The River Of Life

Mom and Dad married on June 28, 1958. They began their journey on the river of life in a little house along the highway, one in which the five of us would end up spending a good chunk of life at, in our own circle of love – our family.

Through the years on this river of life, there were tears, laughter, sadness and joy – family, sharing, learning and loving.

In the tough times, we stuck together. Together we survived Dad’s bout with an infection that kept him hospitalized for over thirty days. Together we shared in the household chores – cooking and cleaning while Mom spent several times in the hospital herself, for various illnesses. As a family we held each other tight when we lost our grandparents and other special people – aunts and uncles, family and friends.

In the joyous times, we celebrated together. There were awesome birthday parties – home made cakes and sleepovers. There was a move to the farm – remodeling our bedrooms, with each of us picking a totally different theme. We celebrated weddings, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, and today – an anniversary.

When Mom and Dad look back on their life to list their accomplishments, they don’t have to look much farther than this family. They have raised three pretty decent children, with admittedly, a few family quirks, but nonetheless, decent children.

Accomplishments in life may mean giving birth to three children while wheelchair bound, stretching meals when times were tight, or pitching a tent in the back yard and roasting marshmallows for entertainment. Accomplishments may mean always providing for your family, working long days to make sure their needs were met, or spending time with them at the lake, not letting them know that you really hated fishing.

Mom and Dad continue to live their river of life as an example to us all.

Fifty years ago, he lovingly carried her over the threshold and today, he lovingly carries her out of bed into her chair. Fifty years ago, she lovingly cooked a special meal for his birthday, and today she lovingly puts a meal on the table for him when she can.

As this river flows, the caring and commitment is never ending, around the bends and turns, through the turbulence and calm waters, through the highs and lows of the tides. The river changes as it runs – sprouting forth new streams, each by themselves insignificant, but together – all a part of the mighty river of life.

The River of Life is a true journey – and we are all in it together – as a family.

Beautiful? Ugly?

It’s amazing how something so beautiful can turn into something so ugly. Take wallpaper, for instance. Fifteen years ago, with great exhilaration, I covered my mismatched off-white painted and wood paneled laundry room walls with beautiful wallpaper. It had a cream colored background, with blue vertical lacey stripes on either side of rows of country red stenciled apples. And better yet, I found it on the clearance rack at the hardware store! Finally, I could stand in the center of my laundry room, turn a complete circle and see only one continuous pattern of this beautiful wallpaper, no matter which way I turned.

Today, in continuation of the kitchen and laundry room remodel I started a couple weeks ago, I started removing the old wallpaper. The strips above the washer and dryer came off in big sheets. A little spray of water softened up the remaining paper backing and it peeled off in sheets almost as big. Rounding the corner towards the half bath, getting the peeling started was the hardest part. I found that if I held my putty knife at a slight angle, I could start tearing a section that also peeled off pretty easily. I also found that if I held it at too much of an angle, the point of the putty knife would dig into the drywall and make a hole. By now I was working up a sweat.

The last wall was where I really started hating this ugly wallpaper. This wall was built and covered with unpainted drywall.

I remember someone telling me once that you should always prime and paint new drywall before you cover it with wallpaper. That seemed like such a waste of money, time and effort to me. I guess that must be why I just wallpapered right over the new drywall. I certainly wasn’t thinking ahead fifteen years in the future when I might want to remove the wallpaper. After all, this wallpaper was so beautiful I must have planned on keeping it up forever.

The ugly wallpaper finally came off the unpainted drywall after an hour or more of scraping it inch by inch, re-soaking it with water from my spray bottle, and scraping some more. Sweat was dripping down my forehead and I was covered in little flecks of wallpaper gone wild.

My arms and legs are sore, my back and neck are aching. Yet, I’m celebrating the fact that I finally got rid of the ugly apple wallpaper.

Behind it I am looking at the off-white painted wall, leftover from years ago, and I’m thinking – isn’t it beautiful?

Strawberries, No Shortcake Please

‘Tis the season. The berries are ripe for picking. I prefer not to pick them, however. I buy them in a carton – already picked – from a local grower.

Today I purchased two quarts of ripe, red strawberries. This would be enough for a batch of strawberry shortcake. I made a quick stop at the grocery store on the way home from work to pick up some whipped cream topping.

Feeling very domestic, I stirred together a recipe of shortcake and quickly put it into the oven. While the shortcake was baking I picked over the berries, added some sugar, stirred and put them in the refrigerator. I called my daughter-in-law and invited her and the girls over for dessert.

Next thing I heard was the sound of little footsteps. After greeting them in the hall, I quickly led them into the kitchen and asked, “Girls, do you like strawberry shortcake?”

“I don’t know, Grandma, what is it?”

I explained to Chrissy and Kaitlyn by asking each of them –

“Do you like cake?”

“Yes (in unison).”

“Do you like strawberries?”

“Yes (in unison).”

“Do you like whipped cream?”

“Yes (Chrissy).”

“No (Kaitlyn).”

“But this is the fun kind of whipped cream,” I told them. “It comes in a squirt can.”

“Yes, we like whipped cream (in unison).”

Chrissy adds, “can we both squirt it on the cake?”

I reply, “sure”, and then happily show them each how to run the squirt can.

About one minute after both girls had their dishes full of cake, berries and whipped cream, Kaitlyn says, “Grandma, I don’t like this.”

Chrissy says, “I don’t either. Can we just have a dish of plain strawberries with some sugar to dip them in?”

I smiled and told them, “sure you can.”

After all – their Mom would be the one who had to take them home and get them off their sugar highs, right?

My Gene Pool

Apparently my love for the orange-handled crow bar is genetic. My dear Aunt E, upon reading my last post about how I tore down the paneled walls in my kitchen, informed me that my grandmother did a little demolition in her day, too. Grandma cut the “horns” off the wooden chairs and the “claw” feet off the side table to modernize things a little. More importantly, Aunt E told me that Grandma got so sick of looking at the wainscoting in her kitchen that one day she ripped it off. After all, if she didn’t do it – no one would. Truth be told, if I were living in Grandma’s farm house today, I would probably put the wainscoting back on. But nonetheless, it is delightfully awesome to find out why I love the crow bar so much.

Excerpts from the writing I did when Grandma passed away back in September of 2001 –

Grandma is still very much alive in my senses.

Thinking back to when I mowed her lawn, I can smell the flowers growing in Grandma’s yard - lilacs, snowballs and peonies. In spite of being deathly afraid of bees, I would cross my fingers and duck around each bush with the mower, being very careful not to nick one.

My mouth puckers when I remember Grandma’s home made dill pickles. In the cookie jar, I can taste Grandma’s cookies with butter frosting and her cake doughnuts rolled in sugar.

In Grandma’s bedroom on the farm, I can see Grandma’s big bed with the soft white blanket with roses on it. I can see her tiny shoes, neatly paired up under the chair in our living room. I can see Grandma’s garnet ring on her finger and her purple sweater lying over the chair. One last thing I can see and never will forget is the love in Grandma’s eyes, as she looked at my little girl.

I can feel the love in Grandma’s hands as she wiped the grease and grime from mine, standing behind me at the sink with her arms around me and holding my hands under the water with hers, rubbing with soap and then rinsing both of our hands together. Snuggling in bed with her, I can feel her soft, silvery gray hair.

I can hear her telling me about her life as a young girl. With sadness in her voice, I can hear Grandma tell me about her sister Christina, whom she lost when she was young. I can hear Grandma talking with great pride about Grandpa, and what a wonderful man he was. I can hear the pride in her voice as she spoke of her Norwegian heritage. I can hear Grandma talking with pride about Dad, Aunt E and Aunt J, and in later years, about her grandchildren and great-grandchildren. And most recently, I can hear Grandma calling “take me home”.

Our family touches us and gives us a sense of belonging and a place in this world. Grandma and Grandpa began their own circle of life many years ago, and I am here today because I am a part of it.

This is what makes me who I am, orange-handled crow bar and all.

Tear Down

All winter long I have been dreaming of the day I could begin to remodel my kitchen. My original plans were drawn up last winter, when there was still at least a foot of snow in the yard. They were erased, redrawn, erased again, and in the end, pared down quite a bit. One thing remains true to the original plan – rip down the paneling that has two layers of wall paper glued to it and put some drywall up!

I had one request for my husband. “Can you get me a crow bar, please?”

Much to my surprise, he actually came back from the shop with two. One was terribly greasy and heavy – it looked like something that could do some serious damage. The one I chose was lighter in weight with a cool orange handle. I thought to myself – if you don’t just do this now, it will never get done. After all, I know very well how intended projects go in this household.

I called Mickey in from the living room. “Would you please carry these coats down to the basement and hang them on the coat hooks at the bottom of the stairs?” I took the coat rack down. I moved the storage cabinet and bench to the other side of the room.

The trim around the doorway was so loose, it practically fell off. The wooden wallpaper-laden paneling came down in nice big sheets, exposing the old exterior house wall. Hey, this eating area used to be a porch! Look, that’s probably where the front door was. And next to it, a window. A few scribbles of an old green color crayon decorated the old and well-worn wood. I wonder who left me this art? A little boy that lived here? Or a little girl? These mysteries of yester year entangle in my brain. I called to Mickey again, “Hey, come in here. See this? You should get a marker and sign your name on this board too, before we cover it up.” Her name … is now preserved in time.

Ripping off paneling and trim pretty quickly, and rounding the corner to the current exterior house wall – guess what? Underneath all that paneling was drywall. The excitement mounted. Could this be true? Nothing good like this ever happens to me! Awesome! As I try to piece together this puzzle of days gone by – how this used to look, why they covered it up like they did, I really find myself wondering – if there is drywall under here, why in the world did they cover it with paneling? Why not texture and paint it like the rest of the house? I was tempted to call the people we bought this place from to ask. But I didn’t.

Oh, and by the way, my husband helped me take the last two pieces down. If by chance, at that moment, you had stopped in to visit, I would imagine you would have seen him standing there with the crow bar in his hand and thought – it sure is nice of you to do that for your wife.

But now you know the real story.

My Number One

Today my number one child turns twenty-nine.

Being number one can be good – or not so good.

You get a lot of new clothes that no one else has worn. All of your toys are new. Your parents have tons of time to spend playing with you and holding you. The photo album is filled and bursting at the seams. Your baby book actually has things written in it. You have your own room. Grandma and Grandpa ask to have you over. You don’t have to share anything. And your parents will give in to just about everything.

On the flip side, you have to endure your mom changing those outfits 4 times a day, just to make sure they all get worn once before you grow out of them. You sometimes wish you had someone your age to play with. And probably the biggest disadvantage – you have to train your mom and dad how to be parents. Yes, the number one child has the disadvantage of inexperienced parents.

At age one, dad handed him an ice cream cone and he didn’t know what to do with it so it went “plop” on the floor of the car. At two, his mom gave him hard candy and he nearly choked. And then at three, when he was just potty trained, Mom let him stand in front of the toilet like a big boy and the lid came crashing down. Ow! When he was five his mom put him on the school bus and waved good-bye - she didn’t take him on the first day to make sure he found his classroom.

In spite of growing up with inexperienced parents, my number one found his way. He learned how to do things for himself. He became an intelligent and creative man. He learned responsibility and thoughtfulness. He turned out just fine in spite of his incredibly inexperienced parents.

However, from time-to-time, I do have to let my daughter-in-law know that "no, I didn't teach him to be that way", or sometimes admit, "yes, I'm so sorry, he got that from me."

Happy Birthday, Dear Child of Mine!

Love, Mom

42 cents and an old Oldsmobile

I got home from work today and lay down on the sofa to watch the news. The cool breeze was blowing in the living room window – it felt good, but I was compelled by a shiver to grab the afghan and pull it up over my shoulders. I tucked it in snugly around myself and it wasn’t long before the drone of the news was far off in the distance.

In the course of just under an hour, I found myself navigating our big old 1976 burgundy colored Oldsmobile (the one that my dad had back when I got my driver’s license). Going up and down some pretty steep bluff terrain, I struggled a bit to get the old car to stop. It was apparent that the brakes were not working completely. I coasted into the gravel driveway of someone’s trailer. Two big, fierce looking dogs rushed over to the car, barking and jumping up on my door. Because the brakes weren’t working, I was able to coast right on through the driveway, out the other side and back onto the bluff road. Again, I pushed the pedal in to the floor, as hard as I could with my dress shoes on.

Around the corner and just like that, I was in a public building. Maybe it was a school. Or maybe it was a library. No, there were no books. I was in a restroom. There were private facilities and facilities right out in the open, in front of the massive wall of windows. I guess you could choose where to sit. Someone must have told me that for a mere 42 cents, you could enter the private facilities. I dug through the change in my purse, trying to count out the exact amount of coins needed. Before I got the change counted, I was suddenly conversing with some young people outside on the sidewalk. As I made my way up the hilly path (on foot, not sure where the car was) … I heard the telephone ring.

Thank goodness this dream was over.

Isn’t the mind mysterious?

Please don’t offer me any explanations – it sounds to me like my head is a jumble of messed up thoughts today – and I don’t think I care to know its meaning.

Unless it has something to do with the cost of postage.

The Valley

We took a drive to check the crops on the 95 acre parcel of land we purchased from my husband’s parents. As our pickup truck ever so slowly maneuvers over the bumpy field terrain, my husband is looking to the ground, seeing the small plants just appearing, almost overnight. Scrutinizing the soybeans and corn, his eyes are like a microscope as he looks for the tiniest hint of weeds.

My eyes are not looking to the ground. I look up and see the beautiful valley in front of me. The valley is overwhelmingly green with a forest of tall hardwood trees surrounding it from all three sides. Where the hills meet the flat, tiny corn and soybeans plants are emerging from the soil, just starting to make the rows that wind around the bend and over the knolls. Separating the two fields from each other is a narrow road, flanked on the right with a pond which stays filled with water with runoff from the hills. Deer and other wildlife are abundant. The valley is beautiful - just about as close to God as one can get here on earth.

As we drive along the field road my thoughts retreat to thirty years before, when his family was actively farming this same land, spending many hot summer days baling and chopping hay, when the cattle grazed in the nearby pastures and the hustle and bustle of the busy farm life wore his family ragged – in a good way. They were hard times, but they were good times. We didn’t notice the beauty of the valley then - we were too busy. But memories were made from those times – children grew up, had families of their own and have since moved off the farm. My husband’s parents have just sold the last piece of the home farm – the house, barns and outbuildings. There is no hustle and bustle here anymore. Left now is just the immense peace and quiet, the beauty … and the memories.

Although my husband isn’t looking at what I am looking at on our drive today, I know that deep down in his heart he sees the same beauty of the valley, and treasures the memories made here.

To My Brother, With Love

My brother requested this post – indirectly – so I’d like to take this moment to share with you as well, this entry from my October, 1999 journal. Some of you might even remember this one.

It all started two years ago, this fall. I decided to wallpaper the kitchen. Prepping the room for the paper hanger, I removed all the light switch and outlet covers. The paper hanger came, did the work and left. All was well.

Except for the one outlet cover and tiny little screw left behind. I searched high and low throughout the kitchen to find an outlet without a cover. None were to be found. So I strategically placed the cover and its tiny little screw into protective custody on the countertop, behind the flour canister, in anticipation of the day when it would find its home.

Two winters have come and gone, with a third beckoning at the door. The outlet cover and its tiny little screw have traveled up and down the countertop, from behind the flour canister to behind the radio – and back.

Yesterday, I decided to thoroughly clean off the countertop, from end to end, from top to bottom. I pondered for a moment what to do with the outlet cover and its tiny little screw. Like the flash of a lightning bolt, all of a sudden it came to me. Why not search other rooms in the house for a missing outlet cover? Okay. It didn’t take long and I found one missing in the laundry room – by the dryer. I jumped for joy, rejoicing in the fact that finally, my outlet cover and its tiny little screw would have a home.

With a quick “pouf”, I blew the dust balls (yes, dust balls – imagine that …) off the outlet and the surrounding wall. They fell down behind the dryer, into the dust ball haven, safe and sound from my hap-hazard vacuuming. I proceeded to put the outlet cover in place and gently took the tiny little screw and lifted it into position. Wait – I should get a table knife to use as a screwdriver. Back from the kitchen, I ever so carefully again resumed my position - turning the tiny little screw into the hole.

It made one turn and fell out of the hole. The outlet cover, along with the tiny little screw, fell down – deep down into the pile of dust balls behind the dryer – never to be seen. At least until the Maytag repairman comes again - which, according to my experience, is seldom.