Thursday, May 10, 2012
CREATING A UNIVERSE
Tuesday, April 3, 2012
WOW, A CONTRACT FOR MY WRITING
I just signed a contract for the following two poems to be published in:
CRADLE SONGS: AN ANTHOLOGY OF POEMS ABOUT MOTHERHOOD
STILL
My dead son’s birthday
arrives this sunny fresh morning
with birdsong, dogs playing,
sunflowers and ripe rowanberries:
Thirty-eight years without
his curious blue eyes
his gentle living presence.
He is so gone, I cannot recall
his voice, skin, or smell,
his having come through my womb,
suckled my young breasts,
walked hand in hand,
cannot recall his giggle at my touch,
his breath, asleep in my arms.
I gaze at frozen photos,
his living face long dissolved
into some eternal amnesia.
But in my life’s stream,
the mighty river he is
courses on with the
flotsam
and jetsam
of forgiveness
and grief drifting by
on days like this.
He flows in me, still.
AND
SEARCHING
It is spring again.
The river swells,
Flooding firmly rooted islands,
Sweeping out to sea.
Restless, she searches,
peering into my cupboards
Moving the condiments in the fridge:
Mom I’m looking for something.
What are you looking for?
I don’t know, but I need something before I leave.
The canned goods tumble
Across the dark shelf.
Looming over me she flings her arms
Around my now-smaller body.
Overwhelmed, I feel such
Strength in her swift currents:
Me anchored in rocks and habits
She springing, dancing, lunging…
We embrace in the kitchen where lilacs
Spread their scent.
What do you look for, daughter:
Answers to unasked questions,
Revisions to old queries?
Selves ripened, canned answers,
A tidy jar of morals, a bag of tricks
To pack before you leave?
The debris of my lifetime
My fertile topsoil, all my vegetation
Roils in your blood
Tumbles from your surface to your depths
To spill into the great sea
Of your own life’s experience.
Rooting it will grow,
Nurtured, it will fruit.
Returning will you grace my kitchen
With a fresh found truth?
I will hide some special morsels
To share with you next spring
When the river swells again.
CRADLE SONGS: AN ANTHOLOGY OF POEMS ABOUT MOTHERHOOD
STILL
My dead son’s birthday
arrives this sunny fresh morning
with birdsong, dogs playing,
sunflowers and ripe rowanberries:
Thirty-eight years without
his curious blue eyes
his gentle living presence.
He is so gone, I cannot recall
his voice, skin, or smell,
his having come through my womb,
suckled my young breasts,
walked hand in hand,
cannot recall his giggle at my touch,
his breath, asleep in my arms.
I gaze at frozen photos,
his living face long dissolved
into some eternal amnesia.
But in my life’s stream,
the mighty river he is
courses on with the
flotsam
and jetsam
of forgiveness
and grief drifting by
on days like this.
He flows in me, still.
AND
SEARCHING
It is spring again.
The river swells,
Flooding firmly rooted islands,
Sweeping out to sea.
Restless, she searches,
peering into my cupboards
Moving the condiments in the fridge:
Mom I’m looking for something.
What are you looking for?
I don’t know, but I need something before I leave.
The canned goods tumble
Across the dark shelf.
Looming over me she flings her arms
Around my now-smaller body.
Overwhelmed, I feel such
Strength in her swift currents:
Me anchored in rocks and habits
She springing, dancing, lunging…
We embrace in the kitchen where lilacs
Spread their scent.
What do you look for, daughter:
Answers to unasked questions,
Revisions to old queries?
Selves ripened, canned answers,
A tidy jar of morals, a bag of tricks
To pack before you leave?
The debris of my lifetime
My fertile topsoil, all my vegetation
Roils in your blood
Tumbles from your surface to your depths
To spill into the great sea
Of your own life’s experience.
Rooting it will grow,
Nurtured, it will fruit.
Returning will you grace my kitchen
With a fresh found truth?
I will hide some special morsels
To share with you next spring
When the river swells again.
Monday, March 5, 2012
YA GOTTA LOVE MONTANA
My husband and I take all our year's tax papers up to Wisdom, Montana, every February to hide out at the Nez Perce Motel and get organized for our CPA. It's a way of making the drudgery into an adventure because Wisdom offers an excellent restaurant (The Crossing), great cross country skiing (Steel Creek), and only 16 miles down the road, Jackson Hot Springs. Plus, since we don't "do" television at home, channel surfing the TV is a fun sport for short periods.
This year, we arrived at the motel ready to get serious, but no one was in the office. We could hear a loud speaker blaring a few blocks south in the center of town, which is a town of about 100 hardy souls, if that. It was 15 degrees that sunny early afternoon, and the snow was packed down to about three feet. We bundled up and wandered towards the noise. We noticed smoke, and later discovering it came from 55-gallon with wood-and-diesel fires so the participants of the SKI JORING CHAMPIONSHIP could keep warm.
So far I haven't met anyone in Hamilton who knew about Ski Joring, but we've been trying to get up to see it for several years. We got to see two runs before they took an afternoon break. In both cases the horses were having the best time, tearing down the (snow packed) 4-block street, with an enthusiastic rider, and a 33-foot rope behind to which a skier was holding on with stubborn tenacity, flying along, around beer carton gate markers (red on right, blue on left) and going over jumps measuring about 3'-4' high. The part that made me giggle the most were the beer cartons on the Official Championship course. About 100 folks stood around watching, drinking beer, pop and hot chocolate. The Big Hole Tourism Association had built a booth for hot dogs and chili on a side street.
This is the fifth year of competitive Ski Joring in Wisdom, and the various Divisions brave skiers can enter include the Open, Women's, Sport, and Century Division. The latter requires the combined age of 100 (not including the horse's age) and "attracts the old, the weak and mentally impaired!"
As the brochure explains, "Style doesn't count." And, "The skier must be holding the rope and must be on at least one ski when they cross the finish. Both ski boots must go through a gate but not necessarily both skis." Just the thought of the possibilities bring a tremor.
We completed our taxes after dark, and walked over to the The Crossing to find it full of noisy guests, mostly on the bar side, with raucous laughter and dozens of stories being shared about the day. One table in the dining area seated five older folks, dressed snugly in wool plaids and pack boots, with one poor fellow limping badly from an injury on the course. But he was in good spirits about it. Obviously, we'd arrived for the biggest night of the year, matched only by the previous night, since the Championship is a 2-day event.
Sorry to say our taxes are getting increasingly simpler as we age, and we might not have an excuse to make our annual trek to Wisdom. But I have a feeling we'll do it anyway, as long as we can afford it. Besides the biting clean air, the indescribable vistas, and the simplicity, Wisdom offers quiet, and an amazing blanket of stars that seem to reflect the sparkling snow. I have a picture of the handmade sign on the north end of town: Welcome to Wisdom. And really, in the autumn of our years (to put it poetically), isn't wisdom one of the accruing benefits?
This year, we arrived at the motel ready to get serious, but no one was in the office. We could hear a loud speaker blaring a few blocks south in the center of town, which is a town of about 100 hardy souls, if that. It was 15 degrees that sunny early afternoon, and the snow was packed down to about three feet. We bundled up and wandered towards the noise. We noticed smoke, and later discovering it came from 55-gallon with wood-and-diesel fires so the participants of the SKI JORING CHAMPIONSHIP could keep warm.
So far I haven't met anyone in Hamilton who knew about Ski Joring, but we've been trying to get up to see it for several years. We got to see two runs before they took an afternoon break. In both cases the horses were having the best time, tearing down the (snow packed) 4-block street, with an enthusiastic rider, and a 33-foot rope behind to which a skier was holding on with stubborn tenacity, flying along, around beer carton gate markers (red on right, blue on left) and going over jumps measuring about 3'-4' high. The part that made me giggle the most were the beer cartons on the Official Championship course. About 100 folks stood around watching, drinking beer, pop and hot chocolate. The Big Hole Tourism Association had built a booth for hot dogs and chili on a side street.
This is the fifth year of competitive Ski Joring in Wisdom, and the various Divisions brave skiers can enter include the Open, Women's, Sport, and Century Division. The latter requires the combined age of 100 (not including the horse's age) and "attracts the old, the weak and mentally impaired!"
As the brochure explains, "Style doesn't count." And, "The skier must be holding the rope and must be on at least one ski when they cross the finish. Both ski boots must go through a gate but not necessarily both skis." Just the thought of the possibilities bring a tremor.
We completed our taxes after dark, and walked over to the The Crossing to find it full of noisy guests, mostly on the bar side, with raucous laughter and dozens of stories being shared about the day. One table in the dining area seated five older folks, dressed snugly in wool plaids and pack boots, with one poor fellow limping badly from an injury on the course. But he was in good spirits about it. Obviously, we'd arrived for the biggest night of the year, matched only by the previous night, since the Championship is a 2-day event.
Sorry to say our taxes are getting increasingly simpler as we age, and we might not have an excuse to make our annual trek to Wisdom. But I have a feeling we'll do it anyway, as long as we can afford it. Besides the biting clean air, the indescribable vistas, and the simplicity, Wisdom offers quiet, and an amazing blanket of stars that seem to reflect the sparkling snow. I have a picture of the handmade sign on the north end of town: Welcome to Wisdom. And really, in the autumn of our years (to put it poetically), isn't wisdom one of the accruing benefits?
Thursday, February 23, 2012
STANDING WITH THE MOTHERS
Today was a special day because I had to cook, and I wanted to cook. There was a turkey carcass with thick broth frozen on the back porch, and a box of apples from a neighbor.
As I picked the meat from the turkey bones, I felt the presence of all the women in the world who pick meat, turn fruit into pastry, butcher their own meat and bake their own bread. We are the ones that will stretch a chicken into three days of dinners, who make stock from every little shred of vegetables we have (and bones), and who begin focusing on the evening meal first thing in the morning.
On my journal I have taped a picture of a tall, slender black sister wearing beads all over her head, and a draping, flowing dress. She is kneeling at a fire pouring hot camel milk and spices into a tin cup, smiling softly. There are four other cups awaiting her attention sitting in the fine dirt. A few years ago I had taped it to my kitchen wall. My then-10 granddaughter came in and asked who it was. I replied, "Oh, that's my sister. She lives in Africa." Sarah's brown eyes widened. "But you didn't tell us about her. Is she the one that raises dogs?" I pulled her to me. "Sarah, she is my sister because she is feeding her family, just like me, only she cooks on an open fire."
Last summer Sarah and I camped in the mountains, and I was cooking over the campfire. She started checking things out. "Nana, you could actually cook here all the time, couldn't you? I mean like this is like a kitchen!" I assured her that millions of women all over the world were cooking just like we were, only they didn't have a regular stove to go home to.
Standing in my small kitchen I felt the presence of those women in a dimension we share in service of our families. I had privacy and music to listen to, but they might be dealing with an elder walking through, a baby crawling on the floor, flies, or the sun suddenly blinding them when it bursts from the shade trees. Many had to gather their fuel and walk to the well for clean water before beginning their cooking. Remembering their lives develops my authenticity, my authority. They lead me to speak up for women and children, object to budgets that unfairly cut badly needed services for them, encourage women to speak out, and above all, to vote.
I am the privileged one. I have refrigeration, endless variety for meals, and the quiet to contemplate my world this day. But I've been there, using a hatchet on ice to get to live water. I've collected "squaw wood" for our cook fires. I carry all my sisters, whether living close with the land or turning on the tap. I carry them in my heart. And I will not, cannot, forget.
As I picked the meat from the turkey bones, I felt the presence of all the women in the world who pick meat, turn fruit into pastry, butcher their own meat and bake their own bread. We are the ones that will stretch a chicken into three days of dinners, who make stock from every little shred of vegetables we have (and bones), and who begin focusing on the evening meal first thing in the morning.
On my journal I have taped a picture of a tall, slender black sister wearing beads all over her head, and a draping, flowing dress. She is kneeling at a fire pouring hot camel milk and spices into a tin cup, smiling softly. There are four other cups awaiting her attention sitting in the fine dirt. A few years ago I had taped it to my kitchen wall. My then-10 granddaughter came in and asked who it was. I replied, "Oh, that's my sister. She lives in Africa." Sarah's brown eyes widened. "But you didn't tell us about her. Is she the one that raises dogs?" I pulled her to me. "Sarah, she is my sister because she is feeding her family, just like me, only she cooks on an open fire."
Last summer Sarah and I camped in the mountains, and I was cooking over the campfire. She started checking things out. "Nana, you could actually cook here all the time, couldn't you? I mean like this is like a kitchen!" I assured her that millions of women all over the world were cooking just like we were, only they didn't have a regular stove to go home to.
Standing in my small kitchen I felt the presence of those women in a dimension we share in service of our families. I had privacy and music to listen to, but they might be dealing with an elder walking through, a baby crawling on the floor, flies, or the sun suddenly blinding them when it bursts from the shade trees. Many had to gather their fuel and walk to the well for clean water before beginning their cooking. Remembering their lives develops my authenticity, my authority. They lead me to speak up for women and children, object to budgets that unfairly cut badly needed services for them, encourage women to speak out, and above all, to vote.
I am the privileged one. I have refrigeration, endless variety for meals, and the quiet to contemplate my world this day. But I've been there, using a hatchet on ice to get to live water. I've collected "squaw wood" for our cook fires. I carry all my sisters, whether living close with the land or turning on the tap. I carry them in my heart. And I will not, cannot, forget.
Saturday, January 21, 2012
COOKING WITH THE WIND
My view at this computer skims over brick buildings of the local hospital and tries to penetrate the the thick cloud layer hugging the Sapphires. The roads are piled with snow, and water runs along the berms. If there was a warm wind from the west we could say "chinook," a phenomenon that often occurs in January. But those soul-lifting winds aren't present, just a drizzle of rain and opaque skies.
My inner world has been grappling with judgement once again. Not just the natty nit-picking voices asking why someone talks too much, or doesn't do things my way. No these are old, deeply grooved judgements that have been turned up, like the dark soil in a harrowed field, and they are fecund with life. I'd like to do the best work regarding these old hungry ghosts instead of turn my back and pretend they aren't there. In my wisdom years, I know to be in the presence of someone I'm holding against doesn't feel good, and I'm likely to do something very strange entirely unconsciously, like spill hot coffee on him, or back into his vehicle. No, I'd rather embrace those ghosts that have lurked beneath the surface in a timeless place, feed them some cake and bid them farewell.
In the Sufi tradition, there's a process for forgiveness of this kind. It's four layers, beginning with acknowledgement that there's some work to do. The next step is likened to using melted beeswax to mend the split in the leather water container. (Remember, these are based on Arabic, where water containers mean life and death on the desert.) I like this metaphor because my life energy, like precious water on the desert) leaks away as I gnaw on the "should haves" and damning vengeance that can keep me awake at night. The third layer is one of alchemy, the biological transformation from negative to positive, from "hard lesson" to "compassionate understanding," from temporal to eternal impressions. The fourth layer also comes from the desert metaphor: the wind sweeping away all evidence of disturbance. This brings to mind the complex and lovely sand paintings that Buddhist monks (including the Dali Lama) take days to create which are then poured ceremonially into the rivers.
Does this mean some kind of pseudo amnesia takes place? That the events that seem to be seared in my mind will be tucked into a cave, with a huge boulder barring entrance? My experience is that's where they've been, for years and years, and now I'm willing to move the boulder (step one), let the light of Divine Presence flow into the cave. Once the process is complete, only sand and wind will remain.
I'd like to greet this being whom I've marginalized with genuine excitement, open-hearted, in the spirit of two veterans of foreign wars home again in their families' embrace. Thankfully I have a fair amount of time to work through this transformative process, like yeast rising in bread takes time. There's no hurrying it, but one must put the ingredients together in a safe, warm atmosphere to ever have a beautiful baked loaf. So on some level, I'm cooking using ancient tools to bring myself into the everpresent place of Divine Forgiveness, for myself, for him, and for the whole planet.
My inner world has been grappling with judgement once again. Not just the natty nit-picking voices asking why someone talks too much, or doesn't do things my way. No these are old, deeply grooved judgements that have been turned up, like the dark soil in a harrowed field, and they are fecund with life. I'd like to do the best work regarding these old hungry ghosts instead of turn my back and pretend they aren't there. In my wisdom years, I know to be in the presence of someone I'm holding against doesn't feel good, and I'm likely to do something very strange entirely unconsciously, like spill hot coffee on him, or back into his vehicle. No, I'd rather embrace those ghosts that have lurked beneath the surface in a timeless place, feed them some cake and bid them farewell.
In the Sufi tradition, there's a process for forgiveness of this kind. It's four layers, beginning with acknowledgement that there's some work to do. The next step is likened to using melted beeswax to mend the split in the leather water container. (Remember, these are based on Arabic, where water containers mean life and death on the desert.) I like this metaphor because my life energy, like precious water on the desert) leaks away as I gnaw on the "should haves" and damning vengeance that can keep me awake at night. The third layer is one of alchemy, the biological transformation from negative to positive, from "hard lesson" to "compassionate understanding," from temporal to eternal impressions. The fourth layer also comes from the desert metaphor: the wind sweeping away all evidence of disturbance. This brings to mind the complex and lovely sand paintings that Buddhist monks (including the Dali Lama) take days to create which are then poured ceremonially into the rivers.
Does this mean some kind of pseudo amnesia takes place? That the events that seem to be seared in my mind will be tucked into a cave, with a huge boulder barring entrance? My experience is that's where they've been, for years and years, and now I'm willing to move the boulder (step one), let the light of Divine Presence flow into the cave. Once the process is complete, only sand and wind will remain.
I'd like to greet this being whom I've marginalized with genuine excitement, open-hearted, in the spirit of two veterans of foreign wars home again in their families' embrace. Thankfully I have a fair amount of time to work through this transformative process, like yeast rising in bread takes time. There's no hurrying it, but one must put the ingredients together in a safe, warm atmosphere to ever have a beautiful baked loaf. So on some level, I'm cooking using ancient tools to bring myself into the everpresent place of Divine Forgiveness, for myself, for him, and for the whole planet.
Friday, November 18, 2011
TIS THE SEASON
I casually tossed the local rag's review of incredibly gourmet holiday recipes on top of the Heifer catalogue, and the conundrum of Christmas hit me once again. Heifer accepts donations and supplies domestic animals to (hungry) people around the world. Once the animals have multiplied, the families are pledged to share their bounty with another family.
Their catalogue arrives before Thanksgiving every year encouraging folks to send money to perpetuate this wonderful scheme. I support Heifer. I tried to tell my granddaughters that I was donating to Heifer in their names this year instead of buying gifts. This did not go over well. Even the eldest of the two didn't seem to grasp my plan. Actually, she wants another goat or two to add to her own herd of goats. But there it was again, the c of C.
In early November my daughter leans on me to start decorating, decide what I want to cook for the Thanksgiving feast, and urges me to buy a tree asap to put up in our small living room. She is a Christmas elf. She loves everything about the season. The pressure starts at work too: who's going to work Christmas day? What are your Christmas plans? Have you got your tree yet? Don't get me wrong. I'm often delighted with Christmas, for the little kids especially. That the mean old adults in their world will turn around and shower them with gifts, food and candies warms my cynical heart. In my family the day began with surprises, broiled grapefruit with brown sugar and a maraschino cherry on top. The adults generally held it together the entire day, or maybe I was just too enamoured with my presents to notice the tension.
One year my 8-year old son had been with us for the autumn months, and I was excited that he'd be with us for Christmas. But his dad decided they needed to head out to Canada that morning (in snow), and scooped him (and his presents) up into the overloaded truck and headed out. It was the grace of my husband to take us out for dinner that year (taboo act), and I hoped my mood didn't influence our 4-year old. The very child who now urges me to decorate!
So mixed feelings? You bet. I think we all have them. And I think we all have at least one Christmas we'd rather not remember. But we buck up. We decorate, purchase or produce gifts, and generally get in the spirit of it. But then the rest of the world flows through our mail boxes: food bank, orphans, disabled veterans, domestic violence victims, ad infinitim; poignant reminders that we are the lucky, the privileged, the relatively wealthy. We have food in the cupboards, and purchase ribbons and door decorations while others suffer. Do our purchases help their worlds? Trickle down doesn't really apply here as far as I can see. But generosity does.
You're probably wrestling with the same paradoxes. And you've probably done so off and on through the years. One year I made every gift ahead of time, with peaceful thoughts of joy in every stitch. I tucked them into my backpack (these were the hippie days), and when I went to deliver them, the back pack was empty! My son tells us his father and stepmother took all the kids' toys, wrapped them in colored "funnies" pages and gave them back to them Christmas morning! Did I say "wrestle"? Isn't there another stronger word for coming to joy given the unsettling aspects of this season? Gladiator battle comes to mind.
Strangely, in the end, every year, joy has won, and I, like you, do my part as much as I can, and admire the handmade bizarre items, the extravagant gourmet Christmas trees, and hum a carole while I make gifts. I send off some checks, grateful others are working more directly with suffering families, and take deep comfort with my own clan, gathered around laughing and opening gifts. For some reason, I never get to this generous place without the battle, and I just wanted to share it this year, in case you're wallowing around in the shoulds, oughts, betters, and deadlines.
Somewhat reluctantly, I'm purchasing new Christmas tree lights today(mine aren't safe anymore) and hauling in the boxes. And by Jesus in the manger, I'm going to give my utmost to make this a memorable, touching, fun, and generous holiday.
Their catalogue arrives before Thanksgiving every year encouraging folks to send money to perpetuate this wonderful scheme. I support Heifer. I tried to tell my granddaughters that I was donating to Heifer in their names this year instead of buying gifts. This did not go over well. Even the eldest of the two didn't seem to grasp my plan. Actually, she wants another goat or two to add to her own herd of goats. But there it was again, the c of C.
In early November my daughter leans on me to start decorating, decide what I want to cook for the Thanksgiving feast, and urges me to buy a tree asap to put up in our small living room. She is a Christmas elf. She loves everything about the season. The pressure starts at work too: who's going to work Christmas day? What are your Christmas plans? Have you got your tree yet? Don't get me wrong. I'm often delighted with Christmas, for the little kids especially. That the mean old adults in their world will turn around and shower them with gifts, food and candies warms my cynical heart. In my family the day began with surprises, broiled grapefruit with brown sugar and a maraschino cherry on top. The adults generally held it together the entire day, or maybe I was just too enamoured with my presents to notice the tension.
One year my 8-year old son had been with us for the autumn months, and I was excited that he'd be with us for Christmas. But his dad decided they needed to head out to Canada that morning (in snow), and scooped him (and his presents) up into the overloaded truck and headed out. It was the grace of my husband to take us out for dinner that year (taboo act), and I hoped my mood didn't influence our 4-year old. The very child who now urges me to decorate!
So mixed feelings? You bet. I think we all have them. And I think we all have at least one Christmas we'd rather not remember. But we buck up. We decorate, purchase or produce gifts, and generally get in the spirit of it. But then the rest of the world flows through our mail boxes: food bank, orphans, disabled veterans, domestic violence victims, ad infinitim; poignant reminders that we are the lucky, the privileged, the relatively wealthy. We have food in the cupboards, and purchase ribbons and door decorations while others suffer. Do our purchases help their worlds? Trickle down doesn't really apply here as far as I can see. But generosity does.
You're probably wrestling with the same paradoxes. And you've probably done so off and on through the years. One year I made every gift ahead of time, with peaceful thoughts of joy in every stitch. I tucked them into my backpack (these were the hippie days), and when I went to deliver them, the back pack was empty! My son tells us his father and stepmother took all the kids' toys, wrapped them in colored "funnies" pages and gave them back to them Christmas morning! Did I say "wrestle"? Isn't there another stronger word for coming to joy given the unsettling aspects of this season? Gladiator battle comes to mind.
Strangely, in the end, every year, joy has won, and I, like you, do my part as much as I can, and admire the handmade bizarre items, the extravagant gourmet Christmas trees, and hum a carole while I make gifts. I send off some checks, grateful others are working more directly with suffering families, and take deep comfort with my own clan, gathered around laughing and opening gifts. For some reason, I never get to this generous place without the battle, and I just wanted to share it this year, in case you're wallowing around in the shoulds, oughts, betters, and deadlines.
Somewhat reluctantly, I'm purchasing new Christmas tree lights today(mine aren't safe anymore) and hauling in the boxes. And by Jesus in the manger, I'm going to give my utmost to make this a memorable, touching, fun, and generous holiday.
Monday, November 7, 2011
ANCESTRAL STREAM
The big old canning kettle bubbles merrily on the stove with (only) four quarts of spiced pears and apples. This entire feat was accomplished in one hour from start to finish. Amazing! I think I finally feel relaxed about canning again, although my little kitchen presents its challenges.
Always my beloved first mother-in-law comes to mind. She would spend hours and hours canning in the fall. The jars stood like gleaming soldiers on her tiled counter at the end of the day,and her pride was obvious. Also Gert's kitchen arises in memory with a long counter of distressed plywood, unlike like Mom Klare's. Green beans, sauerkraut, carrots, tomatoes (stewed) gleamed as she cooked supper. In later years these items landed in the big freezer which they treasured more than a new car. Mom Klare had a huge chest freezer too that accumulated various items, and a fair amount of dirt, on it's topside--a task I often tended to, the level of household dirt in her home was an issue for me.
I stand in my kitchen with the canner at a rolling boil, and peels mounded in the sink, feeling generations of women behind me, reminding me to boil the lids and ringers, slide the butter knife between the fruit and the glass to release the air bubbles, wipe the jar tops before placing the sterilized lids. They whisper little phrases and coach me as I dream up the spices and sugar for a cough syrup. I am proud to be in this ancestral mothers' stream and deeply proud to pass it on to my granddaughter, a little every year. She too may move about her kitchen one day wiping counters as the timer ticks off the boiling time. I hope so.
Always my beloved first mother-in-law comes to mind. She would spend hours and hours canning in the fall. The jars stood like gleaming soldiers on her tiled counter at the end of the day,and her pride was obvious. Also Gert's kitchen arises in memory with a long counter of distressed plywood, unlike like Mom Klare's. Green beans, sauerkraut, carrots, tomatoes (stewed) gleamed as she cooked supper. In later years these items landed in the big freezer which they treasured more than a new car. Mom Klare had a huge chest freezer too that accumulated various items, and a fair amount of dirt, on it's topside--a task I often tended to, the level of household dirt in her home was an issue for me.
I stand in my kitchen with the canner at a rolling boil, and peels mounded in the sink, feeling generations of women behind me, reminding me to boil the lids and ringers, slide the butter knife between the fruit and the glass to release the air bubbles, wipe the jar tops before placing the sterilized lids. They whisper little phrases and coach me as I dream up the spices and sugar for a cough syrup. I am proud to be in this ancestral mothers' stream and deeply proud to pass it on to my granddaughter, a little every year. She too may move about her kitchen one day wiping counters as the timer ticks off the boiling time. I hope so.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)