the 1600s. Named for Juan Bermudez, who discovered them about 1505, the islands were feared by the Spanish and Portuguese who rode the Gulf Stream from the Caribbean to Europe. The reefs surrounding the islands are treacherous, making a purposeful entry to harbor all but impossible in that era. The screeching cahow birds would have sounded to superstitious sailors like wailing demons. They called the place the “Isle of Devils”.

Sea Venture was the flagship of the relief fleet sent from England to Jamestowne in 1609. Hit by a hurricane, six battered vessels made it into Jamestowne with most of the provisions spoiled. The Sea Venture carried the senior leaders and wrecked on Bermuda. Even as the gunwales were awash, Captain Newport, Admiral Somers and Governor Gates must have been wondering which fate was better: drowning at sea or being wrecked on that abhorred shore.

Unlike those shipwrecked Jamestowne settlers, Connie and I arrived safe and dry in Bermuda with our friends on a lovely April day. Bermuda is not only pink coral beaches, gentle turquoise waves, and great golf courses. We spent the next week meeting interesting people, learning about Bermuda’s history, and sampling the local favorite, the “dark and stormy” made with Bermuda dark rum. Our interest in Bermuda started with our interest in Historic Jamestowne where the recent discoveries are showing the connections between the earliest British settlements in America. For example, Bermuda limestone was found inside the Jamestowne fort site in a 1610 context. This was ballast used in the new ships built by the Sea Venture survivors.

We began our visit attending an art auction at the World Heritage Center in the town of St. George. 

Continued HERE. 

Peter Schaub retired in 2010 after 40 years in management at the electric utility in Washington, DC. He and his wife moved to Williamsburg, Virginia where they enjoy the arts and the immersion in history available within a community that includes the College of William & Mary, Colonial Williamsburg, and Historic Jamestowne. They also enjoy travel, especially when it has a connection to history. Peter is a Master Gardener, and an amateur letterpress printer, continuing a hobby that began in his teen years. He is currently president of the American Amateur Press Association.

A Very Special Dinner

By Maureen O’Brien

I was running late for work but felt an urgent need to check on Mom.  I don’t know why.  Just some intuitive thing which happens often, especially when it comes to Mom. 

Maybe it had something to do with our phone conversations lately.  I wondered what had happened to the long, news filled chats we used to have.  Just yesterday, she had dismissed me again.  “Marcus, I really can’t talk right now.  I have to go Sweetie.”  She seemed to be so busy.  Always on the go and in a hurry to get somewhere.  What was going on?

 I waited after ringing the doorbell.  No answer, so I let myself in.  As usual, the door was unlocked.  Mom has never believed in locking doors.  She’s always said that if someone broke in to rob her, he’d probably look around, feel sorry for her and leave something instead.

 I found her in the dining room where she seemed to be putting the finishing touches on her table setting.  I couldn’t believe my eyes.  Vintage lace covered the table and it was set for three, with fine china.  The centerpiece was an arrangement of colorful hydrangeas which I was sure, she had picked from her prodigious garden.  White cloth napkins, shaped in to swans peeked out of cobalt blue wine goblets.  I watched as she stepped back to admire her handiwork.  I detected her whispering something but I couldn’t make it out.    

 “Hey Mom,” I said.  “Sorry to barge in on you.   Hope I didn’t startle you but I guess you were so busy you didn’t hear the doorbell. By the way, your table looks beautiful.”

  She didn’t appear at all startled. Paying no attention to me, she continued to rearrange the flatware.  I had never seen so many different size forks on our dining room table and what were those little knives for?

“Well,” I announced, “set a pretty table and they will come.” 

I don’t think she heard me over the blaring television.  Matt Lauer of The Today Show was going on and on about how terrible it was that Lindsey Vonn would not be able to compete in the Sochi Olympics. 

“Oh Sweetheart,” Mom said, “What a nice surprise.  But isn’t this just awful?  That poor girl has been training so hard and now her knee went out again. I swear it makes me want to cry. Can you imagine?”

Continued, CLICK HERE.

 Maureen “Moe” O’Brien moved from Bethel, CT to Myrtle Beach, SC in 1988.   Her “claim to fame” as she likes to phrase it, is that she played professional basketball, touring with the Harlem Globetrotters in 1959. She is an avid golfer and won the SC Senior Women’s Golf Championship in 1993 and 2004.  Her book “Who’s Got The Ball?  And Other Nagging Questions About Team Life”, was published in 1995.  It is a “how to” book for team members in all work environments.  Maureen is the proud Grandma of eight granddaughters, ranging in age from fifteen to twenty seven.