Chestnuts and Figs

It's fall

 and the chestnuts are falling.

The trees look prehistoric to me.

A disease killed out the native Chinquapin years ago.

Dad planted a few chestnuts.

He also planted figs which aren't supposed to grow in our climate.

Dad's love of figs began when he cowboy-ed in California. 

You had a great crop of figs this year, Dad.

Your chestnuts are plentiful, too.

The figs are far easier to pick

I wish you'd planted the chestnuts much further from the house, Dad.

Thanks.

This Rock

is much larger than it looks and is part of a large limestone shelf behind the garden.  Just below a spring runs as the first full time source of live water that begins our creek.  The main springs join in further down.

The ledge is over grown now.  There are four to five rocks that I'm sure used to be one thousands of years ago but time and climate and other sources divided them.  They lay thick and solid almost touching but never moving...not in my life time.

Today I wanted to climb and touch them but along with briers, honeysuckle and Virginia Creeper there was also a fine crop of Poison Ivy so I didn't.  I stood at creek level and remembered.

I remembered the ongoing adventures my dad and all the grandchildren had here.  One rock sounds hollow when tapped with a hammer or a rock.  This sound was the beginning of The Treasure Hunt.

It was a sight to see...Dad leading a row of stair step grand children, each carrying their tool of choice, through the garden and down the bank to endless adventures.

The cracks around the hollow rock, filled with nature's debris,  were emptied with sand shovels, picks, tiny hands and patience.  Much laughter was always heard and many stories told with no limits to their imagination regarding what they might find.

When they grew tired Dad and the ducklings shouldered their tools and returned home to feed and rest.

The bottom edge was never reached but the digging never stopped. A day at the farm usually meant a treasure hunt with Grandpa Pete.  The digging crew grew smaller but they now had their own stories to add.

The children grew older and went their own way.

One day I came to visit and Dad was digging alone remembering.  The grandchildren will never forget.

The Igloo Cooler Galvanized

You see rust.  I see memories...and a bug.  Back to the memory.  Dad worked road construction when I came along although he wore many hats in his life time.  We traveled with the job.  

Sometimes we were able to visit Dad where he was working.   When he saw us he would stop the bulldozer and climb down to greet us with much enthusiasm, to share his day and the wonders he had seen.  On his bulldozer he always kept his galvanized Igloo cooler.  

The cooler was a big thing in my small eyes.  I don't know if it was a three or five gallon.  I know when Dad took off the lid and held it under the small spigot to catch a fresh cold drink it was the sweetest water I had ever tasted in my short life time.

Mom and Dad were big on all of us acquiring an education in daily life as well as in schools. Being the youngest of three girls I learned when my older sisters did.  When I heard galvanized I did not connect it to his cooler but rather to the definition of the action...to be galvanized.  I think that cooler encouraged that in me too.  

 Guess we had two big coolers.  Me and Dad.

Funny the things we remember.  

Thanks, Mom and Dad for encouraging us to learn and to always be curious. 

Okinawa

Iwo Jima, kamikaze, Hiroshima, Nagasaki...all words that fascinated me as a child.  A world I would never see except through Dad's eyes. He rarely told a battle story only the funny ones to me but I overheard conversations when Dad forgot "Little pitchers have big ears."  He only talked with others that had served. I saw the war in his eyes and it haunted me almost as much as it haunted him.

Dad taught me to love Big Band music, told me about "pin up girls" (Dad liked Rita Hayworth) and the pictures his friends carried.  He talked of submarines, ships, planes and amphibious vehicles. He talked of friends and enemies.  Dad talked of Churchill, MacArthur, Roosevelt, Eisenhower and letters from home.  He talked of chocolate, K-rations and how he found a ripe tomato on Okinawa.

Dad talked of islands:  San Clemente, Hawaii, Okinawa, Iwo Jima, and others. He spoke of friends, news of their family and how he kept records in his pocket Bible in code.  He spoke of the plants, the heat, how good a lobster tasted over a campfire...all the good that was.

Dad talked of how they were rarely told where they were going or even where they were. Snipers, flame throwers and children with hand grenades were things I overheard.  He served as they asked and as they commanded.  It was what an American did.

Today I honor all who have served.  Those who made it home "okay", those who did not and those still serving. Thank you from the bottom of my heart with my deepest respect.

Warm Watermelon

Was reading a great post at Wishes, Dreams & Other Things.  Ida mentioned how she didn't like watermelon.  I thought I was alone!  Glad to know a fellow watermelon disliker.

Mom said it was her fault I didn't like watermelon.  She told me how she was craving watermelon when she was pregnant with me.  It was late October in 1954 and Dad drove all over trying to find a watermelon in St Louis, Missouri.  Finally he found one, much to Mom's delight.  She cut it open immediately and began to eat.  Something was wrong with it and she became very ill.  Her conclusion was I didn't like watermelon because of that...an old wive's tale.

I never developed a love for this fruit/vegetable.  I kept trying.  I did love the watermelon seed spitting contests we had.

We grew our own watermelons.  Some, for what ever reason, might begin to end rot in the field.  As children part of our job was to find these melons and pick them for the pig and chickens to eat. Waste not, want not.  We discovered that the heart, which was still good, is mighty tasty on a warm summer day.  I remember busting a watermelon open in the field (a forbidden thing to happen with a good melon) and digging in with bare hands to reach the seedless portion.  The memory of sweet watermelon juice running down my arms as we ate with no manners sitting in the dirt still makes me smile.  This was the only time I enjoyed watermelon.  That and when we sold them because we were allowed to keep part of that money.

Thanks, Ida, for bringing that memory to the surface.

Dad's Flame Thrower

I remember

when he told of flame throwers in the War,

not in great detail, but just how they worked.

My mind put the horror in without any help.

He talked about how handy they would be around the farm.  I always thought he made it because he invented many items to help work go easier.  I didn't ask.  I would watch him clear a fence row of underbrush and was amazed at the power of a small flame thrower.  I could not imagine the effect a larger one had in war.  Today we found it.

The cylinder is removed, diesel added, top tightened, pressure pumped, 

turn the valve and light it.

The little diesel remaining was still good

but you have to pay attention to the wind direction. 

This is the perfect thing for that patch of grass burrs!

As Everyone Celebrated

I had a walk and a talk with Dad as I traveled over the farm.  I know he's with me.  He would have reveled at the growth in the valley.  He would have been delighted with this Bull frog peeking out.

Dad would have seen the face in this old coffee pot

and admired the garden.

Dad would have bragged on my progress 

although he could always work circles around me.

He would have stopped to admire the conglomerate rock I found

and discussed why it was conglomerate and not metamorphic.

You are not here with the living, Dad, but we carry you inside our heart. Thank you for serving our country, fathering us, and loving us. Happy Father's Day!  I feel you in the land around me.

The Keeper of Mamma's Flowers

I had the nicest compliment the other day from my nephew, Toni.  He said, The farm is beginning to look like Grandma and Grandpa are here.

As it must happen to all of us, our parents die.  That was a hard thing for me to accept because although I was getting older in my mind and heart Mom and Dad would always be what they had always been, loving, supportive, helpful and well, just there.  It didn't happen that way.

My sisters and I rallied and supported them, not financially but emotionally and lovingly.  As their needs increased we helped with everything from personal bookkeeping to personal care.  We as a family traveled through a heart condition, a stroke and Alzheimer's.   Both my parents would vocalize their sadness that they needed help and they shouldn't be such a burden.   I simply answered,  You cared for me for eighteen years this is nothing.  Oh, but it was.

I know many of you have lost loved ones and cried because you could not do more to ease the way.  I guess it's under the title of Shit Happens or Simply Life.  You do what you can.

My parents are gone.

We live where they began.  Honoring the land, honoring their wishes.  Never was much of a gardener, not my passion.  I was always a more hands on animal person but I've changed as we all did.  We do what's needed to return the farm to Mom and Dad's time.

My sisters and I are here with family and we are the elder ones.  Through tornadoes, ice storms, personal illnesses and family emergencies we still are here.

I look around  and agree with Toni, even though there are tons of things left to be repaired, upgraded, cultivated, it's beginning to look like Mom and Dad are still here.

There is a peace here that I find no other place.  We try to follow in our parents' foot steps but find it difficult for us.

I feel the joy they felt and see the treasure they saw in this beautiful valley. I know they are watching over us and proud of what we've accomplished by doing it their way.

I smile.  I know Mamma is pleased that I am still tending her flowers.

Dad and Mom

Daddy was
My Irish sunshine
From Dust Bowl
And
The Great Depression
From hunger
And hard work
He grew
Into a soldier
I need no reminder of the cost
Husband, father
And oh, so much more

Parents gone while I live
in an old house
in the very heart of things
In the house they built
Midst the ashes and memories
of other old houses
The very heart of them lives
I like to say I have Dad's eyes
I hope I have their zest for living
I know I have their love of the land
And pray I have their heart

For dVerse~Poets Pub

Tonight I Mourned

I have been unable to do that fully for years.

Mother died in '99 and her burial arrangements were for Dad.  What he wanted, what he needed to feel like he had given her the best.  Dad was in mid Alzheimer's and some days he would forget Mom had died. Then he would remember and oh, how he would grieve all over again as if it had recently happened. We were relieved when he forgot Mom and he settled into a time of service to his country, before Mom and before us.

Mom knew he had Alzheimer's but would not tell because you don't "air your dirty laundry".  You take care of your own.  Before she passed she asked me to "take care of every thing" but mostly she meant Dad. That was all she would say giving us no hint of how different Dad was.

And so we did.  My two sisters and I gave Dad the best care we could give.  Keeping him in his and Mom's home until we couldn't.

When Dad died we knew what he wanted and that was the service we gave.  His friend read Dad's favorite Psalm, the Twenty-Third. His neighbors, mother and daughter, sang his favorite song, Amazing Grace. I gave the Eulogy at a graveside service written by his oldest grandson, Toni, and me. Dad would have liked it.  He was buried with military honors with a twenty-one gun salute.  The flag was presented to my oldest sister.  She turned and presented it to his oldest grandson.  It was as it should be.

I watched a show with a Marine Honors Burial.  When they removed the flag from the casket I broke. I bawled like I lost them tonight.  My heart had broken open and the tears flowed like a river in full flood. I could not stop.  I was alone.  Even if I wasn't I don't think I could put into words why I broke down during a television show.  It was time.

Mother did not know the gargantuan task I laid on myself with her simple words "Take care of  every thing".  Those few words left me no time nor room to mourn because I had to DO what was asked.  I judged myself harshly.  I would look around and say aloud, "Mom and Dad would not like this".  I was appalled that I could not perform to what I perceived as Mom and Dad's expectations.

I was measuring my accomplishments with a stick so big no one could have met my high standards.  I realized tonight Mom and Dad would not have wanted me to judge myself so harshly.  They wanted us to love the land and treat it kindly and in doing that to follow our dream, not theirs.

When my eyes were dry, I wrote and released myself from the super standards I had given.  I love this land.  We all do...and that was what Mom and Dad wanted.

Mom died in '99 and Dad joined her in '06.  I have finally mourned.  I think they would be proud of what we've done with their dream.

Today I Mourned

Today I mourned
At Daddy's feet
Wishing he were here
The man who told
Funny stories
And said he lost
Enough stripes
To be a Sargent Major

He did not speak of combat
I did not need to know
I felt the sadness
And knew the horror
From his nightmares
My entire life
He made light of it
Awake

He honored bravery
Honesty
Loyalty
Sacrifice
He lived his life with these
Passing that honor
To his children
The nightmares never left

Imaginary Garden With Real Toads

Poetry Jam Mirrors...

Dad stood in the mirror
With Alzheimer's in his head
He smiled, tipped his hat
"See that old man," he said.

Dad stood in the mirror
I stood with him hiding tears
Trying to share his world
As I had throughout the years.

Dad stood in the mirror
Where time moves too fast
Oh, Dad, how I loved you
From the beginning to the last.

For Poetry Jam

Poets United: Poetry Pantry 165

A new found place to share...Poets United:  Poetry Pantry 165.  

Dad brought too much

Home from the war

Things he should've left behind

Were always with him

He taught me to love my country

Respect the flag

Enjoy our freedom

And thank the veterans

But the nightmares

And the over heard stories

When Veterans visited

Told me I was lucky

Dad made it home

A different man

A grateful man

A haunted man but home

Hot Flashes and Hellgrammites

I don't know if it's this freaky weather or my lone ovary talking to me.  Hot one minute, cold the next.  The rest of the baby factory was disassembled pre-1988 but doc said the lonely one would do it's work.  Could also be something else, anyway, it's not any fun.

My mind is as jumpy as my temperature.  I thought hot flashes, then I thought Hellgrammites  That took me to childhood hunting for fish bait.  Strange how things process in this old hard drive I call my brain.  I said it twice, hot flashes and hellgrammites and it sounded good...thus the birth of this post.

When it was too dry to dig for earth worms, we hunted hellgrammites.  Now, these babies, exactly what they are, can bite. They are larvae. They kinda roll with the current of a stream.  Dad would place a screen at a good point in the creek.  It was our job to stir the hellgrammites.

When they caught on the screen, we removed them to some container.  This was the fun part for Dad (I blame him for my orneriness). We girls got to pick them.  With lots of ouching and squealing we tried not to get bitten.  Dad stood by with his blue Irish eyes twinkling ever ready with instructions on how to catch them without the bite.

We left the hunt soaked from jumping and splashing in the shallow stream while catching these little monsters.  I suspect Dad was a little tired from laughing. Our fish bait was now ready to magically turn into dinner. 

We always had bass for supper when we had hellgrammites.  I guess that was one way Dad taught us to work for our dinner. 

For those in doubt, this is a happy memory.

My Mother's Lesson

Mom was quite a unique lady.  Talented but tested, she tried to remain our rock.

One of my favorite tales of Mom's less than subtle lessons to the family was how she dealt once and for all with Dad's impatience.

Mom was old school and cared for the family with no complaints, well, rarely any complaints.  When a trip was planned Mom's self appointed job was to ready the family.  Dad was always dressed and ready first since Mom laid out his clothes.  Mom then proceeded to dress three daughters and saved her preparation for last.

On this occasion, Dad was impatient to get on our way, he was ready, the children were dressed, what was the holdup??  That is when he decided to make the mother bear of mistakes by honking the truck horn.

Mother, having reached her wits end, promptly placed her hat on her head and grabbed her purse and joined the family in the truck, buck naked! 
Needless to say, Dad was shocked speechless.  We children were too young to notice anything out of the ordinary.

Mother quietly explained that preparing four people for departure left her little spare time to prepare herself.  If Dad was ready to go, then she was ready to go.

Dad NEVER honked the horn again.

Not As Innocent As They Look

Sweet bovine face, right!

  They are not as sweet as they look.

For years we did not have a milk cow because we were on the road, working construction with Dad.  Mom and Dad had them in earlier years but by the time I came along, things had changed a little.

Our first milk cow, that I can remember, was Patsy.  She was a sweety pie.  We bought her from a blind lady, Annie Battles, that had trained her from a baby.  All you had to do was hold out her halter and Patsy would put her head in it and could be led anywhere. Patsy was a mix of milking breeds with a little Angus thrown in and was a lovely chocolate color.

Number one rule, that I chose to ignore, was don't ride the cattle.  If the milk cow is upset, she doesn't give as much milk.  If a steer is ridden, he loses weight.

Patsy was my confidence builder.  I would bring her from pasture each morning and night to milk.  She gave lots of milk and supplied all our family with sweet milk, butter and buttermilk with curd for the chickens and pig.  Patsy even produced enough that we had a truck pick up a can of milk every other day.  That girl was a milker!

Where we fed her was just below the opening in the loft.  There was a ladder up to the loft, you climbed up, busted a square bale and dropped some down for her.  Come back down and continue with the chore of milking.  I never became the expert at milking that Mom and Dad were.  They had milked many cows in their life time.  This was my first and became my last.

I soon lost my job as milking since I could not coax the volume of milk that Mom and Dad could.  I was demoted to the cow herder and feeder. 

I discovered, as any child does if left at something long enough, how to make life more fun.  There was a big beam close to the ladder that you could swing down on and reach the ground quicker.  I also discovered that if I would swing harder, I could straddle the cow.  Patsy did not mind, but there were complaints that some days her milk production varied oddly.  I never told and neither did Patsy, but I did stop riding her.

Not long after that, Patsy had a calf, and I, for the life of me, cannot remember his name. Not important, the important thing is to remember the rules...Don't ride the cattle.

He was cut very young and was a yard dog headed for the freezer.  We were very good friends.  He was confined to a lot with grass and feed.  As I mentioned, yard dog!  You could scratch him all over, pet him, do just about anything and he was good with that.

I had been to rodeos and always admired the bull riders. I am probably seven years old during this time.  I have and have always had an active mind.  You may have already guessed...I am gonna ride!  Forget that rule, no one will ever know, hop on and ride!  He's gentle, he's loving, I have ridden his mama, why not him?

I would like to point out a cow has nothing to hold onto.  Those bull riders had rigging, something I had not thought about...hey, I am only seven, can't think of everything.

I straddled that boy and settled my seat and I swear that is the last thing I remember until I was looking up from the ground with this big steer standing over me as if to say, you crossed the line, ole girl.  He nuzzled me.  Thank goodness, he did not stomp me, how would I ever explain that?

No confessions from me but I suspect Dad was watching because later at supper, he asked, "You do know that you can't ride the steer, don't you?"

Secrets

Some babies did not make it, I discovered 48 years after my birth.

My parents married at the end of the second War To End All Wars. My father was there from the beginning to end and was hungry for family life. My mother was in love with the uniform.

At eighteen, Mom was dreaming of a family. At twenty-eight, Dad was eager to comply.

The family came...three girls in eight years. I always wondered about our age difference but never asked.

We are grown now. Mom is gone and we have since lost Dad to Alzheimer's.

Alzheimer's is not pretty but it has a way of breaking secret oaths.

There were others. My sisters and I had siblings that we knew nothing about.

As Dad cried reliving the past, my sisters and I understood. We named the grief we had glimpsed in our parents' eyes.

Our siblings, bundled in hand made quilts, were each laid quietly to rest where we never plowed. They were never named and never mentioned.

It was the way of the times.

Today I bring flowers and say "Hello, I am your little sister."