There’s nothing much harder than getting back in the groove of our real rhythm after the constant excitement of kids. When my own children would go to visit their father in the summer, I’d close off their rooms so as not to miss them so badly. As long as their doors were closed, I could pretend that they were only sleeping, not gone.
Even though we housed Ginette, Solomon, Kathleen, Caleb and max in our RV, they still infused our lives and home with all manner of energy. It won’t help that I don’t have to see the inside of the empty RV; I’ll miss the daily delights that they provided in our home and in our lives.
While life has given us more surprises than we care to count; kids bring the kinds of surprises on which we thrive. I love to see my own life through the lenses of those who see every moment as an adventure to be embraced. Who knew there were crawfish to be caught in our creek, or that only certain salamanders are indigenous to our area? Max never gave up on looking for a crawfish big enough to boil.
A museum is just a collection of stuff until seen through a child’s eyes. Who else could be so fascinated by a phone booth or an ancient tooth? Watching children in the water is to observe absolute freedom from the laws of gravity and girth. The big kids can be carried around by the little kids, and you never know who will best whom in a battle.
Now that our nieces and nephews have come and gone, there’s no one to look forward to greeting me in the morning with the anticipation of a new adventure every day. Our breakfasts will go back to basics with no excuse to fire up the waffle iron or pancake griddle. There will be no Caleb drawing dinosaurs with tutoring from a big brother Solomon on how many toes each type had. We won’t have any little fingers flying along our keyboard, or Kathleen’s lilting voice reading original verse.
We also won’t have zucchini muffins exploding out of little faces, or ice cream bowls becoming projectiles across our table. There will be no more blood-curdling screams because of unseen anthills being stepped on, or in-depth analysis of every morsel of food presented at a meal. White bread will become a thing of the past, as will daily dessert.
Richard loves routine; I always anticipate surprises -- to the point that I can’t get comfortable with rituals or routine. It’s easier to live on the edge than to get good and comfortable only to have the rug ripped out from under me. Having families with parents enjoying their children while we take care of the basic needs creates an atmosphere of controlled chaos that’s a pure joy to share – all of the fun with none of the responsibility. It’s like being a big sister again.
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Syrup and Salamanders
What a wild ride life is when you have four children in tow! All foods have to be carefully counted so that we’re prepared with an answer to, “How many cookies (pancakes, pieces of bacon, Jelly Bellies, etc.) are we allowed to have?” There’s a limit imposed on everything, lest the need to best one’s brother overcome one’s ability to be fair-minded and prudent. We allow two sodas per day to cut down on the number of unfinished and forgotten cans of pop we find on every flat surface when the kids leave any given room.
It took two and a half pounds of thick-sliced bacon and a triple batch of pancakes to soothe the savages. We offered four varieties of pancake syrup, but Ginette informed me that, since her children float their pancakes on a sea of syrup, perhaps we were being overly generous in offering real maple syrup as an option.” Besides which,” she said, “I doubt they’d appreciate the difference.” When the children heard this, they were incensed. Howe dare their mother impugn the sensitivity of their palates! This led to doling out of drizzles of real maple syrup because all of life can be a learning experience.
The only things Caleb and Max have fished for are crawfish. While they, with the assistance of their older sister Kathleen, have caught quite a few, none of them are big enough for the boiling pot, so mostly they’ve let them go. Their big game hunting has netted them a salamander which led to the purchase of a field guide to amphibians from Coker Creek Gallery, and another from Charles Hall Museum Gift Shop. These learning experiences can be great economic engines.
The salamander, now named “Rocko,” has also led to discussions of sleeping arrangements for the newest member of their family. While the boys want him to sleep in the RV with them, their mother insists that the air conditioning would kill Rocko. Kathleen was greatly relieved to hear that she didn’t have to bunk with an amphibian.
The Charles hall Museum was a big hit with Ginette and her children. The eclectic collection of guns, toys, telephones, Indian artifacts, phonographs, photographs, automobiles, and other items for any interest had them intrigued enough to want to return another day -- with Richard included in our group, to add running commentary.
We’ve seen Bald River Falls, swam at Indian Boundary Beach, collected crawfish from our creek, and saved salamanders (from what, I don’t know). Solomon and Richard’s pizzas were a big hit, as was our ice cream sundae party. The traveling road show will now head down to Georgia to visit other relations.
Richard can relax for a day, as I’m heading to Georgia to play at Vogel State Park with Ginette and Rachel and their children before over-nighting in Atlanta with Holly. The RV refrigerator is bulging with goodies from the garden, so I’m sure to have much cooking and canning to keep me from being too blue when I return to our House in the Holler.
It took two and a half pounds of thick-sliced bacon and a triple batch of pancakes to soothe the savages. We offered four varieties of pancake syrup, but Ginette informed me that, since her children float their pancakes on a sea of syrup, perhaps we were being overly generous in offering real maple syrup as an option.” Besides which,” she said, “I doubt they’d appreciate the difference.” When the children heard this, they were incensed. Howe dare their mother impugn the sensitivity of their palates! This led to doling out of drizzles of real maple syrup because all of life can be a learning experience.
The only things Caleb and Max have fished for are crawfish. While they, with the assistance of their older sister Kathleen, have caught quite a few, none of them are big enough for the boiling pot, so mostly they’ve let them go. Their big game hunting has netted them a salamander which led to the purchase of a field guide to amphibians from Coker Creek Gallery, and another from Charles Hall Museum Gift Shop. These learning experiences can be great economic engines.
The salamander, now named “Rocko,” has also led to discussions of sleeping arrangements for the newest member of their family. While the boys want him to sleep in the RV with them, their mother insists that the air conditioning would kill Rocko. Kathleen was greatly relieved to hear that she didn’t have to bunk with an amphibian.
The Charles hall Museum was a big hit with Ginette and her children. The eclectic collection of guns, toys, telephones, Indian artifacts, phonographs, photographs, automobiles, and other items for any interest had them intrigued enough to want to return another day -- with Richard included in our group, to add running commentary.
We’ve seen Bald River Falls, swam at Indian Boundary Beach, collected crawfish from our creek, and saved salamanders (from what, I don’t know). Solomon and Richard’s pizzas were a big hit, as was our ice cream sundae party. The traveling road show will now head down to Georgia to visit other relations.
Richard can relax for a day, as I’m heading to Georgia to play at Vogel State Park with Ginette and Rachel and their children before over-nighting in Atlanta with Holly. The RV refrigerator is bulging with goodies from the garden, so I’m sure to have much cooking and canning to keep me from being too blue when I return to our House in the Holler.
Saturday, July 17, 2010
Flying Saucer or Food?
The next session of Granny Camp is about to begin, and we couldn’t be more excited. Solomon is planning to make some pizza; Kathleen is going to cook a dinner with me. Caleb will try to eat and sleep at our pond with a fishing rod in his hand, while his brother Max goes along for the adventure. We’re hoping the kids will go gold panning; maybe they’ll find gold in our creek, in addition to the worms they find on its banks. Richard spent the day shopping for food and fishing gear while I got the RV guest-ready; and to avoid inviting viral interludes, password protected our a computer. It is only prudent with a visiting teenage brood.
At this time of year, we quite often have to split our labors into inside and outside duties. I’ve put up over a dozen jars of plum jam from Jack’s gift, while Richard worked on completing the step replacement project he and John had begun. This plum jam is not the color of plums; but it is a gorgeous garnet. I do love making jewel-colored jams.
Along with getting the tomato cages staked against future storms, Richard brought home a bucket of beans, more yellow squash, tomatoes, and zucchini, and a surprise of a beautiful unblemished fluted-edge white squash about which I know nothing. We planted yellow squash where this came up, so we don’t even know how it got into our garden. Richard described it as a flying saucer; I think it looks more like a decorative throw pillow for a doll’s bed. If anyone knows anything about flying saucer squash, I’d love to learn about it.
Mamie makes extra-crisp pickles, soaking her cucumbers in lime before canning. I stayed home to begin this two-day process with the two gallons of cucumbers from our refrigerator. We’ll need all the refrigerator space we can get with two new cooks coming to our kitchen.
When asked about special requests for food or fun, our niece Ginette said that her children wanted pancakes or waffles and daily trips to swim at Indian Boundary Beach. One of them requested roast beef, which will be the dinner that awaits them on their arrival. Ginette is looking forward to Mamie’s garden and all the fresh veggies she can carry. I hope she likes stringing beans because there’s always work waiting after the harvest.
It’s hard to pack all the activities into just three days of Granny Camp. We have new multi-colored flower pots for dishing up ice cream sundaes, and a bowl of blue Jello for Gummi Fish fishing. There are ghost stories to tell around a campfire, and hide and seek in the dark. We even have a pair of night-vision goggles to lend the littlest child who is “it.”
The pace is so lively while the kids are here that I feel like we’ve been riding motor bikes on the Dragon’s Tale after they leave. It takes me a while to regain my balance.
At this time of year, we quite often have to split our labors into inside and outside duties. I’ve put up over a dozen jars of plum jam from Jack’s gift, while Richard worked on completing the step replacement project he and John had begun. This plum jam is not the color of plums; but it is a gorgeous garnet. I do love making jewel-colored jams.
Along with getting the tomato cages staked against future storms, Richard brought home a bucket of beans, more yellow squash, tomatoes, and zucchini, and a surprise of a beautiful unblemished fluted-edge white squash about which I know nothing. We planted yellow squash where this came up, so we don’t even know how it got into our garden. Richard described it as a flying saucer; I think it looks more like a decorative throw pillow for a doll’s bed. If anyone knows anything about flying saucer squash, I’d love to learn about it.
Mamie makes extra-crisp pickles, soaking her cucumbers in lime before canning. I stayed home to begin this two-day process with the two gallons of cucumbers from our refrigerator. We’ll need all the refrigerator space we can get with two new cooks coming to our kitchen.
When asked about special requests for food or fun, our niece Ginette said that her children wanted pancakes or waffles and daily trips to swim at Indian Boundary Beach. One of them requested roast beef, which will be the dinner that awaits them on their arrival. Ginette is looking forward to Mamie’s garden and all the fresh veggies she can carry. I hope she likes stringing beans because there’s always work waiting after the harvest.
It’s hard to pack all the activities into just three days of Granny Camp. We have new multi-colored flower pots for dishing up ice cream sundaes, and a bowl of blue Jello for Gummi Fish fishing. There are ghost stories to tell around a campfire, and hide and seek in the dark. We even have a pair of night-vision goggles to lend the littlest child who is “it.”
The pace is so lively while the kids are here that I feel like we’ve been riding motor bikes on the Dragon’s Tale after they leave. It takes me a while to regain my balance.
Friday, July 16, 2010
Garden Pest Pas de Deux
While the deer have departed
From our garden salad bar
(Perhaps they found for themselves
A tastier garden plot),
Squash bugs feast on our squash plants;
Bean beetles ingest our beans;
Spud bugs feast on foliage;
Worms work on cabbage-leaf lace.
The chickens have lately found
That cucumbers are tasty,
While foraging in our garden
For their free-range food.
What should have been our allies
In our war on insects
Have now become another
Invading horde to feed.
Who do you suppose will win the spoils of this --
Our garden pest pas de deux?
From our garden salad bar
(Perhaps they found for themselves
A tastier garden plot),
Squash bugs feast on our squash plants;
Bean beetles ingest our beans;
Spud bugs feast on foliage;
Worms work on cabbage-leaf lace.
The chickens have lately found
That cucumbers are tasty,
While foraging in our garden
For their free-range food.
What should have been our allies
In our war on insects
Have now become another
Invading horde to feed.
Who do you suppose will win the spoils of this --
Our garden pest pas de deux?
Thursday, July 15, 2010
Weather Weakness
We were certain that we’d done something wrong; why else would our corn lie down on the job? We went over to Mamie’s shortly after sunrise to see about resetting it before Mamie saw the devastation. We knew that we hadn’t mounded our rows enough, and we couldn’t face her just then.
As I held each stalk straight, Richard trenched between the rows, gathering mud to build a support mound around each individual plant. Because the soil is heavy in clay, it stuck to the shovel like half-set cement. Most times Richard could release only half of each shovelful meant for the mound. The remainder went back with his next dip in the dirt. He could barely move his feet, as the clay had created lifts on the bottoms of his shoes. He commented that he felt like he was walking on stilts.
I had worn my Western-style boots, and even these were in danger of being lost in a trench through the sucking power of wet clay. It was treacherous enough finding firm footing in the holes that Richard had carved out between the rows. It was made much more interesting by not knowing whether my boot was going to stay in a hole when I attempted to step out.
Mountain Mama had already told me that she was concerned that the lack of rain may have adversely affected the quality we could expect from the corn at a critical stage in its growth, so I worried that Richard was breaking his back for nothing. After each row, I offered to just call it quits with growing the corn, reminding Richard that we had a second planting that still had potential. Even with his back aching, he insisted on continuing in our rescue efforts. What a sad stand of corn we left; the stalks that had been straight as tin soldiers was now bent-backed like old crones, but it was, at least, standing.
Mamie called to let us know that our beans had fallen in the storm, never once mentioning the state of our corn rows. She suggested that we come over and push the poles down deep into the dirt while it was still so slick from our recent rains. We knew right along that our poles were destined to collapse since the clay had been so hard every time we attempted planting them that they simply stood on top of the soil. It didn’t help that the corn had fallen onto the beans, but Mamie clearly didn’t notice the corn rows were amiss. She also suggested that we join her in eating a watermelon that had been given to her.
Over slices of cold watermelon, we discussed the corn. I suggested that next time we’d plant the seeds deeper; Mamie assured us that the seeds had been properly planted and the rows well-maintained. She agreed with Richard’s theory that the lack of rain had simply kept the roots too shallow. It was almost soothing to know that the weather was our weakness.
As I held each stalk straight, Richard trenched between the rows, gathering mud to build a support mound around each individual plant. Because the soil is heavy in clay, it stuck to the shovel like half-set cement. Most times Richard could release only half of each shovelful meant for the mound. The remainder went back with his next dip in the dirt. He could barely move his feet, as the clay had created lifts on the bottoms of his shoes. He commented that he felt like he was walking on stilts.
I had worn my Western-style boots, and even these were in danger of being lost in a trench through the sucking power of wet clay. It was treacherous enough finding firm footing in the holes that Richard had carved out between the rows. It was made much more interesting by not knowing whether my boot was going to stay in a hole when I attempted to step out.
Mountain Mama had already told me that she was concerned that the lack of rain may have adversely affected the quality we could expect from the corn at a critical stage in its growth, so I worried that Richard was breaking his back for nothing. After each row, I offered to just call it quits with growing the corn, reminding Richard that we had a second planting that still had potential. Even with his back aching, he insisted on continuing in our rescue efforts. What a sad stand of corn we left; the stalks that had been straight as tin soldiers was now bent-backed like old crones, but it was, at least, standing.
Mamie called to let us know that our beans had fallen in the storm, never once mentioning the state of our corn rows. She suggested that we come over and push the poles down deep into the dirt while it was still so slick from our recent rains. We knew right along that our poles were destined to collapse since the clay had been so hard every time we attempted planting them that they simply stood on top of the soil. It didn’t help that the corn had fallen onto the beans, but Mamie clearly didn’t notice the corn rows were amiss. She also suggested that we join her in eating a watermelon that had been given to her.
Over slices of cold watermelon, we discussed the corn. I suggested that next time we’d plant the seeds deeper; Mamie assured us that the seeds had been properly planted and the rows well-maintained. She agreed with Richard’s theory that the lack of rain had simply kept the roots too shallow. It was almost soothing to know that the weather was our weakness.
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
A Gruesome Glimpse of Our Garden
Mamie’s fond of saying that anyone who doesn’t believe in gambling shouldn’t garden. This year, that’s an understatement. If Richard and I had any sense of superstition, we’d have long ago realized that we have horribly weird weather woes.
Now that we’ve watered our plants enough to stave off death, risking Mamie’s well pump in the process, the storms have moved in and fouled our fields. The corn which yesterday stood proudly reaching for heaven is now lying down in the dirt. The poles on which our green beans grew have become a bamboo mat with accents of leaves and beans.
Don’t you think we should have gotten a glimpse of the fact that weather isn’t our ally, when after being flooded out of our Louisiana home by a record-breaking hurricane; we brought to Tennessee a record-breaking drought that dried up our newly dug pond? One might wonder whether foolhardiness or faith led us to believe we could grow a garden.
We planted late because of too much spring rain, and once our seeds sprouted, we had to hand water. Just as the corn came onto the stalks higher than our heads we’re hit with super storms -- Is this a curse resulting from of my ambivalence about all the cooking and canning that gardening success would bring?
Who are we going to feed anyway? Mamie now eats like a bird, and I don’t mean by that she eats constantly; she says she’s lost her appetite for food. Lynda, the pastor of the Coker Creek church that contains a food pantry, only distributes fresh food once a month. County and community “feed the people” outreaches are governed by local board of health laws, and we don’t have an inspected kitchen for preparation. What possible reason could we have for continuing to grow more garden goods than the three of us (counting Mamie) can eat?
We both love to cook; I especially enjoy being given the challenge of turning a group of random ingredients into edible fare. What do infirm old folks on the mountain do for food if they have no family here? Maybe we could become cooks and drivers for “Meals on Wheels” in Coker Creek and leave the growing to the really good gardeners.
What would we do for fun if we didn’t grow a garden? We love to read; I love to write; I can even get exercise with Deborah and her debs. Richard has hobbies galore that give him a lot more sense of control than our recent gardening gaffs, and a house is a never-ending honey-do list. He and Gary have become fishing friends through their involvement in the Ruritan Club. And Christmas package preparation takes two months to complete.
I love hearing stories of other people’s pursuits; I hope to collect oral histories of Mamie, Jack, and other long-time Appalachian residents. I could continue to cultivate writers like Jack and Nancy, and might even use some of the time to tell my own tales.
Now that we’ve watered our plants enough to stave off death, risking Mamie’s well pump in the process, the storms have moved in and fouled our fields. The corn which yesterday stood proudly reaching for heaven is now lying down in the dirt. The poles on which our green beans grew have become a bamboo mat with accents of leaves and beans.
Don’t you think we should have gotten a glimpse of the fact that weather isn’t our ally, when after being flooded out of our Louisiana home by a record-breaking hurricane; we brought to Tennessee a record-breaking drought that dried up our newly dug pond? One might wonder whether foolhardiness or faith led us to believe we could grow a garden.
We planted late because of too much spring rain, and once our seeds sprouted, we had to hand water. Just as the corn came onto the stalks higher than our heads we’re hit with super storms -- Is this a curse resulting from of my ambivalence about all the cooking and canning that gardening success would bring?
Who are we going to feed anyway? Mamie now eats like a bird, and I don’t mean by that she eats constantly; she says she’s lost her appetite for food. Lynda, the pastor of the Coker Creek church that contains a food pantry, only distributes fresh food once a month. County and community “feed the people” outreaches are governed by local board of health laws, and we don’t have an inspected kitchen for preparation. What possible reason could we have for continuing to grow more garden goods than the three of us (counting Mamie) can eat?
We both love to cook; I especially enjoy being given the challenge of turning a group of random ingredients into edible fare. What do infirm old folks on the mountain do for food if they have no family here? Maybe we could become cooks and drivers for “Meals on Wheels” in Coker Creek and leave the growing to the really good gardeners.
What would we do for fun if we didn’t grow a garden? We love to read; I love to write; I can even get exercise with Deborah and her debs. Richard has hobbies galore that give him a lot more sense of control than our recent gardening gaffs, and a house is a never-ending honey-do list. He and Gary have become fishing friends through their involvement in the Ruritan Club. And Christmas package preparation takes two months to complete.
I love hearing stories of other people’s pursuits; I hope to collect oral histories of Mamie, Jack, and other long-time Appalachian residents. I could continue to cultivate writers like Jack and Nancy, and might even use some of the time to tell my own tales.
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
Crazy For Canning
Didn’t want to exercise, but did go;
Because I like the women there, you know.
Gardening seems to me exercise enough,
But Deborah doesn’t believe my guff.
I did have at least one more good excuse --
The canning of several people’s produce.
Jack has just called us; his plums ripened and fell.
We will make plum jam, and grape jam, as well.
Mamie canned plum juice without adding jell.
What will it be? It’s too early to tell.
She can’t help herself; gifts from friends’ yards
Prompt her to can them. She says it’s not hard.
Some cans she will gift and some she will keep
I’m sure that Mamie could can in her sleep.
Her basement is too full of her bounty;
But she can’t sell it, so says the county.
In times past, there were community mills
For grains and wood from the Coker Creeks hills.
It would be nice to share knowledge and food
Sharing the cleaning would also be good.
We’d be sure to have giggles and guffaws
As each of us shared our strengths and our flaws
An approved kitchen would be just the thing;
There we could process whatever folks bring.
Because I like the women there, you know.
Gardening seems to me exercise enough,
But Deborah doesn’t believe my guff.
I did have at least one more good excuse --
The canning of several people’s produce.
Jack has just called us; his plums ripened and fell.
We will make plum jam, and grape jam, as well.
Mamie canned plum juice without adding jell.
What will it be? It’s too early to tell.
She can’t help herself; gifts from friends’ yards
Prompt her to can them. She says it’s not hard.
Some cans she will gift and some she will keep
I’m sure that Mamie could can in her sleep.
Her basement is too full of her bounty;
But she can’t sell it, so says the county.
In times past, there were community mills
For grains and wood from the Coker Creeks hills.
It would be nice to share knowledge and food
Sharing the cleaning would also be good.
We’d be sure to have giggles and guffaws
As each of us shared our strengths and our flaws
An approved kitchen would be just the thing;
There we could process whatever folks bring.
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