Expecting

Feeling soft and warm,
Ripe as fruit in sun,
Full of orbs and circles,
Something has begun.

Fall of tears and laughter
Tender and yet strong
Trembling and fearful
Bursting into song.

Eyes that see forever
Angry with delay,
Patient as the Sphinx
Wanting it today.

History within,
Mother of the world,
Like a little kitten
By the fire curled.

Christmas Fun

I was getting quite out of sorts. My needle was going into my fingers more often than it was the fabric and the three inch high teddy bears I was making were coming out with scowls on their faces.

At this point I heard someone at the door and Krista Beth came in. After some conversation she decided to paint, so out came the water colors and the hearth was soon covered with drying pictures of trees and country-sides.

When the palled on her, the next venture was spicy Christmas tree ornaments that looked like little ginger bread men and women. I got in the act with her (why should she have all the fun?) and we rolled out and patted smooth and cut out until finally a very large family of little brown people were lying on tin foil under the stove and drying.

Next our attention turned to the little teddys. I had bought some Christmas tree ornaments, little red sleds with backs, the kind used to haul small children. Krista wanted to see if the bears would fit in them. I got them out and they were a perfect fit. Of course, her next thought was “snow” so she got on her coat and boots.

Soon her laughing face appeared at the window outside beckoning me to look. Sliding down the snow covered lawn were two thee inch long sleds, each with a tiny teddy steering manfully and coming to a graceful stop just before hitting the stone wall. It was a most comical sight.

Krista’s mother arrived and was shown this new accomplishment and found it as funny as we did. She ran home and got her camera.

The teddys enjoyed sliding for quite a while. Eventually the snow got quite covered with Krista’s boot tracks and the teddys would slide along, only to disappear completely in the boot tracks.

Finally Krista brought them in and went home. I sat back down on the couch and started sewing again. The painting were still strewed about the stove, the sink was full of kitchen utensils that smelled of cinnamon, clove and nutmeg; two tiny teddy bears lay drying on the hearth in postures of complete exhaustion, and my day had cheered up considerably.

Homing

A home like an only bird,
A home like a mole.
How I need a home
To cover my soul!

Home in a piano box,
Home in a tree,
Home in a railroad car.
What will it be?

A calf has a stall,
A fox has a den.
Where will I find
A home? When?

A home in a ball-room,
A home in a park,
Where will I go
When it gets dark?

A home under leaning boards
Out of the dew.
Where are you going?
I’m coming too!

My Dog

All dog owners feel that they possess the world’s best dog and I am no exception. “Twinkie” is Lapsa Alpso and Shih Tzu, half and half, with fluffy gray fur and a shaggy chrysanthemum face with beady black eyes that barely show. Her button nose protrudes hardly at all and she wears ruffled cream colored pantaloons.

This little witch has cast a spell over me. I never dreamed I’d be so charmed when she struts around holding her tail over her back, acting as though she owns the place.

When she wakes in the morning, her little disheveled head appears over the side of the bed at eye level. A grown rises in her throat. She groans until she gets me up to put her out. Sometimes I groan too! Even so, our little girl has a sweet voice that has a throaty quality that makes you want to hear it again and never annoys.

One of the best things about “Twinkie” is her cheerful disposition. She is the same through sickness or bumps and being stepped on, rarely even crying out, even though she often gets to going too fast to make the corners. Racing with Krista Beth, she’s an eight pound fuzz ball flying though the air at great speed.

She is not always rambunctious though she’s yet a puppy. She can be very restful. It’s relaxing to watch her lay on her back holding a sock in her mouth playing with the ends with her paws for long periods of time. Playing another quiet game, she walks slowly from room to room and back again with the socks in her mouth. I’d like to know what she things she’s doing. She reminds me of a little girl with her mother’s pocket-book making believe shop.

Of course she isn’t perfect and has several very doggy habits I’d just as soon she’d loose. Of course I’m sure I have habits that drive her crazy, too. Even so, I’m amazed how well we get along. She appears to think that I’m great and I admire her sense of humor and her irrepressible optimism.

I can leave “Twinkie” alone and be sure that she is entertaining herself as she is quite self-sufficient and does not become distraught when her mistress disappears down the driveway. On returning, I sometimes feel that this independent little home-keeper has had a better time than I did.

Thoughts on a Good Friend

This reflection was shared at the funeral of a good friend.

He was not afraid of anything;
He faced life with nothing in
his hand.
Old people, children, and dogs
felt safe around him.
He was a builder, impatient
with imperfection;
His temper flared sharing sparks
within
And more to know about this
interesting man.
He did things well or not at all.
Lucky are you who has anything
turned out by his hand.
He was patient in his work,
turning dull stones brilliant,
Discarding, cutting away and polishing
until the light
Caught and reflected the beauty
he had imagined.
Then he shared what he had created.
He was manly enough that he
didn’t hesitate to
Mention how the golden day lilies
stood out.
In front of the blue iris.
His interests encompassed the
ocean, sky and the land,
And he read and he learned more.
The earth produced for him
when he tilled it
And yielded up stones and artifacts
for his examination.
His humor could catch you unaware
Until you remembered what a
tease he was.
He was proud and deserved to be so,
And we are proud to have known him,
And sad that men like him are
so few.
His life was full of neighborly acts
and wonderfully generous.
His death weighs heavily upon us
Like Apache tears, grief turned to stone.

Psalm for Today

When the morning sky brightens
I thank my God.
When I get up from bed, I praise my Lord
Who created me and all living things.
When I think of my home, the green earth,
My gratitude knows no bounds;
Still, sometimes my way seems murky
With no clear path and I am troubled.
Even though I wander away from your great example,
You have promised to forgive.
What have I done to deserve such generosity?
How can I repay you for your faithfulness to me?
Keep me close, I pray, clear my vision and
Give me an understanding heart.
Instruct me in the way that leads to peace.

My Bed

**Happy Birthday, Gram!**

(Inspired by Vice President Rockefeller’s bed)

I have tried to make my bed attractive. The brightly colored pillow cases I made from calico to compliment the old patch-work spread my sister gave me because she knew I’d appreciate the tiny quilting stitches. The edge was badly frayed but I rebound it.

I bought the sheets on sale. The blankets are chosen for wash-ability and endurance. The pillows are soft, non-allergenic and two for five dollars. On a good day everything goes into the old wringer-type washer and is hung in the sun to dry.

The bed itself is about eighteen years old. It has no head board, just a bed and a mattress, regular size and adequate for my husband and me. After a busy day it brings rest, companionship and refreshment. To the eye, it is bright and clean. I enjoy making the sheets fresh and arranging the blankets neatly with no wrinkles.

Turned back in the evening the white sheets and bright pillows invite. When we are away and the night comes on the thought of it draws us home. It is all that one could want; sturdy and firm, yet soft enough for comfort. It keeps the cold away.

We give up our bed when we have company since it is the only double bed we own, and sleep on adjoining cots downstairs. These are also our winter beds since we shut off the upstairs to conserve energy. When the ones we love visit, cots spring up around us and we have the sight and sound of them sleeping near.

Beds take a lot of care. There is the daily making of the bed, the weekly washing and changing sheets and the seasonal cleaning and turning of the mattress. When the sheets wear thin we make them into pillow cases or crib sheets or use them for the backing of string quilts.

I suppose a bed can be a symbol of conquest or luxury or even art. To come it may represent a battlefield or nameless nocturnal fears.

My bed is an old friend.

Great Spirit God

I am very needy. I know that you promised to love me, but could you really? It’s not going to be easy. I’m very stubborn and on my very best days, very annoying. I try to get my own way in ways that even I do not understand. About sin, I try to avoid it but the worst part is that most of the time I don’t even know that I am committing it! I could use some help here. You have known me since I was conceived. That was a long time ago. I try to keep the bad part of me hidden. I expect that you still know me, but the good part wants to honor your trust in me. If you still want to take a chance ~ I’m here and in great need.

To God of the Rising Sun

January 31, 2001

When light begins to streak the sky
And dreams won’t fade by day,
Rock us back to sleep awhile
Till darkness burns away,
And sunshine laughs across the land,
Until we dare, by your grace,
To push the blankets back
And reach to touch your face.

Krista Beth at 2 ½

Fall of ‘77

“Give Gram a kiss!” and you wrap your arms and your whole body around me as tightly as my own skin. How I wish I could protect you always and that we could stay the way we are. But after hugs and kisses I release you and watch you walk away, a whole yard tall, your own person, even now.

For My Critique

My thoughts emerge from
chrysalis,
Exposed to light, with
shallow breath.
A vagrant breeze can
fold their wings.
Gossamer and near
to death.

Learning from a Sparrow

The cup before me is almost empty now but still I’m not inclined to leave this little room. For one thing, my chair is very comfortable and faces two Currier and Ives prints. There’s a clean bleakness about “The Blacksmith Shop in Winter” and a wide awake feeling in “Winter Morning,” with it’s fresh snowfall. On the pine hutch is a bronze school bell that has called many an impatient child in at recess time. A large cup is there that once kept neat the bushy moustache of an ancestor. A wooden mortar and pestle stands proudly retired beside a plate inscribed with the poem “The Quiet Room” written by Whittier when questioned about his Quaker faith. It is quiet here. The clock ticks and the fire crackles in the grate.

Outside the pines are beginning to bend in the wind and by the window the birds are clinging to the swaying suet rack. One rusty little sparrow has lighted on the mound of snow on the feeder, immersing his tiny legs completely and seems to be studying me. I shiver for him. Beneath him his friends squabble over the seeds. Are you waiting for your chance little fellow? Brave Mrs. Downy Woodpecker doesn’t mind the slow movement of my hand that lifts the cup to my lips. The plump chick-a-dees flit to the feeder and away. Ten minutes have passed and the sparrow still sits with his twiggy legs buried in the snow. There is a place on the feeder now. Come on down. Your legs must be so cold. The wind is blustery now and swirls the fine snow from the pines about. I’d like to go now but must see why the little fellow on the feeder does not move. Downy Woodpecker has replaced his mate on the suet, looking as though some-one splendid had touched him on the head and left a glowing mark. The quiet juncos are collecting the scatterings beneath the feeder. Twenty minutes have passed and the little sparrow, two inches high with freezing little sticks for legs still sits in the snow. Once the wind blew him but he fluttered his wings and braced his feet and held on. Does the red from my sweater attract him? Come down into the feeder where the wind is not so harsh. Your friends, the nut-hatches, are here walking upside down on the suet. I know you’re a contemplative bird but don’t be so stubborn. Have you a message for me? Is it that you can stand for thirty minutes in the freezing weather up to your feathers in snow and that you are really not a bird at all but a miracle? The sparrow cocked his head and dropped down into the feeder. So that was the message, my little friend.

Quick Silver

Quick-Silver

How quick she was
When she was small.
She’d dart into the street
Before our eyes.

How do you hold
A daughter you love
Made of silver
Running through your fingers?

Night

For the Night

Stay close beside me
Through this long night.
The cold dark is falling
And blurring my sight.

My strongest defenses
That stood through the day,
The evening has crumbled
And melted away.

See not my weeping;
Let my tears fall.
Just for a time let my
Weakness be all.

Give your strong succor
In this brief death,
Your hand on the pillow,
Your love, your warm breath.

If in your presence
I could but sleep,
Know not my dark dreamings
Your vigil keep.

When the warm sun
Melts the frost on the pane
Lean over and wake me
To living again.

Loss

The grass comes tender green out
of the ground.
Oh God, how I feel like crying.

The glorious clouds roll in from
the North.
Oh God, how I feel like crying.

The afternoon sun gilds the pine
boughs with gold.
Oh God, how I feel like crying.

The garden shoots spring up and
you’re not here.
Oh God, how I feel like crying.

Apples

It began as a game to entertain a group of older women. We were given paper and pencil and asked to list the names of as many kinds of apples as we could remember. As the flurry of passing paper and pencils subsided the whispering began and like merry children we had a desire to share the names before they were written down. Bright eyes and smiles of good humor made it seem that apples and their names had pleasant association for us.

“What was the one with the stripe?”
“Ben Davis.”
“Ben Davis.”
“Porter. That was a good apple.”
“Yes, a good apple.”

When the tally was in there were twenty-five names. The fine flavor and quality of the apples was discussed. I asked why we never hear some of these beautiful old names anymore. One woman said, “They can’t take the time and they don’t care that much about them anymore.”

Later, the names kept going through my head. Remember the rough, rusty skin of the Russet and the hard yellow inside? How good they were! Hear the thud of the soft-fleshed yellow Transparent as it falls to the ground. One bite shows the juice so gathered at the core that it really is transparent. In the old homes that housed three generations at once trips to the cellar for apples were frequent. When it was your turn remember how you lit the lamp and whistled your way down into the gloom to the hard packed dirt floor and the barrels of apples that kept well? And the way up through the shadows swelling of Wealthys, Courtlands, Starks?

Crab apples appeared on the table for special occasions, spicy, pickled, still in their little red skins and held daintily by the stem and eaten to the core. The crab apple tree in bloom was like a bridal bouquet.

Red and Yellow Delicious smell as good as they taste. Biting thru the red skin of the McIntosh into the cool white fruit is a pleasure most of us know. The Red Astrican was the first apple to show red in the fall and was a favorite of hungry children although apples didn’t have to be red. Remember eating green apples with salt, or just green apples, and remember green apple sauce? Were dried apples made from Kings, Wealthys, Baldwins?

Skiing home on a warm winter day did you stop and pick a shriveled apple from the tree and suck the thawing brown cider? A snow apple? A Northern Spy?

A Wolf River was a giant of an apple with a beautiful red color, to be eaten, yes, but also to be polished and shined and rubbed to a glow and arranged on platters where they could be seen, like a word fitly spoken, apples of gold in pictures of silver.

The Harvey has a solid name. Who wouldn’t want to try the flavor of the Winesap? Did they send you with a basket to gather wind-fall Pumpkin Sweets before the sharp beaks of the hens found them? Do you remember the boughs hanging low and heavy with Greenings and Bellflowers; the props under the branches of the Bitter Sweets and the Tolman Sweets and climbing the ladder and reaching --- away--- up---there---for the High Top Sweetings?

Plans

Our Plans for 1973

Spring and Summer

Throw away the packing boxes
Pound a nail in the wall and hang a picture
Fill the bird bath
Plant strawberries
Paint a picture
Work in the herb garden
Learn a psalm
Cultivate roses
Cane a chair
Hear the whippoorwill
Notice as the sound of the night train approaches, whistles at the crossing and fades away
Write a letter
Follow an old stone wall
Visit a friend
Fill the cookie jar and invite a grandchild for a visit
Ride the bike
Watch for lady slippers
Take an interest in someone young
Listen to the rain on the leaves coming nearer
Sleep to the sound of rain on the roof
Feel the wind freshen
Wake up in time for the birds early morning chorus

Fall and Winter

Fill the bird feeders
Go apple picking
Bake bread and share it
Hook a rug
Finish Pilgrims Progress
Walk in the path of moonlight thru the Groce
Rake leaves
Play the auto harp and sing a hymn
Make a pot of tea
Write a poem
Gather rose hips and herb
Listen to the lonesome owl
Kindle a fire
Learn bird calls
Ask friends in
Cook a stew in the iron kettle in the fireplace
Shovel a path
Tell our young families how much we love them and how proud we are
Be very quiet and watch our pines fill up with snow

Anonymous

To ‘Anon”

You always seem to say it best, Anon.
Even better than all the rest, Anon.
From ancient times up to the present day
Your works have proved that you are here to stay.
When did I first begin to like your style?
When did you move me first from frown to smile?
The potent words and then the dash – Anon.
The way you had your say and then were gone.
While authors die though talented and clever,
Anonymous, your rich pen writes forever.

Family Secrets

Our family is really strange where reading material is concerned. One daughter subscribes to many magazines and a few she picks up at the magazine stands. I have watched her do this and she always picks one from the back. He reason for this is that she likes to be the very first one to leaf through it. That little bend in the front page that we make as we snap the pages over takes a little of the bloom off for her.

If I want to look at one of her magazines before she does, I do it surreptitiously, lifting the pages carefully so there will be no tell-tale bends.

One day I didn’t feel well. She handed me one of her new magazines saying, “You may look at it first.” That meant a lot.

My other daughter doesn’t like to return books. If you lend her one, be sure your name is written in it or she might think it belongs to her. Some times I think I have loaned her a books and she thinks I have not.

I have solved this little problem rather well, I think. I pick out a nice book that I really like and give it to her for Christmas. Then I visit her for a couple weeks and read the book.

I want to be fair. My memory is none too good, so it may be that I haven’t lent her the books and that they are just laying around somewhere I can’t find them, but this is true:

I do remember one book I loaned her. I had just read “Australia Felix” and thought she might enjoy it. Twelve years later I asked her for it. She said, “But I haven’t read it yet!

Autumn

Autumn Ruse
(Dexter, ME)

This day of autumn leaves and wind and haze enticed us,
The child and I went our and as our rustic ruse,
We took a rake, to form our plausible excuse.

The wind plays havoc with our work. The child is sober,
Although among the leaves, so many of them blown,
The tiny raking makes a small joke of its own.

This rustling drowns the good rich sound of our own silence
This motion interferes with looking at the sky;
Disrupts the nakedness of things that bare hills glorify.

Let those who know this clarity exonerate us.
Come, child, we’ll lie upon this pyre of leaves together
And look up at the rudiments of wind and weather.

Signs of Old Age

When my daughters are around, I never get to finish a sentence. They say that they’d let me if I wasn’t so slow. Our conversations go like this.

Harriet: Liz, you know that guy –

L: What guy?

H: The one from Pennsylvania.

L: Ralston?

H: Yes, Ralston. His son – what’s his name?

L: Ed?

H: Yes, Ed. He said I looked like that television program in this jacket.

L: What television program? Dallas?

H: No. Young guys -

L: St. Elsewhere?

H: No, Florida.

L: Miami Vice?

H: Yes!

H: Liz, will you take that er---

L: Basket out to the car?

H: Liz, you know that fellow er -- the one that tried to er – sell me –

L: The insurance policy?

The other day at the mall we came out from shopping to drive home and I noticed how rusty my car was getting. I said, “O Liz, I’ve thought so much of my nice little blue car and it’s getting all rusty! What am I going to do!”

“I wouldn’t worry about it, Mom, it isn’t your car!”

Memories

Here is an untitled poem my Gram wrote when she was just a teenager.

(1936 or 1937)

It’s a memory we’ve been thinking of,

Oh, quite a lot of late

It’s a little while haired woman

Who’s running from our gate.

Oh, for she was just a neighbor then

Who came to call and stayed

Just a little late and hurried home

To have the table laid.

And the men folk coming from the field

Would find a hearty fare

And a restful place and comfort

Pervading everywhere.

It has seemed to us that no kind deed

Was left to go undone

No word unsaid that might have helped

Or cheered a weary one.

I’m remembering how often we

Might find them sheltering there

Oh, a child or two beside their own

It was their way to care.

For the ones who suffered from the blow

Ill fortune often struck

And in sacrificing their own ease

Would nurse them back to luck.

Then, a warm hand clasp did often yield

Some money for this friend

And a neighbor gave a neighbor fruit

To help is body mend.

To the milk man on a stormy day

He lent a cap and coat

Or went to see an ailing cow

In answer to a note.

We’ll never see the old white house

But what we shall recall

All the mellowed years of friendship sweet

It offered to us all.

Oh, forgive us for remembering

But memory calls late

And a little white haired woman

Is running from our gate.

Safety of a List Doesn't Always Last

Here is something my Gram had published in our local newspaper. It is dated January 26, 1986.

Safety of a List Doesn't Always Last

I have heard of people who have total recall and do not have to write things down in order to remember them.

I have heard of them but if you will show me someone who doesn’t make lists, I’ll show you someone who borrows sugar from his neighbor.

Everything is written down at my house; what to do, when to do it, whom to do it with and where. Even so, things can get confusing and I end up knowing what to do but not when and where, or even when but not where.

I feel safer with a list; a Christmas list, shopping list or grocery list, something you can hold in your hand and focus on as you rub shoulders with other shoppers.

I sometimes run across old Christmas lists – things that I planned to make and give away. Frequently there are items that never materialized. There can be incorporated into the current list if you are an optimist.

The gardening list is one of my favorites. January is the month for this.

“Nasturtiums in tubs”

“Impatients in the shade”

“Six cucumber plants”

And you are out in the back yard and all is green even though the wind is howling and the snow blows outside.

I lost my shopping list yesterday. It has happened before. I start out with it clasped in my left hand, ready for consulting as I move from aisle to aisle and store to store.

Something catches my eye. A sale! I move into the crowd. Is it a good buy?

I put the list down to feel the goods. Perhaps someone jostles me and I retrieve my gloves but the list is forgotten and is not missed until I am back in the car.

Now comes the hard part as I try to remember what I had written down.

Under A – apples. Got those last week.

Under B – beans. Got those, too.

Let’s try another way. What had I used up? Butter? Eggs?

I snatch up a candy bar that has caught my fancy. Fish? Potato sticks look good for munching. Meat? I must have had cookies on the list. Green vegetables? I suddenly remember bananas. They were on the list!

On my way to them my arm moves out and my hand closes over a jar of nuts. Before I know it, breakfast bars, marshmallow fluff and Twinkies are in the cart.

Checkout time.

Can this be my shopping cart? Where did all this junk food come from? And the $64 question: Can I live for another week on this?

Back at home again, groceries put away, I think of the list: Is it on the counter still? Has the clerk found it and thrown it away? Did she read my cramped scrawl and try to decipher my humble needs?

Drifting off to sleep, I imagine the list wafting down through the darkness, settling on the floor. I hear the hum of the janitor’s vacuum. The tiny patch of white slowly disappears and all is dark.

Favorite Things

by Harriet Niles

Fire places

Apples in wooden bowls

Children

Moonlight

Warm Sweaters

Merry-go-rounds

Winks

Homemade bread

Smooth stones

Brown eyed Susans

Cast out Fear

As the deer grazes again

When the scent of danger has gone

And the rabbit continues her way

When the eagles shadow has passed.

As the fox creeps out from his den

When the baying and horn start to fade,

So soon let forgetting begin

And all love cast out fear and hold fast.

New Shirt

I think I may have the shirt Gram writes about here... or perhaps it is another, later replacement.

The new shirt came in the mail today, deep red with a rich soft nap. If I should name the manufacturer it would be familiar to you. The old shirt was still whole although it was faded and the buttons didn’t match anymore. You wouldn’t believe how old it was. Both girls wore it as they grew up and when they were little it was soft on their cheeks and noses and drank their tears when they cried. It was such a good fit across the shoulders and knew the curve of my arm like no other shirt. It didn’t mind the garden dirt either.

I suppose it’s childish to feel loyalty to something made of cloth but if I could have the old navy blue back again you could have the red. Why is new good and why is faded and old not good too? Oh, I suppose I’ll get used to it but, because of the way I am, it is going to take me a while.

The Fear of the National Geographic

I've reached the end of one of my Gram's journals. There are several more to read, but I am feeling the need to take a break for a while. In addition to the writings and poetry I've shared here, there are many entries in which she writes about her daily life. It is such a blessing to have this account, but the process of reading also brings up a lot of emotion for me as I realize again and again just how much I miss her.

The next few weeks of my life will be consumed by Vacation Bible School, Campmeeting, dog training, and visits from family. I will pick up here again in the fall. For now, I leave you with this fun piece about my Gram's "Fear of the National Geographic." ~ KB

Fear of the National Geographic

I don’t subscribe to the National Geographic magazine but it is often found in doctor’s and dentist’s offices. This may, in part, contribute to the way I feel about it.

It is truly amazing, a real lodestone of knowledge. Erotic flora and fauna tempt the eye and the mind. One can look down on rain-forests or on a patchwork pattern of cultivated land or see the world from an insect’s point of view. One can climb the highest mountain, build pipe lines, or irrigate the desert, all in living color. Bats cling together in caves; lizards bask in the sun; lions gather at water holes and the sun is setting over a golden sea in Hawaii when a door opens and a voice says, “You’re next!”

On the way home the land looks flat and colorless compared to the highly colored pages. I imagine wildebeests and elands scattering before the car. At my driveway, elephants and their young move ponderously aside. Monkeys chatter in the trees and the pitiful contrived face of she who is perhaps the mother of us all appears before my eyes.

The sky darkens with volcanic ash and molten lava creeps down a blackened mountainside. A cedar forest in Maine waits to be inundated by the sea in order to form coal thousands of years hence. Winds erupt and trees fall before it like scattered toothpicks. Stars are born and die, flares appear on the sun.

Beneath my feet the plates of the earth are grinding slowly toward each other.

Anniversary Poem

July 18, 1981

45^th Wedding Anniversary

As ocean tides, our spirits rise and fall.

We try to look for things to make us glad,

And think of each of you, the ones we call

The best of everything we’ve ever had.

Our faithful daughters and loyal sons,

Together with us tumbling down the stream

Awash with stones, both smooth and jagged ones,

Until sharp edges with some polish gleam.

And looking at the places where we were,

In channels that were turning, changing, growing

To waters calm and shores that we prefer,

Our pride is in the constancy you’re showing.

So in our arms your little girls we fold

Express our love, and place the world on ‘hold.’

Treat Me Like A Stranger

Treat Me Like a Stranger

(December 1996)

Treat me like a stranger

With deference and charm.

Let my tender sensibilities

Never suffer harm.

Our fond companions vanish

Leaving us alone;

No smile upon my face.

You are stone.

Treat me like a stranger

With deference and charm

Let my tender sensibilities

Never suffer harm.

Stoneware Plates

My Stoneware Plates

I would like to tell you about a couple old plates I have in my cupboard. They are perfectly white old stoneware of a generous size and so heavy that they are practically indestructible. Since there are only two of them I never used them when company came.

My husband and I became very fond of these plates. I think it was because the food looked so good on them, the green of the peas and the orange of the carrots standing out against the stark white and there was room on them to keep each portion separate.

On these plates, the first fruits of the garden became a celebration, and my husband’s home-baked beans became fit for a king. We liked to draw our chairs up to each side of the little table with our plates laden before us and relax in each other’s company. Sitting there, we knew we were lucky. I’m glad we didn’t take it for granted and we expressed our appreciation of the food and our circumstances often.

Since he died, few things evoke his presence more than these empty white plates. They stay in the cupboard now.

I still enjoy my life. I have a loving family, my friends care and I have more to do than there is time to do it in, but when meal time comes around a sandwich in front of the TV does not compare to our own simple meals for two served up on the old stoneware plates.

…

Just as I finished writing this, Krista Beth came in and asked, “What are you writing, Gram?” I asked if she’d like to read it. When she had read it all she said, “Gram, I’ll come over and eat with you.”

So next morning she arrived, fresh from her shower, bringing bacon borrowed from her mother. We laid a pretty cloth and napkins, fixed the eggs, bacon and toast and put on some of Hannah’s raspberry jam. We sang the familiar old blessing, lit the candles and enjoyed each other’s company.

There were only two of the old white stoneware plates before us but that morning, I’m sure there were three present at the table.

Hallmark

April 14, 1991

My eyes have been known to water when choosing a Hallmark card for a friend. I never choose one with a long verse since they are bound to be too saccharin if they run on too long. The succinct ones are better – “I’m proud of you” – or “I’m glad you are my friend.” – simple sentiments one could easily write ones-self if one choose. But if you did, would they think you were too cheap to pay a buck for the card?

Perhaps the fact that the message is second hand dilutes the raw emotion enough to make it acceptable. Too bad. But good for Hallmark!

Gardening at 81

May 26, 1999

Help! I’m having a geriatric crisis! I always thought it would happen, but not yet. This year I can’t get down on my knees to plant my seedlings. The poor spindly things are looking out the window at the garden. I hope they can hold out until I find a garden seat where I can sit and work. I’m having therapy and I think it is helping – meanwhile I remember and thank God for all those years I worked in my garden on my knees.

Tea Party

Gram loved sharing tea parties with her good friends.

Dropping In

(October 8, 1988)

The crumpled napkin by the place,

A drop of tea inside the cup,

A crumb or two, the chair pushed back

Where you moved it getting up;

A breath of freshness in the room,

A damp spot where you jacket laid –

I watch the rain come down and smile

And think about the change it made.

Delicious Moments

Delicious Moments

Fall 1994

I get up in the cold to set the thermostat. Crawling back between the red flannel sheets that still hold the heat from by body I stretch my toes down to where Twinky lies outside the covers. The warmth spreads up and over me. I never want to leave this place.

Coming home on a winter day, I unlock the door and step inside. For an instant I catch the odor that I grandchildren say is always the same – part stove wood; part old cottage. The wide room pleases me. The warmth melts me. The pictures look down and smile. I’m home.

The sleet stinging the windows is the only sound as the street lamps spot-light the icy road. One by one the cars come in for the night. Everything waits. Beams from headlights signal one more car. I hear the crunch as the car turns in. She’s home.

The Sun

Gram was an environmentalist even before it became fashionable!

Love Song to the Sun

(After flora carbons)

(Spring 1991)

Your presence means life to me,

Your absence spreads dismal pall.

I seek you; come too me as I wait.

We’ll be together, nothing between us

One last time before my courage fails

I know it’s no fault of yours.

Funny, isn’t it? And isn’t it always so?

Others have caused our misery,

And now the truth separates us

And keeps us from our old familiar ways.

How can I live without you,

And yet how can we be together as we were?

Come nearer, I lift my face to your gentle touch,

You who I have loved, who melt my cares

Away and make me happy

Let your kisses be innocent as once it was

As you cover me one last time.

Oh, I know I’ll catch a glimpses of you

As I busy myself and think with downcast eyes

Of all the joy we knew

And never imagine I don’t love you still

And long for the old times when I was happy

And singing in your presence

But you can never touch me as you did

And I’ll be so unhappy as I avert my face

While walking by, always in the shadows.

Ouch!

Here's a little something that folks who live in Maine, or who have visited Maine in Spring, can appreciate!

All About Mosquitoes

June 9, 1989

It has been a rainy, damp spring with the warm torpid atmosphere that favors these minuscule masters of the fine art of torture. Even as I write one hovers over me droning it’s monotonous hum.

It is impossible to keep them out. When the door opens to let the dog in a miasma of mosquitoes hangs close over her, and rides in on human inhabitants, plying their bloodsucking technique all the way.

Yesterday when cooking, one was attracted to the batter and I couldn’t continue until I’d stopped and dispatched him. Later, when I got in the car I killed one on the upholstery and had to get out and go about removing the blood stain.

Gardening has been difficult even though I dress like a nun and apply enough fly dope to keep humans away. I come in with a mottled forehead, bloody bites all along my hair line, and itchy neck and a bite strategically located to give me a black eye.

When we take out morning walk we gather little switches with the leaves attached and walk along switching ourselves right and left.

At night; at night with the light out, you are left at their mercy and they have none. As I lie there, I can hear them approach, and then more than one, as they sing in different keys. I wait as they gather, the taking both hands I swat myself silly then lie with my ears ringing, listening for the drone that will signal failure. Another technique is to quickly pull up the sheet, trapping them under it and slap at them.

If only they’d light and bite and go away. It’s the idea of the tiny helicopters hovering and changing their minds and hovering somewhere else and then changing their minds again.

I refuse to fog them away of zap them away as these methods take too many innocent victims but I do hope that we have lots of fly catching birds that hatch very many fledglings each with a huge appetite.

Glass Face Mountain

This is a piece I also posted on my (other) blog. However, I think it belongs here as well. And I take strength from these words ~ much needed strength. Thanks Gram!

Glass Face Mountain
(May 24, 1997)

Glass Face Mountain, look through the
morning mist
And across the river.
See us gathered at the window to
bear witness.
You have heard the killing word
spoken here,
Seen the numbing glance that destroys
And from which there is no returning.
There is a cold season when ice, like
glass, covers you face
And the leaves lie beneath the snow
then return a tender green.
We are on the side of life!
See us here at the window.
See us clearly as the mist rolls away
And the heron fishes the river.
We are not hollow people.
Our lips do not speak death.
Our eyes are warm to people and
all things beautiful.
We will keep the faith and though
we scatter
And though hollow people walk the earth,
Glass Face Mountain, until our
ashes mingle with the earth from
which you give rise,
Know that We Are Alive!

(Glass Face Mountain is in Oxford County, Maine near where my Aunt Diana used to live.)

Fashion for the Seventy Year Old

My Gram was a very fashionable woman. Here are her words of wisdom on the topic:

Fashion for the Seventy Year Old

You have probably recognized by now that all parts of your 70 year old body are not as attractive was they used to be.

Let’s talk about your shoulders. Have you basked them in the Florida sun until they resemble old leather? We told you not to, so wear a soft cotton blouse in an attractive pastel shade to cover them and reflect the heat. Sleeves should come at least to the elbow since few of us can pass the upper arm test. The exceptions are those who have been skinny all their lives. Take a good look at the rest of your arm and chances are you’ll want a long sleeve with a ruffle at the wrist.

Swan necks are few at seventy whether it be Audrey Hepburn or your next door neighbor. A little stand up collar, a turtle neck, or a soft scarf to reflect some color to your face will do nicely. An exception is the plump lady with a lovely skin who can wear the boat neck and look well. We are all envious.

This same lady will have to be sure her skirt fits well and is long enough that it does not ride up when she bends over. Don’t be beguiled into those too short skirts. We graduated from them. Since longer skirts are in vogue we can be comfortable, smart, and warm all at the same time.

Panty hose have been a boon to women since their invention. Sometimes it’s a struggle to get into them especially in hot sticky whether. I’ve found that a size larger than the instructions suggest ends the struggle without making that much difference. Of course the worst sin you could commit would be to wear wrinkled panty house so don’t go too far! Enjoy the different colors they present, also weights. We no longer have to choose between being warm or smart looking.

Many seventy year olds despair of finding something comfortable to wear on their feet. Be patient. If the size eight’s are a little too tight and the eight and a half’s are too loose, have the salesperson put in an innersole. If the shoes are sill not comfortable do not wear them for another minute. Try sneakers. If Sybil Shepard can dance in them, so can you. Wear them for your morning walk and keep wearing them all day. You’ll have many to choose from, and you’ll think you are walking on a cloud. Comfort is “In.”

We tend to lose our high coloring as we age. Don’t let the years rob you of your right to stand out in a crowd. Bright, bold colors and patterns will keep you from blending into the wall paper and let people know that you are still here to be reckoned with.

We should be protecting the delicate skin on your faces now. A good way to do it is to bring back those hats that men find so attractive. Choose enough of a brim to shade your provocative eyes and decorate it to match your outfit.

I’ve told you some things we can do fashion-wise, but if you are seventy and can still dress yourself, my advice is; don’t take any advice from anybody. Do just exactly as you please!

New Song

Here is one I previously posted to my (other) blog. It definitely belongs here as well.

I’m Learning a New Song

(Winter 1998)

My song fell away into a minor key.

I can’t sing it any more.

The notes came heavy and dark

That had always been my song

That I sang with confidence and strength.

No more. I’m learning a new song,

One I can sing with joy.

I haven’t sung for a while –

My voice is whispery and weak

And I must choose the notes with care.

I’m taking a green note for growing

And a gold note for warmth

And maybe later many shades,

But for now I’m working on the green and gold.

Hannah in Her Garden

Both Gram and her good friend, Hannah, are gone now. I like to imagine them gardening in Heaven ~ making everything beautiful, lush and green.

Hannah’s in Her Garden

Hannah’s in her garden

With trowel in her hand

She makes the buds and blossoms grow

Just the way she planned.

Hear her tuneful whistle

Come drifting through the trees.

Her cap pulled low, she’s digging,

And down upon her knees.

Sunshine on her shoulders,

She loves the feel of sod;

The honey-bees and bird song

Reminding her of God.

Talking to her flowers,

Her hands amidst their roots

So gentle in their delving

Among their greening shoots.

Underneath the blue sky

She smells the pine and herb

And feels the sense of wonder

That nothing can disturb.

Hannah’s in her garden

And everything I fine,

When Hannah’s in her garden

And I’m in mine.

Great Spirit

(Fall 1998)

Let me come near and touch your face,

Then I will know that you are.

You made the world and I am in awe.

Incline to me.

Light the spark of my understanding.

Try me and test my strength.

Help me grow in spirit

And honor those who came before

And be fully the person you created.

When trials come, cover me and those I love

With your Word that will make us wise.

When I walk the path that narrows

Hold out your hand and I will come to where you are.

Junk Mail

My Gram was concerned about recycling even before it became fashionable!

Spring 1995

I recently gave a donation to my favorite charity. A short time later I received a letter stating that my donation was again due in the amount that I had originally given. Did I like it? I did not.

Nor do I like address labels, membership cards, ribbons, pins, pencils, pens, Easter cards, Christmas cards, stationary, window stickers, key rings, Sweepstakes, and you name it.

And please don’t thank me. Use the paper and postage to better advantage. I don’t like my address given to every Tom, Dick and Harry either.

Remember when we met the neighbors by collecting for charity?

But we are living in the real world. Please tell me that junk mail can be recycled. I could save a forest.

Listen to the Rain

I thought this was appropriate for a rainy New England Day:

Listen to the Rain

(October 23, 1999)

Listen to the rain, God.

Listen to the rain.

Isn’t it the best sound

When things are dry and sere?

You never sleep, God.

When I’m asleep in my warm bed

And I hear the rain on my roof

It brings me joy and my heart

Is no longer parched and dry.

All the furry creatures of the forests

Are in their nests

And you are sending rain.

God, thank you for the rain.

Flying High

Fall 1989

This was the summer that Jeff buzzed the cottage. His plane would come out of no-where flying low and roar over and I’d go out and wave. Sometimes he’d tip his wings and sometimes would put on a real show; barrel rolls that seemed headed into the ground until Liz and I would cover our eyes. I remember one day the plane seemed as graceful as a ballet dancer as it reached up into the sky and turned and slipped over and down. He’d sometimes come over at dusk with his lights on. One night I was getting ready for bed; washing my face. The plane roared over and the face in the mirror grinned.

I went up with him a couple times; once over the campground where you could see how the ball ground has been cut out of the forest and the roofs of the cottages partly under the trees. Peter-Paul Church was very plain to see and all the roads winding every which way.

Another time I flew at dusk down to Portland where he practiced instrument landing and once landed on the landing strip and we watched a big jet zooming at take off. I was thrilled to see Portland from the air all lighted up like a Christmas tree. The sunset was fading into the night sky and a slight luminous fog was over all, and the moon began to be golden and the lights began to glow until it was like Christmas.

A Little Something for Mother's Day

My Gram had two daughters and three granddaughters. In honor of Mother's Day here is a poem that Gram wrote about me and my mother in 1995.

Mother and Daughter

(Winter 1995)

When I see them leaning

against each other,

Brown heads together, alike

as two peas,

Talking quietly and smiling –

My heart celebrates

and rings

like

a

bell.

Prayers

(Winter 1995)

Lord who changed water to wine

at the wedding feast

Take my imperfect love for you

and make it whole.

Make it whole and magnify it.

Take it Lord, make it whole and

magnify and magnify –

Magnify it until there is enough

for all,

Where there is lack of love, let there

be plenty.

Let the disenfranchised abound in love.

Like the loaves and fishes, let there

be left-over love.

‘Till there is no fear, there is no hate

and our spirits love unhindered.

Let all be replete, satisfied and at peace.

Here is my imperfect love, Lord;

Make it whole and magnify it.

Make it whole, magnify.

Make it whole,

Make it whole.

Twinkie

Now for something a little lighter.... Here is a cute story Gram wrote about her dog, Twinkie!

Dirty Dog

1992

I woke up to the number one most disgusting sound on earth, a loud slurping sound down where my dog nestled near my feet. I nudged her with my toe and fell back asleep.

Five minutes later I awoke to the number two most disgusting sound on earth, my dog gnawing her toenails. At my nudge, she flew into action, dancing all over the bed and walking up my body to sniff in my ear and rake her claws through my hair. It took a lot of energy to over power her and wrestle her down to a prone position. My heart was pounding as I tried to relax for a short nap.

I found myself bolt upright. She had gagged and picturing what might happen to my bed I was ready to pitch her off but she seemed to be O.K. so I lay back down. She stretched herself full length and rolled around groaning and snuffling, getting herself awake. I got up and hitched her outside.

I had gotten nicely settled back into my warm bed when she began to bark. In deference to the neighbors I got her back in the house.

By now it was almost time to get up so I dressed and prepared breakfast. I got her dog food ready for her and called but she didn’t come. Yes, she was back on my bed circled in a snug little ball with her eyes shut tight!

Dirty Dog!

Again

I learned it all before

I know it all again

How great is life and love

And yet so much of it is pain.

God that I run to!

And are we always hurled

Into the fire of life,

In every life,

In every world?

To me Gram always seemed joyful and happy. She loved to laugh. It was (and still is) difficult to remember that she went through some very tough times in her life. That she endured and kept her faith and her laugh gives me hope.

One Side of Me

November 1997

It’s not from “The Bards Sublime”

It’s a reedy little thing, really,

But it’s mine, my song.

I sing it to the woods and trees.

And to my garden. People

Don’t enjoy it particularly,

That’s O.K. Why do I sing? (Badly at that!)

I don’t know. But I have a feeling

That God knows. Knows why

I kiss the flowers and love the trees

And sing.

You do know, God, don’t you?

You do. You do.

God says “Yes!”

(But you can’t hear him.)

Listening

Here is a piece I recently incorporated into a sermon. I was preaching on Becoming the Body of Christ: The Ears of Christ ~ Hearing as Jesus Hears. I thought this fit right in:

Listening

November 1992

A friend told me that she was conversing with a group when it dawned on her that each one was only waiting a chance to talk. No-one at all was listening.

Most of us has a real longing to be heard, hoping that by being heard we’ll be better understood. Of course if we’re to be better understood some one has to be listening.

Sometimes I get tired of listening to other people talk! Once I interrupted a “talker” with an opinion of my own but there was no satisfaction in it. The “listener” has to be willing to listen, and most of the time I am, and I’ll tell you why. I have been listened to.

Some-one once asked me a question. I had to dredge the answer up from past unhappy years and tears began to flow. I was made to feel that it was all right and they were patient and listened and I felt heard and comforted. Sometime it’s not easy to express feelings and thoughts and if you listen carefully and with understanding you might hear something that no-one else has ever had the privilege to hear.

Writing in the Garden

My grandmother was an avid writer, especially in her later years. Often, when the weather permitted, she wrote while sitting in her garden. But even when she couldn't do that, she wrote about gardening. Here is a poem written in May of 1992:

Who shall inquire of the season,

Or question the wind where it blows?

We blossom and ask no reason

The Lord of the Garden knows.

We are the roadside flowers,

Straying from garden grounds,

Love of idle hours,

Breakers of ordered bounds.