Breaking Free

"Higher, higher! Push me higher, Mommy!"

Girl on a Swing, Winslow Homer , c.1879

Julia's upturned face and excited smile greeted the sky each time her tiny and powerful legs pumped forward on the swing. No need to explain the sense of freedom, the desire to swing for hours, for her mothers stood by her, remembering her own spring days on handmade wooden swings when she too felt she could swing high enough to caress the clouds.

Without a word, the mother slipped onto the swing next to her five year old and was soon swinging and pumping in rhythm. In silent agreement, they quietly, then raucously, chanted a song they loved from Disney's Mary Poppins musical:

          "Let's go fly a kite
           Up to the highest height!
           Let's go fly a kite and send it soaring
           Up through the atmosphere
           Up where the air is clear
           Oh, let's go fly a kite!"

Others in the park turned their way to see who delivered the concert and a few clapped and sang along. The joy was infectious as the refrain was repeated amid giggles and child-driven shrieking. The long winter bundled in sweaters and gloves and boots had thankfully given way to spring jackets and jeans and a sharing of the celebration of warmth and play.

The young mother slipped off the swing as her daughter slowed, jumping behind her to prolong the fun. Over and over they sang, driven by Julia's enthusiastic insistence to swing, " 'Gain! Again!" and the mother happily complied, reluctant to break the spell.

The winter's hibernation gave way to fresh air, traditions, and a durable mother-daughter bond building memories for a lifetime and beyond. The guaranteed trigger would always be their beloved music, true in so many of their enduring memories.

The Good Things

A space between darkness and light, just before the morning breaks over the knoll - one of the good things. The day hangs suspended, and I breathe shallow and steady so as not to wake anyone else. The world's breath has slowed as well. I want to savor the quiet, the perfection, of the stillness. Once the day's switch is flipped, the world springs to life and solitude vanishes. The moment, the feeling, doesn't happen every day but I learn to honor it when it does.

A flash of red snags my peripheral vision and I turn. It's spring and the cardinal couples are searching for nesting materials at my hanging bag of yarn and string clippings outside my bay window. Glass separates us but I stand frozen in place as they stare and size up the threat. Thirty seconds, maybe a minute passes, and then they are gone, blue and orange yarns beak-hanging. The bag is shrinking so I know they will be back until they have made all the nature-ordained preparations. Avian visitations make all good things better.

I have chopped and sliced a lot of onions in my life. Rarely does a dish come together without some form of onion included. As a child, I wasn't so keen on the flavor and I know my mother tucked

onions into everything, an Italian staple flavor whether we liked it or not. Today, I am my mother's cooking legacy as I do the same. Slice, dice, sliver, steam whole, au gratin, caramelized - an onion in any form is a good thing.

I look up from my phone (a ploy to seem occupied) as I stand waiting at the restaurant's front counter. They are busy and tables of two, four, and more are ahead of me. The hostess calls my name, careful not to add "party of one" for which I am secretly grateful. Her tag says Jamie and she chats amiably as we walk to a booth by the window, not one by the kitchen or restrooms. All the time in the world, her focus is on me, asking for my drink order, pointing out specials and favorite dishes. I settle in, purse to the side chair, and she assures me Erin will be with me shortly and she'll be back with my drink. And she was, despite those waiting for her at the front door. Kindness to every patron no matter the number in the party is humanizing, certainly a good thing.

The bottom edge of my favorite jeans is fraying, strings trailing across my instep. When the strings reach the floor, I trim them so I don't trip or create dust trails. I think I should consider retiring the jeans, the echo of my mother's voice reminding me it isn't acceptable to wear worn or torn clothes. I smile. Such a simple rebellious act, a secret salute to growing up, getting older, doing what I want. These jeans look, feel comfortable, like I want to be, like I often can't be, and remind me that even when worn down, I might still have value. The thread connecting generations can be a good thing.

A tap on the shoulder, not in person but through wireless connections. I am here; you are there. Sometimes it is all that is needed, the reminder that while we are physically alone, someone is thinking about us, nudging us, reaching out to keep us from falling. Conversations have changed, springing from fingers rather than mouths. No appointment, travel, proximity necessary. Newfangled for certain, far from the innovative stretched wires of Alexander Graham Bell, but attached at the earpiece to Steve Jobs. Connection, friendship, a hand up and out delivered via emoticon, text-speak, and clever graphics. Never being alone in our aloneness is one of the good things.

The smallest events form the tapestry we call life. What value, these good things?

Start a conversation here - share your small, good things. I am listening.

Drawn to the Glow

The glow, smoke, and brightness of campfires are so compelling. When the children were young, we had hundreds of dollars worth of camping equipment stored in our crawlspace, purchased on a whim because we had no money for vacationing and felt the siren song of the outdoors. We only used it twice, preferring to borrow a friend's camper or, better yet, stay in cabins with running water. Personally, I did not realize how uncomfortable it was for an overweight person to sleep on the ground. Body padding was not an asset. On the contrary, the extra weight pressing down on the rocky surface only heightened the cold and numbness. But ah, cabins had mattresses!

No matter the level of convenience, the delight was equally divided among early morning coffee at the picnic table while bacon crackled in the cast iron skillet, packet cooking in the coals for an easy meal, and simple campfire sitting and dreaming. As soon as the dinner was finished, gear stowed, and dishes rinsed, we would instinctively start gathering twigs, bark, and logs. We built the requisite pyramid shape and carefully laid in the dry tinder. Brushing back any stray foliage to add an extra measure of safety, anticipation grew as we awaited nightfall. Everything magical started at the edge of darkness: firefly chases, flashlight tag, ember updrafts, camp songs, and the ever-present dirty faces-hands-knees.

Competition always flared - who could start the fire with one match - but regardless of who won, we welcomed the inevitable "smoke dance." We coughed and laughed as breezes shifted, chairs scraped dirt piles as we moved from the smoky curtain, and finally claimed our ideal spot.

The night air was punctuated with "be careful" as the children drifted closer to the fire, drawn by the warmth and glow. The older children threaded marshmallows for the younger siblings, and we sat by with graham crackers and chocolate squares at the ready. S'mores were the sugar reward for a long day in the sun taking woodland hikes to hidden waterfalls and streams. It didn't matter half the marshmallows turned to torches and fell charred into the fire. That too was part of the challenge, the fun, the commitment to relaxing outdoors as a family.

Tent and camper parks, state parks, all have an easy camaraderie, a rhythm built around the interwoven ages, stories, campfires, and food. During the day, favorite toys traveled with rambling children from one site to another, then were redistributed before everyone left for home, the memories of who shared them attached like barnacles to each toy. Water jugs, shared six-packs, extra towels often moved between new friends as well. Voices and laughter drifted from site to site and, at the end of the day, as children bedded down from exhaustion, often adults would mingle easily with neighboring campers, adopting one campfire to settle in for conversation and staring. As the campfires turned to embers, the murmur of voices drifted away, and all would be still.

A favorite activity has always been driving through campgrounds to absorb the ambiance of those staying there, I haven't camped much in a long time, but one of the first things I did when I bought my own home was build a cinder block fire pit, providing the best of all worlds: enjoy the fire's glow as often as I like, and sleep in my own bed. I've made packet meals, hot dogs on sticks, and s'mores galore for my grandchildren. The legacy continues.

The Tapestry We Share

Each day when I awaken, my taste buds are already up, looking forward to the morning coffee. I am eclectic in my tastes, not confined to one or two brands. So part of the fun is deciding what the flavor of the day will be.

Coffee brewing was always a point of conversation with my former son-in-law. We would go back and forth between how much or how little should be used to brew the perfect pot; whether or not the coffee should be kept in the freezer, the refrigerator, or on the counter in a sealed canister; and should it be black, sweetened, or white. Admittedly, I was an "under-scooper," using less than I should. Because of those many years of bantering, each morning as I brew the perfect pot and season it just for me, I think of the part he played in that moment in time.

Sometimes in the late evening, a flavored hot tea sounds just perfect and although I don't keep many selections in the house, I still have some wonderfully soothing choices.

Tea brewing went on around the clock in my childhood home, not for my mother, but for my father. He never took to coffee, but he loved his iced tea and a one quart Pyrex pitcher was always on the counter with steaming water and multiple tea bags to make a tea concentrate.

My father came by his love of tea honestly. My grandmother always had a cup of hot tea at her elbow no matter what she was doing. When she came to visit on weekends, I ran to be the one to brew the tea for her. Why do I think of her in particular when it comes to tea? Not because of the tea flavors or the addiction, but because her kitchen had a thin clothesline strung over the sink and it always had tea bags hung up to dry. So too did our house. One use was wasteful, my grandmother would warn, and I am certain long before I came along, my mother had been properly indoctrinated. I stop each time I brew a cup, smile for a moment, and set the bag aside for the refill.

I have always hated splinters because I seemed to be a prime target and "splinter magnet" as a child. I spent as many months of the year barefoot as possible and paid the price.

If I had to have a splinter, it was best to have it when my grandmother was near. She'd take a good look at it, use tweezers if it seemed it might be fruitful, but more often than not, she would disappear into the house and return with a bottle of iodine and a roll of vinyl "easy tape," better known as adhesive tape. She'd pull a short strip and press it firmly over the splinter.

"Leave it there for a few days," she'd admonish, "and when you pull it off, yank it fast and hard." The solution always worked - the wooden splinter was stuck to the tape having been drawn out by the adhesive. Whenever I have a splinter now, out comes the tape.

The threads that tie us to the past, to people in our lives, and just to life itself, are woven almost imperceptibly. When we catch ourselves repeating a truism as we know it, or performing an action that brings a moment of recognition, or saying a phrase we know we've heard before, we clearly acknowledge what connects us all.

My mother would say "oh gad" when something amazed her. My grandmother would welcome me into her home with a hug and "wie geht's," a German greeting. "Jeez oh peetz" was a familiar exclamation and I have been known to emphasize different words in that phrase to deliver maximum impact.

Plastic bags were washed and hung to dry for reuse, role modeled by family recyclers. I serve myself a dish of cottage cheese and without conscious thought, drop a dollop of apple butter in the center as my great aunts did. When pomegranates are in season, I buy one and sit it on the counter - because that was tradition in my childhood home. Often, the fruit dries and is never eaten. I always smile when I make that yearly purchase.


I am going to be thinking about this over the next few days, probing my memory for those links to others which are the tapestry of life. I invite you to share some of yours in the comments, perhaps as a "hat's off" and a bow to similar influences. I'd enjoy hearing your stories.

Saturday's Child

Reginald & Maryalice

The threat of sin was a somber cloud darkening my childhood horizon. Each evening as I lay in bed, I'd review my day, fearful of both the omnipresent threat of damnation due to youthful transgressions and anxious to keep the tally sheet current. I'd scurry from under the covers and slide to my knees, convinced this penitent posture was the first step on the road to salvation.

You see, I was a Roman Catholic, born mid-Twentieth Century, living a virtuous life under the watchful eyes of popes and saints, nuns and priests, and judgmental parishioners. Notice that God doesn't even make the list here. Oh, I had been told he could ultimately zap me straight to hell, even for things I only allowed my mind to dabble with, but somehow there was a more tangible threat to my knuckles being rapped by over-zealous, habit-wearing disciplinarians or of being sentenced to lengthy penance at the altar rail in front of other equally sinful seven-year-olds.

Still, my mother made sure every Saturday we were scrubbed up and hauled off to confession. There would come that moment in the afternoon activities when Mom would sound the alarm and my brother and I would pile into the car for the two mile round trip. The drive was filled with a panicked flurry of self-questions: What had I done? How many times had I done it? Is this what the priest or God wanted to hear? I dug and dug, searching out sins that qualified. I had talked back two times; yelled at my brother three times; teased the neighbor boy once. I might even have picked up one of my father's not-so hidden girly magazines (only looked at the cover in horror - honest!), although at that age, I was at a loss as to how to categorize said curiosity and there was no way you could convince me that a celibate priest knew of such things. This sin of seeing would not be spoken.

I suffered ongoing confusion that my non-Catholic, non-practicing Lutheran father never seemed to worry about such things as sin and confession, seeing what literature he stored next to his recliner. Actually, godliness as defined by Dad was quite appealing about four o'clock each Saturday but my mother never entertained the question as to why Dad didn't have to go.He just didn't and that was that. We went; he stayed.

As the car rounded the bend to the church, my take on the sacrament of penance and all sacrilegious thoughts associated with it were probably the most sinful things in my young life. I was relieved, however, to know they were hardly crimes of passion for a young girl that warranted wait time in the infamous halls of purgatory.

Our salmon and white Bel Air slid easily into the curbside parking place, its pitted chrome fins flashing in the sun. As rare as front row parking spaces were for any Sunday mass, they were abundant on summer Saturdays. What did that say about the obligatory nature of the two activities, even though it was believed one must confess before one could commune? Mom grumbled weekly about those Christians who would routinely wing into church ten minutes before Mass and expect the priest to abandon all his preparations in favor of retiring with them to the confessional box for last minute absolution.There was a righteous indignation in her willingness to sacrifice the good times for her Lord and her children, although it rarely interrupted anything in her life as special as defeating armies in sandbox skirmishes or planning endless transcontinental treks through neighboring residential woods in search of big game. Still, she met her commitment head on and made sure we were where we needed to be to qualify for being brought up right.

The old stone church had a peculiar odor, one I could have identified blindfolded. If the church as still standing today, I probably still could. As I slid in out of the sunlight, the heavy oak door slammed shut behind me like a prison gate. I was met by that familiar earthen scent, mingled with undertones of high Mass incense and sweet Sunday florals. I drew in deeply, hoping to inhale the Holy Spirit right then and there, thus simplifying the process for everyone concerned. After all, I

Northern Rhythms Revisited

Photo by Marjorie Garrigues McCoy
(c) August 2014

I arose quietly at 5 AM and felt my way out of the dark and crowded bedroom, maneuvering past the prone, snoring hulk of an eighty pound German Shepherd who was pressed protectively against the lower bed frame. I toed my way by discarded dress pumps and my grandmother's antique oak side chair pushed out from the dressing table.

The nightlight in the hall bathroom served as my soft beacon to the stairs and I slid my hand down the familiar pressed paneling to steady myself as I descended. I made a left at the bottom of the steps and crossed the short expanse of living room to the large picture window. I scanned the front lawn and woods beyond the muted glow of the yard light in our driveway, hoping I would see what I searched for each morning....a white-tailed deer. There were none this day and I moved to the kitchen for my morning mocha, pausing to peer out each window as I passed, still hoping a curious and hungry deer might drift in.

Coffee preceded shower, then breakfast, bag-packing, and hurried good-byes came close behind as we piled out of the house to work and school, yet the hope of tomorrow's sighting always lingered. Unashamedly awed by nature, I set my inner clock by its seasonal rhythms.

Photo by Marjorie Garrigues McCoy
(c) November 2014

Scraggly tan and white hares, and gaunt yearling deer would predictably wander into my iced-over yard in late winter, hoping to find something to tide them over until spring thaw and the arrival of new blossoms. I never disappointed them as the self-appointed chef and Mother Nature persona to the local wildlife. Chipmunks, raccoons, squirrels all moved in as if on a preset schedule, partaking of the feast of cracked corn, oiled black sunflower seeds, and homemade suet blocks. Occasionally the diners were joined by the little-loved skunk and before long, he was dining alone.

Enter spring. A blur of yellow flashed by the picture window, breaking my after-work reverie. Nodding in affirmation, I silently welcomed back the "advance man" for the long-anticipated goldfinch freeloaders who returned to my yard each March. Within days, black and yellow would dance regularly against the slowly thickening mountain ash and birches, and were joined by swashes of red, white, blue, and grey. Rose-breasted grosbeaks, bluebirds, cardinals, orioles, and purple finches willingly performed nature's choreography for my pleasure.

Photo by Marjorie Garrigues McCoy
(c) February 2015

In the evening hours, pesky bandits, belly-rounded awaiting offspring, challenged all intruders, and hung from tree limbs to rob the bird feeders and fend off any grounded opposition. I would stand, as always, in the darkened window, grumbling about porcine habits, inconvenience, and broken feeders, yet inwardly smiling at the privilege of serving these creatures. In the morning, the snub-nosed pliers and wire came out, and the feeders were repaired, refilled.

The fullness of summer emerged with its white hot days and humid nights, so the visitors came later, drinking from puddles left by sprinklers and enjoying pruned grass dampened by the evening dew. I changed the buffet to include oranges and berries with an occasional sprinkle of commercial meal worms.These creatures didn't need my handouts as nature itself was providing

Sweet Smells of Youth

Margaret Stabilit Leister
"Mom-Mom"

(Don't miss the recipe at the end ;-)

My childhood home routinely bore the signature of my Italian heritage. The air was laden on a daily
basis with the aromatic mixture of oregano, garlic, and sweet basil,,,lots and lots of garlic. Every Saturday morning, as if compelled by her ancestral legacy, my mother would rise before dawn to lean over the steaming black stockpot, stirring batch after batch of her made-from-scratch Old Country marinara sauce. She'd feed slabs of fresh pork and beef through the hand grinder and I would perch on the red metal stool to get a closer view of the mixture as it fell into the beige crockery bowl below. After adding that perfect blend of seasonings, fresh bread crumbs, raw eggs, and a dash of very cold water, Mom would pinch off a small portion of meat. She'd roll it in the hollow of her cupped palms, then form and stack meatballs by the dozens.

Promptly browned in the sizzling 14 inch iron skillet, the meatballs were set aside to drain on trays lined with old newsprint. It was at this point she united the meat with the sauce, ladling it into marked and dated freezer containers which were then lowered into the chest freezer to experience rebirth at a later date.

My brother and I tried not to get caught dipping bread chunks into the remaining sauce. Our tongues caught errant red drops as we'd quickly fold and force the bread into our mouths. One taste only made us want more. Of course, this thievery was an accepted ritual, albeit unspoken, because Mom would leave torn pieces of freshly baked bread lying untended on the old oak cutting board to be "found" by the rest of the family.

If caught, the thief would smile through a mouthful and mumble "s'good, Mom," rushing off to do whatever a young sauce-snatcher might otherwise be doing. We eventually gave up the pretense and gathered around the steaming sauce pot, collectively dunking, dripping, and mumbling our reviews as Mom looked on in mock anger. Soon, with a wink, she would join in, even sprinkling some grated Parmesan onto our bread.

Spaghetti sauce was not the only Italian staple on Mom's mind each weekend. She was often elbow-deep in unbleached flour as she kneaded and rolled out pan after pan of pizza crusts, sweet cinnamon rolls, cloverleaf dinner rolls, and homemade twisted pretzels. She would welcome my help to punch down the bowls of dough and taught me to roll, cut, twist, and sweeten each batch as dictated by the recipes. The heavenly yeasty scent just heightened the anticipation. The baked goods which we weren't going to eat immediately were packaged and frozen alongside the meatballs and sauce.

Although I believe my Mother's compulsion to keep the larder full was a direct offshoot of the years she spent growing up during the Depression, I know there were other reasons for those marathon cooking sprees. It allowed my mother more freedom in planning her time during the week and gave the family the fresh food she felt was best. I also believe she equated food with love and nurturing, and as her parents had before her and their parents before them, she took pride in knowing she could provide so well for her family.

The memories are as sweet as her baking. We spent so much time around the kitchen work areas and dining room table. Conversation flowed, laughter was hearty, and we made those breads and Italian dishes disappear in short order.

S'good, Mom. Thanks.

And here is her recipe:

Storied Comfort

     Two-year-old Katie, blue-eyed and towheaded, scrambles into my lap, a small book clamped firmly under her arm.
   
     "Bunny, Mommy," she shouts, producing her well-worn favorite, Pat the Bunny, and opening to the first page. Her small fingers point to the words as I read. She knows what is coming and she awkwardly separates and turns the cardboard pages, eager to reach her favorite pictures.
 
     "Peek-boo," Katie says as she lifts the small scrap of pink cloth covering the man's face. She

places her hands over her own face and imitates the story over and over again. I laugh and enthusiastically join in on the "boo" each time.
   
     Another quick page turn and Katie is staring at her own image in a miniature tin-foil mirror.
 
     "Do you see yourself?" I ask as she brings the book closer to her face. She nods yes and kisses her reflection.
   
     "Such a pretty girl! Mommy's pretty little girl!" I exclaim, smiling at my daughter. Katie's broad grin tells me my praise has been accepted as she wriggles in delight at my approval. The book falls to the floor and I bend to retrieve it, holding her tightly as I do. When we are again settled, I see that the book is open to the page with a hole in it.
 
     "Mommy's ring," Katie says as she wiggles her first finger through the hole. She tries to replace her finger with mine but, as always, finds my finger too large. Frustrated, she grabs my hand and removes the diamond band as she has done so often before, slipping it onto her tiny finger where it twirls freely. I let her keep it as she continues to flip the pages. She leans down and smells a scented page.
   
     "Pretty flowers!" Katie squeals, mimicking the tone of voice she has heard me use when reading the story. She sniffs the page repeatedly as I count the flowers for her.
   
     "One, two,..."
   
     "...three, four!" Katie chimes in, shouting the last number triumphantly.
   

     Fumbling with the thick cardboard, Katie turns to the page in which she takes the greatest delight, where she can "feel Daddy's scratchy beard." She draws her delicate fingernails across the square of medium grit sandpaper glued to the page.

Ode to a Student Leaving

The formulaic poem is often assigned so new writers can practice cadence in a predictable format. Although I tend to write in a long line, unrhymed format to bring my observational memoir poetry to life, I also enjoy the constraint of the formula. The method makes the topic foremost and frees a writer from needing to think through how to best present the content.

In the spring of 1993, I was asked to give the Commencement speech for my high school students, a true highlight in my career. As part of that speech, I wrote this poem or, as most writers know, almost this poem because each time a writer touches her writing, she (or he) just can't help but tweak it.

Just for the record, when I left that school, I took with me the stool I had provided and used all those years. It is now being used by my daughter in another classroom as she delivers library skills to young people. Legacies are often the simplest things.


Ode to a Student Leaving

I will never forget
         the times you came
         to perch upon my stool
         eager to lean
                       to share
                               to fly.

I will never forget
         your adrenalin-charged life,
         the giggles, the frowns,
                   soaring "ups,"
                   endless "downs."

I will never forget
         your creative abandon,
         zest for learning
         penchant for gossip,
                              for truth
                                    for hope.

I will never forget
         my pride in your pride,
         your unwavering trust,
         our timorous ventures into
                     uncharted territories
                                together.

I will never forget
         how you fueled my days,
         feathering clouds to
         wispy nothingness,
         buoying my spirit with
                                 your youth,
                                      your strength,
                                          your dreams.

But most of all,
             I will never forget
                         you
                              and me
                                        and us.

Spotlight: Becky Thomas King

Becky Thomas King

My career as a teacher and writer has been filled with students at every stage of their personal journeys. Some knew exactly where they were headed and others afforded me the privilege to assist in their searches.

Today's student spotlight fits the first category. Becky Thomas King was a writer before I ever knew her and her career trajectory was clear. She would not only be a personally committed, award-winning writer, but her passion would surround the many students she would connect with in her role as high school English teacher and adviser.

She was a student for two years in my Advanced Creative Writing class and one of the requirements for those students was to edit and produce a cumulative anthology of their work. She entitled hers, "Happy Are Those Who Write" and it has always sat among my personal chapbooks and writing books wherever I have called home since she completed it in 1995.

I pulled it out last night, wanting to reconnect with who I have been in my life, and those from whom I have learned as I face imminent life changes. I hope Becky realizes even though my title was teacher, in our classroom, she and others taught me so much about myself. I was, indeed, a learner as well. Reading through her work brought to mind all of the conversations surrounding her focus and choices.

Beyond my classroom, Becky went on to win writing competitions and even without confirming it, I know writing continues to drive her life and profession.




Let me share several pieces from this writer's pen.

A Maple Obsession

The sweet smell of maple syrup enhances the air of the sugar house. Stars dance in the eyes of my father as he works his craft. The nights bring a freeze and the days bring warm spring temperatures; the seven hundred trees he has tapped let a flow of sugar water run into the purple and blue tubing which leads to the sugar house. He clutches some wood and tosses it into the flaming fire. The sap is boiled down and when it reaches its peak temperature, with precision he draws a flow of brown, bubbly-hot liquid into a stainless steel pail. Then he cautiously pours the fluid through a series of white filters to assure purity and exquisite flavor. He prides himself on his fancy grade A syrup and anything not up to his standards isn't for sale. The syrup is bottled and labeled with great care, as is everything in this building, his home away from home. At times, the sap runs so well that they boil for eighteen hours straight (the sugar house is even furnished with a bed for those all-night runs).

The same hands that pitch the wood can be so gentle in caressing the stainless steel of his very expensive equipment. The evaporator, the flue pan, and the finishing unit are very important elements in his business. With a four thousand dollar evaporating pan, he possesses no cheap hobby. but the smiles that keep him young are worth so much more.

A youthful expression envelops his face, totally contradicting his black beard and shiny hair, scattered with silver. He is content with his place in the syrup woods. This is his place, his alone. yet he is never alone; he always has visitors. his crew of friends and syrup makers are forever around for support and help - Rusty, Connie, Doug, Bill, Tom, Rich, and Cal, just to name a few. The syrup woods are not all work, but a major gathering place during March syrup season. Fish frys and card games are popular activities for the guys.

After a while, he takes off his well-worn Carhart vest and sets it aside. The old, torn vest and bibs are part of his everyday syrup-making garb. Sometimes he doesn't even have to wear them; the blazing fire burns so hot and brightly that with the rolling stem and maple aroma in the air, the heat becomes very intense. He's in his prime. He takes this all so seriously,yet with a smile, a laugh, and an occasional beer.

Lack of Understanding

I do not understand

Anthology Dedication

     The point of algebra
     Why flowers smell
     Why no two snowflakes are alike.

But most of all, I do not understand
     How people can slaughter
     Helpless endangered animals
     Why the screams of entangled
     Dolphins don't arouse some
     Compassion in those
     Hideous killers.

What I understand most is
     People who are stuck
     Wanting to express their
     Opinions, but afraid.
     People who sing off key
     And love a sunset.

I am grateful for this young woman's confidence in me and her willingness to share her thoughts, words, and talents with so many. I am proud of her commitment to a new generation of students and it is clear from what I see they are proud of her as well. Enjoy the Midland (Michigan) High School yearbook staff's singing Valentine to a favorite teacher:

Post by Midland High Yearbook.

There are other writers whose work graces my shelves. Many are former students and some are peer writers, and I will spotlight them in future postings to honor their work, their passion, and how they too touched my life. I will forever be a student of theirs.

Not the Goal, But the Journey

Foundations to a swim career

Cool evening breezes chill
my wet Speedo skin
as chlorine-saturated night air
excites my senses.
I am a swimmer,
huddling into the sensuous warmth
of new gray sweats
that leave behind balled fuzz
each time I strip down
for the next warm-up, the next race.
I scan the crowd pressed against
waist-high metal fencing,
searching for a nod of recognition, support.
I smile.
My mother does the same.

My coach's bass voice commands my attention,
his all too familiar chant
"You can do it!"
urging me on.
Preparing for battle
I shake off the nerves
and crouch on the worn surface
of the loosely-anchored #4 wooden starting block,
textured paint gritty against soles
calloused from miles clocked on cement pool walkways.

"On your mark!"
Months of practice distilled in a moment
"Get set!"
breathe in
breathe out

Complete with Speedo and cap

focus
focus
Crack!
As the still water's surface is broken
by the explosive snap of muscled bodies,
arm slaps set a measured beat
with synchronized leg movements.

"Go!"
slip splash
"Faster!"
slip splash
"You've got 'er!"
slip splash
My muffled underwater world provides no buffer
against arms and legs moving frenetically
in lanes to left and right.
Competitors seeded fifth, sixth
are washed against side walls in outside lanes,
victims of the merciless ripple effect
faster swimmers create.
Get in the groove!
Set the pace!
I picture the outcome,
positive thinking birthed
by years of practice.
With no clear vision of my competition,
no certainty of success,
only inner momentum
silent strength
drive me forward
slip splash
slip splash
slip splash
My lungs expand,
sucking air for the final push.
Five yards
four
three
two
slap
touch!

I spin to watch the scoreboard
flash my winning time.

National Swimming Team, Green Bay, Wisconsin

Jubilant a longstanding record's broken,
my fists push into air,
hard work's pay-out.
Strong hands reach down
and I am deckside in one upward movement,
pulled first into the familiar hug of my coach,
then jostled by competitor's backslaps,
team mates' congratulations.
I accept the towel draped over my shoulders
unaware of the cold,
warmed by the victory.
I have done my best.

And so I have found in my life
there is too often
no clear vision of the path,
no guaranteed outcome.
Just inner momentum,
silent strength cloaked
in limitless human yearning.
In all things
I press forward to the finish
slowing my breathing,
reaching for outstretched arms.

The Whirl of the Dance

I feel positively sinful curled up on the green plaid love seat, book in hand, with all the mini-blinds closed and drapes pulled. I glance across to the kitchen counter and see the edge of my "To Do" note pad and smile. There will just have to be a few less things accomplished as I unravel the life and adventures of Kinsey Milhone, a la Sue Grafton. Having earned the rest, I sip my iced Dr. Pepper, crack the binding of her newest book, and after reading the dedication and acknowledgements, turn to page one.

That's when the comedy of errors begins. Something other than the usual domestic muzak of rhythmic stove timers, spinning clothes dryer with the click-clicking jeans zippers, and muted buzz of insects trapped and futilely hurling themselves against unyielding glass prison walls--something wasn't right and that nagging sense shifted my focus, bringing the background to the foreground. Into my consciousness drifted those preliminary coughing sounds that invariably lead to canine vomit.

Dropping Kinsey, I rush to shoo Ethan Malloy out to the lawn so I don't have the usual mess while silently sentencing the German Shepherd breeder to long days fanning Satan's flames for not informing me of this breed's peculiar and annoying habit of retching weekly "just because." We reach the front lawn in time, only to come face-to-face with the Schwan deliveryman who wants to show me the new and improved color brochure with salesman-of-the-month special buys and inquire if I have an order today which he will gladly place in my chest freezer.

My fingers are twisted in the leather collar of the now-miraculously healed and lunging eighty pound dog. I politely tell him with everyone now out of the house, I doubt we will be needing the industrial-sized mint chocolate chip ice cream tub and no, I didn't need the special on cod fish fillets (what makes "20 full size, breaded and shaped fillets for $30 such a deal anyway?) or the "two-for" special on Vita Sun drink mix which would yield six gallons of 70% pure fruit juice drink. The chocolate drumsticks were tempting, I admit, but I nixed them as well.

My fingers are now numb from loss of circulation as I continue to restrain the single-minded Shepherd attempting to board the truck to ride shotgun with the now-terrified frozen food man. Ethan

Pilgrim's Sanctuary

I so often found comfort growing up in the equalizer known as darkness. I would slip away to my second story corner room and position myself in the moonbeams by my window. Basking in the muted glow, I invested hours in deep thought as I recorded events and created written corridors brimming with experiences through which I could wander at will.

I'd pick up a pencil and capture my daydreaming so I was sure I could return often. Little did I realize this practice would form the cornerstone for a lifetime of writing.

http://sherwoodforestintheglen.blogspot.com/

Tucked away in a very special wooden box atop my dresser was that first journal. It gradually
became the repository for all the joy and conflicts in my tumultuous childhood. It was overflowing with wisdom about the hard facts of life as seen through the eyes of an eight year old philosopher. It cradled my dreams, tamed my wild imaginings, and dignified my anger or sadness. I daily embraced my dearest and truest friend. One journal grew to two, then three, and now, dozens, in every shape and size.

My childhood, while often appearing charmed to the outside, was privately and irreversibly affected by ghosts in my parents' lives. When darkness brought the terror of anger and rejection, I focused beyond to that place no one could reach or control. I had a sense of freedom knowing my writing fortress was mine alone, as was my hiding place between the cover of books.

Writing became a part of me. I breathed, I wrote. I ate, I wrote. I swam or danced or practiced piano, I wrote. I recorded, related, refined, and relived every event no matter how significant. Soon the small treasure box couldn't contain my life. Since I was ever wary of having my thoughts and feelings exposed, my journals found their way into bottom drawers under winter sweaters, on top shelves in dusty shoe boxes, and even behind loosened panels in hall closets. I gradually focused less on conventional locked diaries (for they weren't really locked at all) and more on maturing and spontaneous writings. Folders collected observational napkin swatches, colored paper bits with fairy tale escapades, lined index cards with quotes and titles, and random torn notebook sheets capturing phrases, doodles, and marginal comments. I would transfer the content to notebooks in private, but couldn't part with the original fragments and so, they piled up. (In fact, they still do!)

I spent more and more time in my room or in the far west corner of the yard under the old gnarled apple tree. Rarely seen anywhere without pen and paper in hand, my father became suspicious and often angry, wanting to control every corner of my life. He failed to believe me when I said I was just thinking and writing a lot. He felt threatened by my private pursuits and mumbled something about "just like your mother." He would launch a tirade and ban me from my room for awhile so he would "know what I was up to."

Poor Dad. He never understood he couldn't control my heart, my thoughts, my mind. Those would remain mine alone, always and forever. Committed to words in any form, this rhythm has continued for a lifetime.

And now, my slips of paper are moving online. From handwritten to typewriter, notebooks to calligraphy, dot matrix to the Internet. It is gratifying to honor that voice anew.

Origin of Pottermom

Gingerbread House Studios, circa 1957

I had posted this on my other blog, Pottermom's Ponderings, and decided it needed to be here too (for obvious reasons), mirroring my pottery and family posts.

Someone asked me why the name Pottermom. It's rooted in the generational art handed down from my mother, Margaret Dorothy Leister. I grew up in a home that revolved around a pottery studio named the Gingerbread House in Trappe, Pennsylvania. Each day my mother would retreat to her clays and glazes while I sat on a stool and had free rein over every other manner of art supplies.

I never learned to throw pottery (the term for creating on a wheel), though, despite the availability. She kept that for herself. So, as an adult, I decided it was a skill I wanted to explore and spent three years working in the studios of the Toledo Museum of Art. The process clicked and I replicated Pennsylvania Dutch folk patterns from my mother in honor of her legacy. Setting up a small studio for myself is an unfulfilled bucket list item, but learning her craft, experiencing the personal centering she must have felt as she created beautiful things from a lump of clay have all made a profound difference in my life.

From this has come "Pottermom." She didn't live to share this as she passed away unexpectedly in 1984, but I am sure she knows.

PA Dutch Folk patterns, MLeister, circa 2003

Distilfink pattern, MLeister, circa 2003

Reflections on Americana

Holsteins doing what Holsteins do

I saw a green minivan pulled off a country road, its suntanned and sunglassed occupants spilling onto the grassy shoulder as they reached for the fence surrounding one of many dairy farms along that stretch. I knew what I would hear as I slowed and rolled down my window a notch...the unmistakable human bovine imitation.

"Moooo!" they all shouted, Mom, Dad, and children alike, while the disinterested Holsteins continued to do what they do best: tail-switch, blink, and chew their cud. I smiled as I passed by, remembering all the times that I or some member of my family had done the same.

When I was new to the Midwest (northern Michigan, to be exact), transplanted from southeastern Pennsylvania, I felt as if no one could ever admire the beautiful surroundings as I did. Surely the locals had become complacent and failed to appreciate what they had right in front of them! I'd write to friends about the abundance of dairy and beef farms, the slow-moving tractors, the idyllic rolling fields rich with earthy scents, scavenger birds, and roaming deer. Their attempts at infusing reality never worked: "How can anyone stand to live so far away from everything?" I would smile and think, how could you not live here?

I'd always stammer my defense, not having lived there long enough to build up my arsenal of defenses. Searching for proof, I would stop the car to help a box turtle reach the stream, and pulled off the side of the road to watch twelve deer silhouetted in the early evening sunset. I would shake my head in disbelief at the impatient tourist hauling dirt bikes who would hold down the car horn then whip around the hay bailer being pulled to a neighbor's field before the rains came. Over time, I realized that simply living there gave me all the reasons I needed to stay, to defend the beauty. We sank our roots deeply and unashamedly, content to be part of the fiber of the community.

BBQ chicken at the fair

I am glad my children were raised with a deeper understanding of life's rhythms and I don't think they missed anything important not growing up closer to a city. We took them to Broadway plays and concerts, museums and zoos, malls and hyper-stores 60 miles away. I am sure those trips were memorable, but over the years since we all moved from that place, the things we talk about, the things we remember fondly, are not connected to the city visits.

When we gather either in person or virtually and the talk turns to "remember when," we reflect on the ever-expanding Fourth of July parade with ear-splitting truck-ins and the four hour fireworks vigil at the local industrial park, akin to a block party. We recall the Christmas parades in sub-zero weather when band members had to guard against their instruments freezing on their lips. There were Little

The Potter

Margaret and dog, Princess: 1965

Margaret Dorothy Stabilit, born Margarita Dorothea Stabilito, was both a natural and degree-carrying craftsman. Earning more than one Masters degree in art history, pottery, and silver-smithing, she was also a certified K-12 art educator. Margaret put the latter on hold until her children were old enough to be in school and fairly self-sufficient. Early in her marriage she ran a successful pottery business in her home and it is from those early years I have the most intense memories of this woman's artistic talents, for Margaret was my mother.

In the heyday of "The Gingerbread House" pottery shop, so named because of the distinctive trim which edged the eaves of ours and so many of the pre-War homes in Trappe, Pennsylvania, there was never a clear space on any of the pink formica counters, for this was the work area for my mother's art. People called and visited the shop six days a week, but never did she allow the public to intrude on Sunday, for that day was devoted to God and family dinners (and I was never quite sure which one took precedence as weekly we enjoyed the wondrous and traditional roast beef dinner).

Distelfink plate

People would inquire if Mom shipped to certain countries and what she charged for one-of-a-kind clay tea sets like the one they had seen at their aunt's home or on display at the local artisan's show. Would she agree to go on location to sketch someone's house or place of business for a testimonial plate (she did)? Or could she match a plate that she had designed for someone years earlier? I loved the busyness of it all, and because I was her daughter, I felt important as I washed down the glazing table or cut the brown shipping paper as she wrapped finished orders on Fridays. I vicariously shared in the creative energy that embraced her art shop and soaked in her talents.

A Portrait of Jim

"Here - talk to her," Ronnie snapped, and handed the phone to his friend, Jim. Ron, my very first young love, had become bored with chitchat, so compliments of Bell Telephone, I met Jim early in the summer of 1966. We became fast allies, joined by one universal truth: Ronnie was dumb! So much for thirteen year olds being eloquent. Jim and I only saw each other twice that summer when our opposing swim teams competed, but oh, the hours spent sharing our adolescent hearts via phone and letter! We laughed, we cried, we gossiped and philosophized, safely buffered by this new, unconditional friendship.

Each time we needed a place to lean, there was only ever one choice. And even though my parents kept waiting for me to officially date this elusive friend, that was not our destiny. Instead, we shared a yearly date to see Ronnie perform in his high school musicals, and then watched him in his college productions and onto Broadway in the original cast of "A Chorus Line." We were so grateful that a throwaway moment years before had brought us together. Little did we realize what was still ahead.

There would be no pretense in our friendship, I learned, the summer I lied and told Jim, the high school tennis team star, "Sure I play tennis!" - only to find out the ability to return a serve was an acquired skill, not an athletic guarantee. He chided me  as we stood on the court after 8 missed serves, reminding me I only ever had to be myself, not someone I thought I should be. We left to get ice cream and I now realize this was the first of many invaluable lessons Jim taught me over the years.

Jim counseled me patiently through a doomed-to-fail, long-term high school-to-college relationship, using candid assessments and his willingness to endlessly listen. When I moved to Michigan with my husband, a thousand miles from family, I felt so alone as I struggled as a new wife and mother, Jim called late one night and reminded me once again all I needed to do was be myself. He rejoiced at the birth of my 3 children; listened with sadness as I began to share remembrances of a less-than-ideal childhood, wondering why he hadn't recognized it or somehow been able to prevent my sadness then; and walked with me through the death of each of my parents, never judging the sorrow or regret, just letting me be me.

Random Tips #1

Seemed like a good day to offer some tips and work with some video creation tools. Enjoy the simplicity!

Vinegar: My Friend

I keep a spray bottle with 2/3rds water and 1/3rd white vinegar. It sits on the counter where I do most of my food prep work and use my small appliances. A few quick sprays and my nonstick skillet is ready to roll again. A few more sprays and my cutting board is clean of bread crumbs, smells good, and is ready for chopping the carrots or making lettuce ribbons.

Parchment Paper: My Other Friend

Tired of spritzing your baking pans with oil or brushing them with butter? Even more weary of scrubbing at the baked-on food because the spritz didn't hit all spots? I retired my oil and have switched to dollar store parchment. Put your pan bottom on the paper to measure and make sure you have enough to cover the bottom, and at least leave "wings" on two opposite sides so you can lift out your food easily. If you want to totally reduce your mess, leave enough paper on all four sides before you cut the paper. Fold those corners into the pan and relax! The weight of the food (meatloaf, casserole, cake, chops) will hold the paper in place. Cook as usual. When done, carefully lift the paper insert with contents onto a plate and put your pan back into storage.

Tape and Marker

Living alone, I was throwing out far too much food, even though I am buying in the smallest increments I could. Spotlight on tape and a permanent marker. These sit on my prep table (next to the vinegar sprayer) so I see them every time I open new food items or fill plastic containers with prepped food. Pull a three inch piece of tape, fold over a half-inch to make a non-stick tab, and place the tape on a visible part of the container. I write "Op" and today's date. It is easy to lose track of how long something has been in the fridge or pantry. Simple, but I have thrown away a whole lot less since using this method,

Storing Soup..or Pouring Soup

Want an easy, mess-free way to store or transport that quart of soup you just made? I decided to use a juice jug with a locking top instead of all manner of plasticware. The handle makes it easy to lift and carry. The pour spout makes it easy to pour. And if your soup is loaded with all kinds of goodies, no problem. Just pour the broth, then use a long-handled spoon to serve the meat, vegetables, and pasta. Tall juice containers store so much better in your refrigerator too. And before you store, see tip #3: use that tape and marker!

What do you think? Anything here you can use? Give me feedback and I will drop in this type of posting from time to time. And if you have good ideas on shortcuts and helps, leave a comment. I am always looking for new ideas to try!

Avian Hometown Buffet

We're pretty socked in here in South Toledo and I assumed not much would be happening outside my picture window. Since I couldn't get my front door open, I couldn't restock the window boxes I am using as feeders, but that didn't stop my feathered friends from foraging.

I watched as the larger birds literally beat away the eight inches of snow with their wings and let the chickadees, wrens, and titmouses/titmice come in droves to get what seed they could. Then the mourning doves took their turn, the cardinals, blue jays, and finally, the largest blackbird I have ever seen since living here dropped in twice for a nibble. Across the way, on the one tree left in the front yard, I had pileated woodpeckers, downy and hairy woodpeckers, and a large Northern flicker all sharing the suet cake I remembered to hang before the storm started. They even let a squirrel or two get close for a taste.

The birds have gotten so comfortable with me sitting and watching, many sat along the windowsill out of the wind and pecked at the window just a foot away. I want to think they were saying hello, but perhaps they decided they'd try the drive-through window approach and make a request.

It's getting dark now and the moon is up, and the last mourning dove just left her tree limb perch. I wonder where they go at night? I hope it's some place warm.

Thanks for spending the day with me.

A Typical Rejection version 2

Don't worry. Now that my blog is open, I really don't plan to post every rejection I receive. They would make for repetitive and boring reading, I know. Nothing inspiring, creative, or uplifting about it.

But let's face it. There's a snow storm outside and this is the second employer who has sent out rejections in the middle of a winter blizzard on Super Bowl Sunday - during Kitten Bowl, to be exact. If it weren't so sad, it would be quite funny. So, allow me to post version 2 and insert my editorial comments for all to share.



"Maryalice Leister:

Thank you for your interest in the Specialist, Academic Authenticity Support position with ************(redacted) [Ironic this position had everything to do with verifying teacher credentials, students submissions, and research veracity]. We have received a large number of inquiries from highly qualified candidates for this role. [Really? How many? I want to know.] At this time, we have decided to move forward with candidates who more closely match the skills and qualifications required for this role. [Underscore is mine. I wonder how much more closely someone matches the skills and qualifications for the role than nearly 95%?]

We will keep your resume and profile in our applicant database and encourage you to keep *************(redacted) in mind when considering future opportunities.[When I received the first rejection from this employer, I was naive enough to think the robo-rejection email meant it and I have continued to look at their numerous postings.] We invite you to visit our website periodically to review new positions as they become available, [check!] and update your profile as needed.[Every time anything changed] Please accept our best wishes for your continued success.[Sincerely, thank you very much, but those wishes aren't working.]

Sincerely,
Human Resources [Funny name for a mother to call her child, don't you think?]
************(redacted)"

Just had to do it. How else does someone internalize these dismissals if not with humor. There isn't an HR person out there who truly believes these canned emails lessen the blow. As a candidate, I receive this type of email, I deflate yet again, and wonder, again, why others get hired and I don't. But what this type of rejection does is place a wall between the employer's HR people and the candidates. I said in an earlier blog post that it is nearly impossible to get feedback on why my qualifications aren't what they want and how I can improve so they would be. The employer doesn't care, but as a candidate,  I care a great deal.