Morning Musings

The temperatures have risen,  just as we wanted them to do. The snow is melting, flowing into every muddy crack and boggy crevice, just as we swore we wanted it to do. The roof tiles are no longer frozen over and the rain spouts have been freed to push out the coming spring rains.

The birds are not as needy, coming less to the feeders, instead looking for nesting materials and sturdy tree branches to start new families. The squirrels are springing from spot to spot on the lawn, locating hidden treats, surprised each time they find one.

My road is decimated, the product of last fall's new waterline project and exacerbated by the cars, buses, and trucks that refuse to slow down despite pothole craters and orange pylons. The muck will continue and worsen as the crews return soon to dig out my front yard for new sidewalks and ultimately, installing new road asphalt. It will be worth it, but in the meantime, oh, my car axles and aching back from the ever-worsening last quarter mile to home!

When the dogs awakened me for their early morning backyard jaunt, the bird songs were almost deafening in the still darkened trees. I easily separated the chickadee lilt and cardinal multi-tone, but still had a few to identify. I know they are searching my seasoned trees for branches on which to build their homes. Every year I have new avian families settle in nearby and it is a thrill to hear the timid chirps from the little ones when the nests are low enough.

Everyday living is stressful. So many things I can't control or change despite my best efforts. I question my effectiveness and place in the world, and whether I actually have the leadership skills and creative abilities I have always thought were my strengths. In the midst of the reassessment I have been forced to do relentlessly for close to two years now, the small comforts come from the predictability of things like bird songs and potholed streets and spring rains. If only the small things, the comforting things, had the ability to change the things which sadly control our lives.

I try to always listen for the bird songs.

The Pace of Life

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This world we live in rarely affords a chance to slow down and regain our perspective. New responsibilities fly at us daily and so often we are in survival mode, trying to just stay afloat and make progress. Years ago it was an art to plan ahead and have everything in place well in advance for family events, bill paying, and even down time. Now, stores stay open past midnight because they know people can't plan ahead for gift-buying. Bills are overdue because there is more month than money, and down time? Too often it doesn't even make the list.

When I was a young mother, I measured my success by how well I organized my day, my children, my life. It was a good day when I was in the car and on my way to church or an outing with time to spare and happy children all around. It was an excellent day when we were singing and laughing as we drove.

Today I watch young parents struggle to have strength at the end of the day for much more than hot dogs and sparse conversation. The loop of each 24 hour day rarely changes and by the end of each week, you can read the fatigue and helplessness in the downward slump of the shoulders. Add to that the burden of the world when they flip on media in any form and read about downed planes, executions, gas prices up and stocks down, and hundreds of loved ones lost in foreign countries for causes we don't really understand.

How does this change? Where is the hope? And dare I say at the risk of being dismissed as a denizen from "the older generation," when do we return to earlier times when sitting on the porch daily with loved ones was simply enough? Not just for a week of vacation so we can instagram it or save it on blogs, but something we do as often as we can. Preference? Every day in some way.

I have a friend who, in warmer weather, brews her morning coffee and automatically moves to the porch to start the day. Sometimes I know she has donned a jacket, perhaps even grabbed a blanket, and greets the morning regardless of temperatures. Others do yoga or early morning exercise, take walks or sunrise runs, read a chapter or study the Bible, all done without guilt that something else is being neglected while the pace is measured more slowly.

What will your true memories be of the movie of your life? I don't recall the days I rushed and shoved and barely survived. I remember the weekly ritual of Sunday afternoon jigsaw puzzles with my beloved grandmother. I automatically smile when I reflect on the hours of Candyland I inflicted on her. Many afternoons of my youth were spent riding a bicycle to nowhere, around and around the block, and later, around and around my college campus.

Somewhere along the way that sense of guilt took over and society pressured us to believe "doing" is a sign of success. Why did we give a faceless and disconnected voice such power? It controls us. We apologize for failing to keep the pace, and then try to march faster.

The stress, panic, fears are killing us by the thousands and even sadder, depriving our loved ones of the quality of memories many of us have had in the past. How do we turn this around so we can live longer, live happier, and reflect more? Will you join the conversation and share?

On This Day

I could work on being clever, cutting edge, or predictive in this post since it is my birthday. Instead, reflection is my menu choice.

I am a product of many things.

• Depression-era parents who married late and were often the oldest parents in the school audience on Parents Night.
• One older brother and no sisters with an almost 6 year gap between us. He never knew it but he was - and is - my hero.
• Thousands of checked-out books, first from the Phoenixville, Pennsylvania, library, and then, every library in every town in which I ever lived. First choice genre: crime and mysteries; close second, crafts.
• A small southeastern Pennsylvania town where the doors were always unlocked, bikes stayed out in the yard, and we often sat on the corner of the main road to watch the world go by, pumping our arms to get the trucks to respond with a horn blast.
• Survivor of a twenty-eight year marriage that while not ideal, had many positives, most notably three children and a legacy of wondrous grandchildren.
• A four year stint in an a capellla choir which included yearly United States tours and one European month-long trek. I've sung in many choirs.
• A liberal arts education at Gettysburg College where I majored in English and Education, but also dabbled in so many diverse courses of my own choice. Go, Sigma Alpha Iota, Sigma Kappa, and Alpha Phi Omega.
• The ultimate foods in no particular order: East Coast Italian hoagies; huge hot pretzels sold on Philly street corners - you rolled down your window and bought them on the fly (tasting far better than those from our ovens); artichokes loaded with garlic and parsley, rarely shared and enjoyed slowly; Italian water ice; and four inch melt-in-your-mouth peppermint sticks. Ah, I miss the sugared treats of my youth.
• I am an incurable animal lover, species not important. I raised my children with that love and it makes me proud.
• I fear snakes, spiders, and heights, my favorite number is 8, and if I could stay awake 24 hours a day, I would.
• My friends, my enemies, my acquaintances, my healthcare professionals who have cared beyond measure at critical times, my colleagues, my teachers, family friends, in-laws and everyone yet to cross my path.

A Trek Moment

I have done many things (perhaps things you never knew).

• I practiced endlessly in the yard, tossing the baton higher and higher. I was a baton twirler.
• I was a dancer, taking ballet, toe, tap, and acrobatic dance, for 10 years. Recitals scared me but oh, I loved the stage.
• I was a swimmer for more years of my life than I can count, it seems. I qualified for National competition, took my first airplane trips for the team, and learned so much about inner and outer strength, When I close my eyes, I can still remember exactly how it feels to be in the middle of an individual medley race in an Olympic-sized pool. Coach Dick Shoulberg defined my life.
• I was a musician and singer. Music was everything. I learned piano, organ, guitar, and yes, accordion. I even played in an accordion band for a brief time! And I can still sing large sections of the Latin Mass. "Panis Angelicus..."
• By the time I was 12, I had 126 pen pals from around the world. I catalogued them, organized their incoming letters and stamps, long before spreadsheets would have made it oh, so much easier. I wish I could relocate my pen pal, Colin Healey, who at 15 told me he loved me. As British entertainers came to our shores, I thought I was in heaven that I knew someone from England. I have searched without success.
• From the first time I remember printing my name at the indoor picnic table we used for art projects, my love of writing and writing implements has never waned. My favorites? Fountain pens that fill from an ink well and flow with the beauty of calligraphy. Exquisite decadence!
• I have taught thousands of young people and adults. And truly, they have taught me. Being an educator is a passion, a privilege, and a sacred trust. I love my students still. and always will. They have, indeed, made the ordinary extraordinary in my life.
• If it is a word game or puzzle, I love it. I won Spelling Bees in my youth. Twice. David Masiak was runner-up. Twice. My wining word the second year? "Acetate."
• I did 1000 piece puzzles with my grandmother weekly for years. We'd work on one for hours and she'd leave it for me to finish. I always did because I didn't want to disappoint her and her praise was profuse.
• I have spoken in front of thousands about education, leadership, integrity, AIDS, and more, using my teaching passion to inform, excite, enlighten.

And I am also a product of what I haven't done or been.

• I have never seen the West Coast, even though I hoped to travel there to receive my Master's degree. I have been to Alaska, so perhaps that has to count.
• I have never stolen anything that wasn't mine.
• I have never been a thin person by society's determination. When I swam, my shoulders were muscled from focusing on the butterfly stroke. I was good at being an athlete, but I didn't fit into the trendy dresses the other girls could wear. As an older adult, I just need comfort food too much.
• I have never been a corporate, ladder-climbing opportunist. Integrity is everything.
• I am not pushy, some say to my detriment. I listen, I encourage, but I never learned to make demands. Maybe it is because I have seen the pain that type of behavior brings.
• I have never tried escargot or squid, pickled pigs feet or head cheese. No, thank you. Not even on a dare. Not even doused in my favorite flavoring: anything citrus.

I will return to this post as I think of more things to include, It is a good day to consider, reflect, and share. I hope you agree. Maybe you will share some of yours with me. I'd love to hear!

 

Pious Amen

Please share a young person's view of the weekly responsibility of the Catholic faith in the Seventies. The confessional "booths" were priests in folding chairs in the high school gym. When our line arrived, we knelt behind whichever priest was without a supplicant. Youthful minds wandered and oh, those sinful sins! With a thankful nod to St. Pius X High School, now closed and only a memory.

L-R: Peggy, Rebecca, Marybeth, Sr. Teresa Urda

Lines
Lines
Everything
in
lines.
First class first, second class next,
Lines,
More lines.
          Alphabetical
          Academic
          Boy-girl
          Girl-boy
Ssh...SSH! Quiet, please!
Down the hall,
To the gym,
To confession...
To confession?
Kneeling,
Kneeling,
One    after    another
Quick
   headshift left,
              headshift right
To check...
Anybody listening?
"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned..."
(I can't believe Mary French-kissed!)
"...it has been six days since my last confession..."
(Look at how short Judy's uniform is!)
"...these are my sins..."
What do I say?
How much do I tell?
Will he be shocked?
My God, he's a priest!

The ordeal is over;
Obligation fulfilled.
"Three Hail Marys, one Our Father, and a Glory Be"
Genuflect
Cross myself
Return to
Lines
Lines
Whispering
Chattering
"Sins forgotten" lines.

Missing Memories

I am haunted by things I remember and by things I don't remember. Perhaps the latter is even more disturbing because those things I can't recall sit just on the edge of my grayed out memory and taunt me.

Stark, life-altering memories are jarring in their clarity. I have spent decades of my life expunging the threads of events which determined my life course, I didn't want to remember everything...that was made obvious by how painful the memories were when restored. But remember I did, losing and gaining almost simultaneously. Grueling work to go through the process, but now, as those memories have moved back into the tapestry of my life, existing as facts but not in control my every move and thought, I look to the periphery.

The periphery contains the forgotten things, those events which touched my life but were not remarkable enough to be engraved for future recollection. Yet here I sit, futilely scratching the sand to release the details.

Emma Valenteen and Reginald Stabilit

My mother talked about her parents, the grandparents who were gone before I was born. I didn't listen, I guess. I try to pull up the details and there are none. I have pictures, but not stories.

My father told us how his father and stepfather were brothers. Not all that strange a circumstance in families in the early twentieth century. My grandfather died of tuberculosis (or so I think), and his brother stepped in to care for his sister-in-law and married her. That's all I know and it might not be the whole story or the right details at all. I just know my grandmother is buried between two men who have the same last name.

Residing in that gray area is how I ended up at Gettysburg College over others closer or less expensive. No one I knew chose Gettysburg, but that decision changed my life in so many ways. It led to a choir tour within the United States each spring; a month-long choir trip to Europe in my sophomore year; and such diverse courses as Eastern Religions, Music Appreciation, Sculpture, and Albert Camus seminars, all choices made in a nod to comprehensive and diverse education within my English major.

www.isolatecyclist.bostonbiker.org/

I remember I biked throughout college, but have no memory where. As a young mother, I left the apartment often, to escape the cooped-up feeling it gave me, but don't recall where I spent my time or how. For all the journaling I have done, these bits of life didn't make it into those pages, and while not life-altering, the fabric is torn, incomplete, unsatisfying.

I often wonder what determines those things we remember and how we remember them. Trauma has dictates all its own, but the commonplace, the normal....where do those things go to hide? I am at a point in my life where I want to recall the days playing in ocean waves, the random exploration of shops and restaurants in small towns I would pass through. I need to put a face on the woman who shared her heart-wrenching story of losing her first child to stillbirth, a story that changed forever my empathy for people suffering loss.

I won a cooking contest once. I remember the recipe, the surprise, but have no recollection of the cooking event, the interview, the other contestants, and the fleeting notoriety. I owned a cake decorating business, have photographs of many cakes, but have little memory of the long work days and client appointments, creative design sessions and delivery and set-ups. I want to remember.

Will memories continue to pile up just outside the edges of remembrance? Or maybe it is normal that even significant events can be blurred, then forgotten. As a writer, it would seem I should have known which ones to capture and hold, which ones to set free, and have been the keeper of that decision. Of course, we don't always know the importance of something until it is gone whether a memory, a trauma, or a feeling.

I will continue to reach into those recesses in the hope of shining a light. All of these things are a part of who I am and I need to remember, to connect the threads, complete the picture.

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