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.