Happy New Year Jan. 1, 2012

Many years ago we began seeing the new year in with a cousin or two of mine and their spouses along with several old friends and their spouses.  Last night was no different.  A huge roaster of kraut and pork simmering all day, turning the house into something that smelled shady.  A big kettle of mashed potatoes, and a miriad of other delectable dishes carried in by the "New Year's Eve" crowd.  Things are in many ways the same after all these years, and in other ways quite different.  Several people are missing.  Joan, my cousin's wife died just over a year ago from cancer.  Eva, the thirteen-year-old daughter of dear friends succumbed to the ravages of CF.  She would have been 18 on her last birthday.  My cousin Simon, struck down with a heart attack, far too young.  For some of us New Year's Eve is the only time of the year we see each other.  And, as with many familiar traditions, it is a comfortable feeling to see the passage of the old and the incoming of the new with family and old friends.

Operation Cat Scratch Feb. 1, 2011

On Christmas Eve, six years ago, my daughter and I made the traditional rounds of the neighborhood with tins of tarts, something we had done for years. Due to an intense ice storm, we discovered we were in a virtual ghost town.  Most everyone had left their cold, dark homes in search of functioning power sources. The only sound was our generator chugging away, until we heard the frantic mewling of a kitten, deep inside the bushes by the front door.  The temperatures had dropped to dangerous lows and somehow, saving that kitten seemed as important to us as any harrowing rescue mission could be.  Besides, it was the only excitement available to us. 

We donned protective gloves and crawled in after the sounds and pulled a wildly protesting long-haired feline from the prickles and ice.  The strong smell of chemicals followed the mangy, terrified kitten; I suspected someone had tried to euthanize him.  We took the little wildcat inside and further traumatized him with a proper bath.  His hunger finally overcame his fear and he wolfed down a saucer of milk.  I put him in the garage in a snug box covered with a screen held down with bricks.  In the morning the box was empty.

It took us weeks to coax this tough and beautiful kitty to trust us.  He now rules the roost, promptly disposing of any other pet we've tried to add to the family.  No, he didn't eat them, he just terrorized them so thoroughly they ran off and never returned.  Sometimes I'm surprised I'm allowed to live here.

March 18, 2012

My Father was born March 10th, 1909, youngest in a large Amish family.  Swartzentruber Amish, the most conservative, the plainest of the plain people.  Born six years after his youngest sibling, he was the baby of the family, and that we had in common.  I, too, was six years younger than my youngest sibling, arriving on Father's Day when Dad was 49 years old. A week ago would have been my father's 102nd birthday.  That's hard to absorb.  More than a century.

My father died thirty years ago, a month after falling and breaking his hip, seven years after suffering a debilitating stroke, rendering his one leg and arm virtually useless.  Always slow to speak, he became even more so after his stroke. Since he and my mother had left the Amish church years before my birth, I never knew much of his family.  The Swartzentrubers shun anyone who leaves.  I never knew what my parents had sacrificed until I was an adult and realized how little contact they had with family on that side of the clan.

Although quiet, my dad had a great sense of humor.  I lived the first fifteen years of my life in the country, close to Chardon, Ohio, on a farm my parents paid 65.00 a month to rent.  Down the dirt road a long lane led into the woods, with three more lanes branching off from it.  The first led to a cabin, rustic but inviting.  An old pump outside provided water and lanterns provided light.  The second turn-off led to a pond, surrounded by trees.  A small bridge led to a tiny island, grassy and serene in the middle of the water.  Frogs croaked and whipoorwills sang, the sound of civilization completely absent.  The third lane came after a dense stand of pines, the air pungent with the odor of pine needles, the ground soft, cushioned with years of fallen pine needles.  Following the turnoff brought you back to the pond. Across the road from our century-old two story farmhouse, another winding wooded lane led to a fascinating labyrinth of caves buried deep in the woods, hidden from anyone not privy to their existance.

Although quiet, my dad had a great sense of humor. One of our favorite pastimes, when company came to call, was to go to the caves and explore.  One Sunday, my Florida relatives were visiting and he regaled them with stories of the bears that haunted the caves.  A party of us, ready for adventure, started out for a hike.  Adults and little ones and everything in between, we

March 7, 2012

Yesterday our small town voted on several important issues, at least to those of us living here they were important.  And it's a little disturbing how angry people become when things don't go their way.  I actually received an anonymous letter because I dared to express my opinion on a social network.  It was nasty, which is probably why it was anonymous.  It was also full of incorrect statements, again, anonimity is always convenitent when your facts are wrong.  In the letter it was suggested I might want to seek further education since my math was off (it wasn't).  The writer also made disparaging comments about a local business that had nothing to do with me, but demonstrated his thinking on one or two other issues.  He implied I live in a "big house" (I don't) and because I would suspect his own education could handle an upgrade he made it easy to figure out what neighborhood he lives in and what his occupation might be.  Why am I bothering to comment on something an ignorant coward would write to me?  Because it is troubling that our democratic process is suffering attacks that reach all the way into small-town america.  How, you may ask, is this an attack on that process?  Through intimidation.  It felt creepy to know that someone is stalking my facebook account, taking the trouble to copy my tax records, write me a letter on them, and drop them off at my neighbors mailbox (since I get my mail at the post office.)  Some people would no longer voice their opinion publically.  It just made me mad.

Three Funerals Sept 26, 2014

In the past few months I've been to three funerals.  One was not entirely unexpected.  One was a total shock.  And one was somewhere in between.

I first met Carl when I joined the local Lions Club a few years back.  Even then he was a walking miracle.  He told me he was supposed to die decades ago but he just didn't.  With a faulty ticker and more complications than I can accurately remember, he was one of the most optimistic and encouraging people I've ever met.

"How's it going, Carl?" inevitably someone at our club meetings would ask.  The answer was always the same.

"Oh, can't complain."  And he didn't.  No matter how severe his pallor or how slow his gait, he always had a story to tell that would make everyone laugh.  And most of his stories were true.  Or mostly true.

One summer the Lions Club bought a few picnic tables and a gazebo for the local park. My friend Susan and I were brushing stain on the new wood and Carl was helping.  He was too weak to stand so he sat at one of the tables and worked on what he could, regaling us with tales of his crazy exploits in days gone by.  Our shrieks of laughter raised questions from other club members who were busy painting, just a little out of hearing range.  Gasping for breath and with tears running we told them it was Carl's fault.


When we had any local club events Carl was there.  If it was a bad day and he was too tired to stand, he sat and collected money or handed out drinks.  His only gripe was that he "can't help more."  He never comprehended that he was indispensable. 

One day he came early to a club meeting and I was there alone, setting up.  We got to talking and he told me, "the two best decisions I've ever made were giving my life to the Lord and marrying my wife."  When he told me what the Lord meant to him it made me think of some things in a new way.

I grew up in a very conservative denomination.  I think in my subconscious I equated having too good a time with questionable spiritual sincerity.  Yet here was someone who knew how to pull all the enjoyment possible from life, who was usually surrounded by laughter and craziness, and he was telling me matter-of-factually that he and the Lord were friends.  And I could tell it was true.

Carl's funeral was a great celebration of his life.  His son told stories that had everyone laughing. Carl would have loved it.  He was going to be missed. A lot.

I got the call about Abby just hours before she died.  She was three years old and fighting for her life.  Or maybe she was already gone and her body just hadn't given up yet.  She'd been playing with her brother and two sisters, cooling off in a shallow pool on a warm summer day.  No one knows what happened.  But suddenly the chattering of the children turned to screams and the lives of those still here would never be the same.

Abby's mother is a niece of Paul's.  She had wanted children for quite awhile before she got them.  When four came in quick succession it was easy to see she was doing what she was made to do.  I only knew Abby from Facebook and occasional family reunions but  the heaviness I felt when I got the call that she was gone felt like lead in my gut.  How would her mother go on after an inexplicable tragedy like this?

As is often the case, the many obligations we think can't be avoided really can.  I rescheduled things and drove to the funeral several states away.  It was an emotional mine field.  The video of Abby singing songs and "reading" The Very Hungry Caterpillar made us all laugh.  Her aunt and uncle singing Jesus Loves Me made us all weep.  Releasing hundreds of balloons and watching them drift up and away was a poignant reminder of the transient nature of our lives. And watching that little white coffin sink into the cold, hard earth, projected the brutal truth with stark, face-slamming absoluteness.

It's all well and good to know she's safe in the arms of Jesus.  That doesn't change the bitter fact that her mother and father had to go home without her. How does a mother bury her child?  I don't know.

Abby's mother is a writer and she chose to share her grief publicly.  Through her humble openness many lives have already changed.  She has allowed us the privilege of traveling with her on this terrible journey, as much as our empathy will allow.  No one can truly travel that path without experiencing it in reality.  But we can try.  The best we can.

The last to leave was Mo.  I had known him years ago as Dr.  He had delivered me of my children.  When he moved on from his local practice I did not see him again for decades. And then I joined Lions and there he was.  He and Carl.  They were friends.

Mo had a few health problems of his own but they were well-controlled.  He rarely ever mentioned his diabetes and I didn't even know he had a defibrillator until after he was gone.  He was an avid hunter, but with a camera instead of a gun.  He was a quiet man for the most part but occasionally we were able to pull a story or two from him.  He had plenty of adventures with that lens of his.  Close encounters with wild animals were relayed with a calmness contradicting the chances he took to get the perfect shot.

Every birthday and anniversary Paul and I received a hand-crafted card with one of Mo's photographs on the front.  A personal note always wished us well; they were special to us, those cards.  And we kept them all.

Although he rarely talked about himself, a few facts still surfaced occasionally.  He was a huge OSU fan; not hard to figure out since his license plate said OSU MO.  I heard he took tailgating to a whole new level; I heard this from the people he invited along.

He traveled hundreds of miles to cheer on our local little league teams who were competing on national levels, but I only knew this because the parents of the players told me how much it meant to them.  He invited men he barely knew to his Canadian fishing week; men who returned to tell the tales of their adventures.  Mo said very little about it himself.

When I was voted president of the Lions I nearly panicked.  What did I know about presiding over a club? Nothing. Mo had been a Lion for years.  He promised me I could do it.  And with his help, I did.  I told him he made me look good.  I knew I was barely competent.  And I was pretty sure he knew it too.  But I could always ask for his help. And he always gave it.

I heard he was in the hospital but his family was thinking he'd be coming home in a day or two.  And then he was gone.

These three were so different from each other. Carl faced his mortality for decades before he left but laughter surrounded him. He showed me what true courage looks like. Abby danced through her universe never giving a thought to how fleeting her stay would be.  From all I've heard she was an exceptional little sprite who made every place brighter for having been there.  Mo walked his path without fanfare, leaving an indelible remembrance for those who accompanied him on this trip or that.  He was eulogized for accomplishments he never spoke of, reminding me that underestimating others is a certainty.

Aug. 14, 2016

August 13, 2016

The day dawned beautiful and clear, the air cooler, the humidity low.  We left the hotel around 8:30.  Paul and Ruth Hershberger did the devotional as we drove.  Persevering during difficult times was the subject and they shared their personal stories about times that were impossible to understand, talking about how God’s faithfulness came through.  I enjoy hearing people’s own stories – I always get more out of what’s being said when real life is present.

Afterward Gloria spoke about Nickle Mines, where she and her husband live, and updated us on some of the happenings in the years since the tragic shooting there.  The world moves on but the people whose lives have been forever changed by the unimaginable actions of one troubled man must continue to live with the consequences of his actions.  Forgiveness when there is no closure, no end to the difficult days, is an ongoing decision, one day at a time.

Our first stop was at the Truro Famer’s Market where Old Colony Mennonites sell fresh vegetables and baked goods, as well as rum, beer, cheese and jelly.  I bought a wedge of mild Swiss Gouda and a loaf of crusty beer bread.  Since this combination called for some fine wine, I snagged a jar of Merlot Wine Jelly.  We all sampled some later, on the bus, cruising on down the road.

We tried to see the tidal bore outside of Truro, where the moon’s gravitational pull causes the tides rushing from the Bay of Fundy to force the Salmon River into a backward flow twice a day.  We missed it by minutes but I had never heard of this phenomena and found it quite interesting.  I’ve added a link to a video from Utube: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LWumonz87rA

We ate lunch at Jungle Jim’s in Truro, a place similar to Red Robin back home, without the big franchise feel.  The food was delicious and arrived quickly but, most importantly, was served by friendly people who appeared to enjoy their jobs.

We arrived at the Lynwood Inn in Baddeck, Nova Scotia early evening.  Beautifully situated overlooking one section of the town with the water peeking through the trees beyond, the Inn also featured a restaurant with large verandas and decks on two sides.  Even though it was cool in the evening air many of us opted to eat outside, soaking in the beauty around us.  After stuffing myself with pan-fried haddock, I joined several others for a walk to a small ice-cream establishment a few blocks away.

I turned in early; too much food and a poor night’s sleep last night and I was ready for bed before the sun was completely gone.  Paul left in search of a card game with his Rook cards in one hand and his score pad in the other.  I was sound asleep long before he came back, moaning about his severe trouncing.

Henrietta's Seizure

Oct. 2022

 I should have known I was in for a day of it when Henrietta's emergency brake seized up and no amount of pushing and pulling on the lever, accompanied by a string of hostile invectives, served to produce a release.  The little VW bug sat on my daughter's sloped driveway, as immovable as a half-ton boulder.  After working up a sweat I gave up and resisted the urge to kick her in the side after slamming .the door and walking away. My well=meaning husband bought the little convertible for our fortieth anniversary because I had often mentioned that some day I would relive my childhood by owning a Volkswagen beetle and I would cruise the country side with the top down and the wind in my hair.  .I came to rue the day my little fantasy led to a love/hate relationship with a cream colored money pit.

That however is a story for another day.

Today my daughter Jaimee' had asked me along on a road trip.  The family pet had produced nine beautiful puppies, golden doodles, much in demand these days and she was heading south to deliver one of the pups to her new family.  At nine weeks the beautiful merle female was already twice the size of one of those fru fru yippy little hairballs that always get on my last nerve.  These dogs are beautiful and sweet-natured.  And inclined to motion sickness.

Jaimee came prepared.  She had large bath towels, a roll of paper towels, wet wipes, and plastic bags.  Since anxiety is a large factor in stomach upset it was decided that I would drive and Jaimee would hold Kirby, thus, hopefully, reassurring her and keeping her breakfast inside where it belonged.  This worked beautifully.  For about a mile.

We live in a beautiful part of the country with rolling hills, lots of curves, and little dips and crests in the roadway that challenge even the cast iron stomach.  Kirby did not possess such a constitution.  Jaimee was kept busy mopping up things I didn't choose to look at, keeping my eyes on the road and the GPS instead.  After several upchucks, the smell of urine wafted through the vehicle and Jaimee started to laugh and announced that yes, she now had been peed on too.  

All of a sudden there arose a loud clatter from under the hood of the SUV.  Since we were hurtling down the interstate quite a few things went through my mind as I slowed down and pulled off the side of the road.  We sat there a few minutes, the three of us, in the now-silent vehile and mulled over our options.  All the gauges read normal.  the engine was humming along nicely.  The terrible rattle was gone.  It sounded a great deal like a big stick was flapping around in the motor and it stopped as soon as we were parked beside the road.  

Semi trucks were passing us, way too close for comfort, the air from their big rigs noticably moving us when they flew by us.  Sitting where we were, unable to move further off the road to a safer place, I decided to try driving to the next exit.  I maneuvered back onto the highway and all was well until suddenly it wasn't.  The clacking noise started up again but the vehicle moved fine without any warning lights or buzzers.  Only that terrible flapping sound.  And suddenly it was gone.  We both heard a slight sound toward the rear of the suv, like as if something had broken loose and bounced along the length of the vehichle and shooting out the back, but we saw nothing.  And nary another foreighn sound was heard.  So we did what any non mechanical person would do: we pretended it never happened and plowed on down the road.

We stopped to give ourselves and the dog a break.  After walking, watering, and disposing of a very full barf bag we were back on the road again.  Kirby settled right down on Jaimee's lap and fell asleep and wasn't sick again.  The pungent smells in the car didn't seem to bother her at all.  The same couldn't be said for the two humans.

After meeting Kirby's new family who were lovely people and had an instant connection to their new charge we switched places with Jaimee driving and me programming the GPS for the trip home.  Thta was a mistake.  I put in my address instead of Jaimee's. After all, I reasoned, we live 22 minutes apart.  When we get close to home we'll know the way, right?  It didn't occur to me until we were in Columbus that out trusty navigation system was bringing us in through the backwater of the region, determined to reach my house first.  This added many miles to our route since my car was at Jaimee's house therefore we needed to go there first. (Paul had run down and wrestled the emergency break loose so I could drive home).

We meandered through one hole-in-the-wall town after another, eventually getting rather hungry but finding a bathroom was becoming a priority.  Finally we reached Warsaw, a blip on the map that boasted not only a place that sold ice-cream and sandwiches but also a little diner across the street.  Since Jaimee was still smelling rather pungent we opted for the place with outdoor tables.  I walked in the nearest door while Jaimee locked up the car.  I waited my turn while I read the menu on the wall.  When Jaimee came I opened the door for her and a man who was leaving with his ice-cream cone followed me to the door and rudely exclaimed, "Out or in, out or in??!!"  He looked annoyed and we knew we had committed some small town faupaux. but it took a few seconds before we realized what it was.  We had gone in the out door!  How terrible.  Things started taking on a rather twilight zone feel at that point.  As we walked out the door, never having ordered in our horror at having committed such a crime, a woman almost ran over Jaimee (or was it the other way around??) and she said, "I didn't know if you were coming or going!" Also with an agrieved air as if we had somehow committed the unpardonable.  what was it with this town and their door issues??

Since there was no bathroom and the need was becoming rather urgent we tromped across the street and waded through the line at the diner, headed straight to the facilites and took care of business.  We then returned to the sandwich place across the street and entered through the IN door.  Jaimee mentioned to me that she was wanting some deep fried mushrooms.  I ordered myself a cheeseburger with everything and some fires.  Any thought of healthy food was long gone.  I needed food therapy after all the days experiences.  I told the man behind the counter we want our food to go. He smirked and said, as if he was talking to an idiot, "that's the only kind we have."  I felt my hackles rising and said, "Well you have tables outside."  "Yes," he said, "but we put everything in a bag and you can take it out there to eat."  WHATEVER I thought, but didn't say it.  

Jaimee' started to order when I pointed to the tiny little note taped to the glass above the counter.  "We are out of mushrooms." it said.  I felt manacle laughter threatening at this revelation but managed to control myself. And then the IN door opened and about seven people walked in.  Was it my imagination or were they all quietly staring at us?  The man behind the counter told us to wait outside and he'd let us know when our food was ready.  We move through the OUT door and sat at a table quietly discussing whether maybe these people were all zombies and we were about to be eaten alive.

Jaimee' was limping badly because she has a game hip that acts up, something that started when she was still running a lot.  I told her that if we do get caught up in the walking dead she didn't need to fear. The way she was hobbling along and as bad as she smelled, the zombies would think she's one of them.  A sudden sharp rapping at the window close to our table got our attenting and inside was the man who took our orders, rather sternly indicating that our order was ready. We started laughing rather wildly, Jaimee grabbed our bag of food and we made for the car.  

The food was good but I couldn't shake the feeling that we'd be safer once we got out of the twilight zone.  And I couldn't help but wonder if there's something wrong with us that we thought the day rather extraordinarily fun.  We come from a family that tends to laugh at the most bizarre things. Like vomit and dog pee and rude waiters in small towns.