Simple Beginnings in my Shire of the
Northwoods
"Now . . . where to begin? Ah, yes. Concerning
Hobbits"
Days commonly billowed with the
breezes of northern air moving happily throughout the woods. Trails would lead
into each other, along side dirt roads, lakes and old logging trees rotting in
oak leaves. Shade shadowed the long reaching paths where days of childhood
summers worn them down with certainty filled with curiosity. Dilapidated forts
made of tree shavings after the storms, remained long after. Weathered broken
branches fallen over the years became the sheltered hideaways for hide and seek.
Kindling for fires was abundant, and without excuse for the taking.
Being we had a wood stove to
heat the home with, large cut pieces of dry stacked wood along the back deck of
the house, were waiting their turn for a smokey fire burning hot enough for
smores. The crickets reminded us we weren't alone, while the loons flew home
from the lake just down the circle of our subdivision.
The stars were like lanterns
holding out light as we'd walk through the woods in search for kindling. There
is a special sound in the night woods. Lullaby's of the wood often would sing us
to sleep while lying in our sleeping bags while camping out. Loons always
returned at dawn for another day on the water reminding us not to sleep away the
day.
The fragrance of fabric softener
flowing in the breeze reminded me to get the clothes off the line, folded and
put away before mom got home from work. Chores were common occurrences we all
shared a part of. Gardening became part of the joy of summer, especially when
we would hear the canning jars filled with pickles, peaches, and tomato's- go
"ping!" assuring us of their stay for winter meals. Stacking of wood,
afternoons at the beach cooling ourselves off from the sweat of the day,
canooing, cooking out and swimming at the State Park where the water was crystal
clear all made for the most wonderful close to a hot summer's day.
We did a lot as a family. For
a while. Especially on Christmas Eve, where the tantalizing smell of garlic, in
a pot of pork and chili bubbled up the appetite in us all, mirroring the bubbles
of hot rising tortilla's in Grandma's cast iron skillet.
All of my dad's side of the
family gathered every year at grandma's house. Through our woods literally, we
had Mexican dinner, gifts, game playing, and mounds of wrapping paper which
would mysteriously, inevitably land on grandma's bed before the night was
through.
Faithful were the stars, our
lantern so vividly I remember, leading us home on the snow covered road through
our woods. Sleep for the night would feel longer than the year ahead, awaiting
for another spray of paper and unwrapping of the gifts Santa was yet to leave
under the tree for Christmas morning.
Easter brought the tradition of
morning church, handmade dresses, and baskets of hidden candy. One morning I
woke earlier than my sister, and found them before anyone knew. Unfortunately I
learned the hard way. Spoiling the secret before it's time, just takes away the
fun after all. But each year into our teens even, we were challenged by the
difficult and numerous hidden clues that lead one to another. From beneath the
sewing machine, into the stove, to under the seat of the van outside, and into
the mailbox where we would finally find my favorite chocolate cadbury eggs.
But before all that, it was
good Friday that held another most precious memory. Mom would read to us from
the book, "Little visits with God" often throughout the year. Good Friday was
always a day when we read the story of Christ's death, and from noon till three,
we had time for reflection and rest. I remember how so ironically, many of the
days were stormy; just like mom told us it might have been when Christ was
crucified.
The other highlight of our
family moments were our birthdays in the fall of September. Where the peak of
all brilliance and color briskly blew blankets of leaves. Crunching beneath our
feet we often played games at a park, while cooking out, and having the whole
family once again, come together. I learned this was our mom's love. To get us
all together, have a special doll or cookie monster, or princess cake with all
the balloons tied off at the table end, to celebrate our life. There was always
enough food, always enough fun, to wear us out good and tired for the
night.
In the bitter snows of winter,
on a warmer day, our dad would take us up on a tall bank, or hill off the road.
We'd get our red and wooden toboggan, and the red plastic sled with yellow
ropes lacing through the sides to hold onto. Down the slopes of the hill we'd
go. And as we went, our faces washed with snow. But our dad, he'd always
capture our beet red cheeks and bury them in his heavy flannel coat, reminding
us of the warmth of such moments. Of course, we'd once again, walk ourselves
right back up the hill, and do it all again.
I never learned to ice skate
like a pro, but I had my share of attempts on the ice rink dad would make for us
in the front yard. I thought it was so fascinating how much water our hose could
hold, enough to make a yard full of ice. Together my sister and I tried our
best to be like a swan on that ice. The cold just never seemed to keep us away
from the joy of play.
Mom in the heat of summer loved
to bring us along to pick berry's. Some days we'd pick blueberry's just off the
edge of the woods of our yard. Other times, it'd be raspberry's and blackberry's
off the edge of the road to grandma's. We'd fill them old fashioned plastic ice
cream buckets full. Take them home and make home made pies or jelly. But one
thing that I loved always too, that I've not had since mom's been gone, was
rhubarb crisp and pie. We grew the rhubarb in our garden. It was one of mom's
very favorites. And you could tell, because no one could cook with it like she
could. These were just some of the memories of what our 'shire' was. Memories
that will forever be part of who I am, and what I came to love and appreciate
about simple beginnings and life.
Dedicated to what once was. For it is as though few live, who remember it.
Dedicated to what once was. For it is as though few live, who remember it.
