Today was a busy workday for me. Still, I was able to stop for a few minutes and remember that it was Veterans' Day, and to consider what those serving in harm's way today are not able to do, things that I take very much for granted. They are not, for instance, able to worry about lovely potted plants that have given beauty all summer and that now are in need of a place to winter over.
This wintering over of plants has been the focus of our last few days around the old farmhouse. Joe took a break from building roads, and created a sort of greenhouse out of the front porch of the farmhouse. With a roll of heavy plastic and some wood, he created a decent enclosure in which we will be able to keep the plants from freezing. Some of these plants will be living through their third winter. In their "old home," the pond house, they were brought indoors for the winter, into the sunniest room of the house -- the bonus room over the garage, and with care, they survived.
Makeshift Greenhouse
First Plants in to their Home for the Winter
We shall see how successful we are this year. We did have a Praying Mantis who watched our progress, and I saw him praying hard... or was he crossing his fingers?
He's Watching Us!
Crossing his Fingers?
Biggest one I've Seen Here!
Another of the things I take for granted is the rambunctious excitement of my cats and dog, all outdoor animals, except that they sleep in the garage. Every morning they are eagerly awaiting feeding time, and as I scooped their food into their bowls this morning, I thought, "yep, this I would also miss."
Chow Time!!!
My children are grown, but I cannot imagine how hard it would be to be deployed far from home, spouse and young children. I know so many families who are missing their beloved servicemen and women...for the holidays, for the "everydays." And of course, there are those whose loved ones will never come home to see their children grown or their spouse's hair turning gray, agelines shaping their faces into familiar reminders of the beautiful youth they married.
And this afternoon, when my stomach reminded me I hadn't yet eaten, I could have jumped into the car and driven a few miles for a fast food lunch. But, as is my norm, I opted to make something from food I have on hand, in my own kitchen. I take this for granted... the choice is mine.
Simple choices. Simple day-to-day living. But then again, I'm not thousands of miles from home, in a place where simple living is not an option.
So, on this Veterans' Day, a glorious Autumn Day in this corner of Virginia, I thought about veterans past and current, I remembered the veterans in my family, all who have come home safely, and I reminded myself not to take simple things for granted.
November 10, 1988. I'd said my goodbyes at work the day before. They'd had a little, "going away" party for me. They gave me a T-shirt.... it said, "ADHOC QUEEN." Let's just say, in those days, in the Knott Data Center in Tallahassee, FL, I had a reputation of being able to write or fix a program on the fly, get it working, very quickly. But it was my last day working in the data center. I'd accepted an offer of a new job -- one that would take me to the Tidewater area of Virginia. And this day, November 10, 1988, we made the drive from Tallahassee to Yorktown, VA, where we were to stay in a motel while we looked for a place to live.
I think back on this four day weekend and wonder WHAT we were thinking? Yes, we'd lined up a Realtor to show us some places, but seriously... I had NO place to live and I was going to start work on MONDAY! Our trip from Florida was made in two vehicles. I was driving the car that I would keep up here with me while my then-husband returned to Florida in the small Ford pick-up truck, remaining there for the next six weeks, allowing the "family move" to take place during the children's Christmas break.
Veteran's Day that year was spent looking at properties that were lovely, but too expensive for our budget (why do Realtors ALWAYS show you places you cannot/will not afford?).
Our criteria for our new house included:
at least 1/2 acre
two story house
at least three bedrooms
garage
neighborhood with children
within our budget
By Friday, two days after our arrival in town, and after exhausting ourselves looking at houses that did not meet our criteria, we'd found a place in Gloucester, VA. Though TECHNICALLY it did NOT meet all of our criteria, we decided it was "the place." It was a split-level house, on 6 1/4 wooded acres, with NO neighborhood, NO children. It had three bedrooms and a garage and it was ALMOST within our budget! We put a bid in on the house, our offer was accepted, and I moved in... part of the bid included my being able live in the house, paying rent until our closing -- estimated at 7 weeks away. Of course, "moving in" meant I put the contents of the pick-up truck into the basement "bedroom."
For the next six weeks I lived alone in that house in the middle of the woods. In my basement bedroom I had a roll-away bed, a small dresser, a sewing machine, a small B&W TV, a radio and my guitar. In the main part of the basement was the wood stove, which I kept stoked to keep warm... the basement was not otherwise heated, and I was not about to run electricity to heat the whole house for just one person. It was quiet and very peaceful. This was back in the day before cell phones were popular, so, our communication was by land line and very minimal... trying to keep expenses down. My new work kept me busy during the week and driving around to get the "lay of the land" on the weekends became my pastime.
The calls from Tallahassee, however, were always interesting. My then-mother-in-law was staying with the family for the six weeks and would travel up to VA with them in December, before returning to her home in DE. One evening, during our phone conversation, my mother-in-law told me that she'd had a bit of a rough day with my youngest, Jenn. It seems Jenn, then age five, had decided she wanted to wear basically ALL of her favorite clothes at one time. Fashionably attired in several dresses, and a LOVELY slip, which she had as her outermost garment, she presented herself at the breakfast table. "MomMom" took one look at her, and told her she needed to return to her bedroom, choose a single dress, and wear the slip UNDER that dress. Jenn was obstinate and, though MomMom DID eventually win that battle, it was not, I am told, an easy win... I had to laugh. That was my Jenn....
Thanksgiving was my first holiday at the new job and I took the train to spend the holiday with my family in Maryland. As is customary, my step-mother, who was hosting the event that year, sent me back to Virginia with a care package of leftovers. Among these was a lovely slice of her DELICIOUS apple pie.
Back in my basement abode the next night, I thought about that slice of pie, and thought I'd like to eat it, just about then. I took it from the fridge, and decided to "warm it up" a little on the wood stove. Now, I believe I was missing a few marbles that night because I placed that lovely piece of pie on the wood stove... still in the TupperWare container. Even MORE brain-dead, I then returned to my "bedroom" to play the guitar a little, while my pie warmed. Suffice to say that by the time the fabulous aroma of the apple pie wafted my way, and I went out to enjoy my treat, I found that "treat" sitting squarely (or triangularly, since it WAS a slice of pie) in the middle of a TupperWare puddle. And so was lost not only a spectacular slice of pie, but also a perfectly good container... AND I had a MESS to clean up before I ALSO burned down the house I did NOT yet own!!!
I survived being "home alone" that year, but I was, indeed, happy to have the family arrive two days before Christmas. Our household goods arrived on Christmas Eve, and we celebrated our first Christmas in Virginia.
So today, on this beautiful Autumn day, when I sat down at my computer, 22 years later, I had to laugh... who'd thought I'd still be in VA this long? The adhoc queen has moved on from programming, moved on from that marriage, moved from that first house in the woods, to the house in the neighborhood, to the rental house in the neighborhood, to the house on the pond, and now, to the old farmhouse, the children have grown and are both married and living in VA, and I am still doing "brilliant" maneuvers, on almost a daily basis!
Yesterday morning I headed down from the garage apartment I now call "Home," to the garage below. At the bottom of the stairs I pulled on my "outside shoes," the boys size four/hiking/work boots I got at Walmart a couple of weeks ago. Before putting them on, recalling that Saturday I had felt a pebble or a piece of gravel in them or something, I turned each upside down and shook it out.... I CAN walk with a pebble in my shoe, but WHY??? Nothing came out, so I imagined it had made its escape the night before when I withdrew my foot from the confines of the boot. So I slipped on the boots and proceeded to my chores... feed the animals, climb the stairs in the old farmhouse to the room that currently houses my eBay merchandise, fill the orders, etc.
With my first or second step toward the first chore, I felt that sharp rock, once again jabbing in my foot. It wasn't terrible, but it wasn't particularly pleasant. I fed the animals first and then I sat down on a chair in the garage and removed the offending boot. I looked inside, and saw nothing. I turned the boot upside down and nothing fell out. Finally, I stuck my hand inside the boot and felt the insole, where my foot was getting the discomfort vibes.... and there it was... tiny... sharp... not a rock, not a pebble, not a piece of gravel... but a nail. Yes, the sharp addition to my oh-so-comfortable work boots was a thin paneling nail, apparently acquired when I was cleaning out the old-u-haul-truck-turned-mobile-storage-shed on Saturday. Once identified, and with Joe's expert skills with the nail-removing-snub-noses pliers, the "thorn in my boot"was removed. I was amazed, first at how LONG it was (over an inch), and second that it had not pierced the skin of my foot. The soles of those new work boots were JUST thick enough to prevent harm!
This, is where I got the Nail, I suspect
I was reminded of my childhood days when we vacationed every summer in New Bedford, MA, in the tiny little "home" in which my father was raised. The only indoor plumbing was a hand pump at the kitchen sink. Water had to be heated on the stove for baths in the large metal tub they placed in the middle of the single large family/living/kitchen/dining room for all of the children to bathe in on Saturday nights. And to use the "bathroom" required heading up the hill to the "down below"-- the outhouse. The memories of these times at the "Pond House," (the draw to this old place was her water-front lot on Long Pond) are mostly very good ones. There was plenty to explore, lots of fun fishing, cousins and grandparents who joined us there each year, and FANTASTIC food (Grampa was a chef).
Early Fishing Days on Long Pond
Still, there were the typical "dangers" of the basically run-down, now used only for summer vacations, place. Old stuff was lying around under the house, and as an explorer, I was there exploring. One day, in my explorations, I managed to step on a nail. I don't recall whether it was under the house or in the yard... anything was possible. What I do recall is the PAIN. I recall looking down at my foot, thinly clad in the very inexpensive, thin white sneakers (we called them "may-pops") and seeing the white of the sneaker turning red with my blood. The nail was, of course, expertly removed, and a tetanus shot endured, and a sore foot kept me down for I dunno, 24 hours? But I was a little more careful walking/running around that place after that!
So yesterday's nail, which was tiny in comparison to the one when I was eight or whatever, was actually "captured" by the sole of the boys work boot... the $16 boots I had been waiting since last FEBRUARY to see Wal-mart stock once again on their shelves... yes, I know they make work boots for women, and that they are lovely, I'm sure... but they always COST more, and I'm just going to be getting them mucked up here at the old farmhouse.... So, boys boots are fine for me, and I only hope now that the nail, now removed, did not leave a hole through which I will have to endure WATER... because, there is NO DOUBT in my mind, winter will bring us plenty of "wet."
Delivery of 20 Tons of Road Dirt... More Roads Ahead
Last "die-hard" of Summer --
Still blooming, now more than four months!
Sunday mornings usually find me scrunched in the corner, between the piano and my music stand, and scrunched between the wall and the other guitarist. All this scrunching is necessary because all of us, the pianist, the keyboard/recorder-ist, both guitarists and the rest of the oh, 10-on-a-good-day choir members have to be able to SEE our choir director.
A little background might be handy about now. I was raised going to church with my family, sitting in the pews, nodding off during the sermons, pretending I was paying attention when I was really thinking about how silly all those HATS the women were wearing looked... of course, MY hat was JUST as silly and I opted to "forget" it as often as possible. Sometime after we returned from our years in England, once again in the small church in Bowie, MD we'd always attended, I ended up in the choir. How that happened, exactly, I haven't a clue... I imagine Dad had something to do with it, because my earliest choir recollections, also include Dad and my brother Tim singing tenor.
I have to be honest. My love of music and of singing was a MUCH bigger drive to "keep me coming" to church than the sermons, or the Sunday school classes (which I did like). Somehow, music was my connection. I sang in that church choir until I graduated high school and left for college... where I did not sing in ANY church for quite a few years.
When my first child was born, my then-husband wanted him to be christened, as he had been, in the church where he'd grown up... and so it was, that I returned to attending church, but only sporadically. My husband and I had not been raised in the same religion, and so I could either continue to practice in a different church/same religion, or join him, when he decided to attend (Christmas and Easter come to mind) at a different church/different religion. For the twice a year decision, it seemed easy enough to go together as a family to the church of his choice.
We moved from Florida, where we'd begun our married life, to Virginia when my eldest - my son was seven years old. By this time my daughter had joined the family and she was five. Our new community offered a VARIETY of churches and religions. (I don't know if anyone ELSE has noticed, but driving through VA, I see at LEAST as many churches as I see fast food restaurants, and THAT'S a LOT!) Since it was "important" to my husband that the children be brought up in "the religion," I suggested it MIGHT be a good thing if there was some sort of regular attendance.
Jenn 5, Stephen 7
By the time we'd been in town three months, we were regularly attending the church in which I now scrunch in the corner every Sunday. Doing the math on that one, I realize I have been attending church there for 22 years now.... my children are grown, their father and I divorced years ago, and though it WAS his church, I discovered these folks with whom I have been singing and playing the guitar every week are family. He left, I stayed.
Today however, was the first Sunday service I participated in since September 12, 2010. I was traveling for work for more than five weeks. So when I walked into the church, 1 hour and 10 minutes before the service was to start, and only 5 minutes late for the beginning of choir rehearsal, I was greeted with a great big WHOOP!! from the other choir members. "YEAHHHH!!! Judy's Back!!" they cheered as I made my way to my designated scrunch position.
I tuned my guitar quickly and within a few minutes we all had our eyes on Kitty, our choir director as she guided us through the pieces in which we would lead the congregation during the service. It was all old favorites... stuff I've sung and played a thousand times. And it felt so GOOD to be back home.
As I listened to the priest's sermon, I was drifting back and forth between what he was saying and what that meant to me.... and I thought, this is not the same as when I was a little girl. In fact I see nobody in silly hats. And I am not inclined to snooze or to pretend to listen. I actually "get something" out of the whole deal.
When we sang the meditation piece, "I'll Fly Away" from O Brother, Where Art Thou, it occurred to me that this really IS still my connection... the music, the singing, the choir family. And I left the service with more energy than I have had in days!
Back at the old farmhouse, we worked on spreading more dirt and gravel on the roads we've made. Tomorrow we will have 20 tons of road dirt delivered and later in the week another 20 tons of gravel.... we still have a lot of roads ahead of us. Still today the weather was chilly, but beautiful, and we needed to get the last of what we had spread before the next loads arrive. Despite the cold, once I was working with the rake, raking gravel and dirt, I warmed right up!
The end of Daylight Savings Time meant that we had to head in early, losing the light faster, but I believe we did our fair share of work today. And yes, it WAS a wonderful Sunday!
August, 2006. I logged into my eBay account to check on the items I had listed for sale. As most eBayers are aware, when eBay wants to promote something, they do so at login time. Usually irritated by these promotional interruptions, I typically click the button that says something like, "Just take me to my originally intended destination, already!" and, having bypassed their roadblock with only minor (if redundant) irritation, I am back on track, busily managing my store or browsing those of others. This day, however, their promotional message caught my eye, and I followed the link to "find out more" about the eBay Blogs, and, more importantly to me, the competition eBay was holding -- the blogging and guides competition.
To make a long story short, that is when I started blogging. I was intimidated at first and wrote very different pieces from those I write today. Let's just say, I had no idea what I was doing, but the WHY I was doing it was clear.... I liked the idea of the competition. The 10-week competition was broken into five two week periods, with monetary awards being announced at the end of each period. My early participation won me a "low" monetary prize the first period, which only served to draw me in further.
Before long, I was making "friends" with other bloggers, watching blog fights, blog romances, blog profanity, blog bullies, blog spamming, blog reporting, blog scamming.... let's face it, there was a little bit of EVERYTHING on those blogs. By the time the competition was over, daily writing had become a way of life for me, and connecting with this on-line group of people who had really very little in common except an eBay account, was, for the most part, entertaining.
For more than three years, this was the extent of my blogging. Having started out trying to write helpful tidbits for other eBay sellers, I soon realized that most of the folks on those blogs were more seasoned sellers than I and no matter what "helpful" hints I might have, there were always those who had been there, done that, and knew better.... basically, there was no point in posting these types of posts. And anyway, there was a natural inclination, when sitting before the computer, fingers poised to author a post, to tell a story.... and the stories that came to mind were those true experiences of my life. So, over the years, that's where my posts evolved.
One of my earliest attempts at the story-telling posts follows:
My post yesterday about my first husband and his DE accent got me thinking about some other funny episodes.
Every year, we had a big Halloween party for our friends in our local community theater group. (They love to dress up anyway.) We lived in a house in the woods with a 1/4 mile private dirt/gravel road/driveway. My then-husband, James, decided the number of people coming to the party would be more than we could easily accommodate parking-wise. So, he asked the folks at the little church at the end of our dirt road if we could use their parking lot for our guests. They were fine with that and James devised a plan. Our guests would be directed to park in the church parking lot and then he and another of our friends would give them rides on the trailer behind the tractor up to the house. Everyone agreed.
On the evening of the party our friend, Rich, arrived in time to help with the parking/chauffeuring duties. I opened the door to find this 50-something, very heavy, jovial friend of ours dressed as a ballerina...pink tutu and all!
I said, "Rich! What a great costume!" to which he smiled and explained, "James said he wanted Ballet Parking!!!"
I laughed until I cried! James' version of the English language always cracked me up! I could just see him having told Rich he wanted Valet Parking!"
In August or September of 2009, eBay announced they would close the Blogs... Let me tell you, there were naysayers. They simply could NOT believe eBay would take away this forum that, they contended, gave eBay zillions of hits per day via the search engines. They simply could NOT believe eBay would determine our "playground" to be less cost effective than they wanted. They simply could NOT believe eBay was going to close the door on all of those on-line friendships that had developed over the years. I believed, and went through the painstaking process of copying all of my posts that I determined worthy of "keeping" over to my new blog, a blog I had created on Blogger. It was a lot of work, but by the "night the blogs went down in eBay," my posts were up and published in Blogger.
Maintaining those eBay-born friendships on-line since that time has been a more concerted effort. There are alternate sites where others post their blogs, and there are the Facebook and MySpace forums, but nothing has the same ""feel" as did those blogs. I'm not going to say I want the blogs back on eBay -- they definitely had their "issues," but I am happy they brought me to the blogging world. I enjoy it. It is an outlet and a chance to just "muse" on an almost daily basis.
October 31, 2009 was the date eBay announced was the be the last day for those blogs.... in true eBay "trick or treat" style, they shut them down a day early...
RIP eBay blogs.... I enjoyed you while you were part of my life!
July 11, 1978. Tallahassee, FL. It was hot, and I was hot. Not "HOT" in the modern usage of that word. Just miserably hot -- from the heat of the Tallahassee muggy summer day, and from the trip to the post office in the student union which resulted in further ruining my mood. In my box were no birthday cards, but a single envelope, addressed to me from my bank... Upon opening the envelope I learned I had been charged service fees for overdrawing my account.... though I had made my deposit, it had been a day late to cover the checks I'd already written... not a particularly atypical practice for me in those days.
"Fletch" in those college days
Still, I was mad at the bank, as only a person who refuses to take responsibility for her own actions can be, and so I harnessed my anger and allowed it to propel me all the way into town and to that miserable bank. I was going to teach THEM a thing or two. Back in those days I lacked the good sense to try to "work with them." Instead, I presented my red-faced, sweaty self to the bank teller and I informed her that I wanted to "CLOSE MY ACCOUNT" because they were robbing me of my meager funds. I would take all that I had in the account out, thank you very much! (Hah! I told them!)
Remarkably, they did not attempt to change my mind. They gave me my money and never even watched to see whether I made it out the door safely. I was just that insignificant. Insignificant. That's how I felt on that glorious, sweltering day when I turned 20 years old.
I had a long walk ahead of me to get back to my apartment which was on the other side of town. As I walked back toward campus, I bemoaned my life and wondered if there was really any reason I was killing myself to go to school year-round, taking overloads every quarter, and managing not to flunk out of school while working enough part-time jobs to keep my meager bank account hovering just above zero on a good day. WOE WAS I!!
As I was crossing campus, I heard a whistle and looked up, breaking, for a moment, from my misery to see who was whistling. Not ever being particularly good at seeing, I looked around, seeing nobody. Then I heard a familiar voice call my name and finally located the person... my friend, "Teach." He asked me what I was doing, or how I was doing, I don't recall which, but somehow in my conveyance of my "status," I managed to let him know it was my birthday.
"Really? How old are you," my friend asked. When I told him I had just turned 20, he said, "You mean I've been hanging out with a TEENAGER???"
Finally I laughed. The horrible birthday had turned into an OK, normal day with one silly statement of the obvious. Now, back in those days the drinking age was 18 and so the fact that Teach and I and other friends had enjoyed drinking in the local haunts a time or two was not unusual, by any stretch. And since I'd met him when he was teaching my Introduction to Government (or something like that), I have a sneaking suspicion he KNEW I was just a teenager. But friends are friends, without consideration of age.
Teach in those days...
well, he never wore a tie and jacket
in my recollection, but....
So Teach suggested maybe I'd like to go out drinking for my birthday. Now, in telling this story, I have to say, this feels VERY, VERY far removed from where I am today, but, I suppose it is, in part, why I AM who I am today. Off we went, I with my now-dead checkbook, containing all my cash funds, in my back pocket. We started with food, because drinking on an empty stomach is a bad idea. I recall I had a salad bar meal... good move, I tell you!
I don't recall a whole lot of that night. I do know that Teach dropped me off at the entrance to my apartment, after he decided I'd had enough, or perhaps more than enough to drink. (When he told me the story the next day, he said he decided I needed to go home when I slid down the stairs out of one of the bars!)
Once he dropped me off in the parking lot of my complex, he left and I headed to my apartment.
I awoke the next morning, with some odd, "dream-like" memories, and missing some things. I had the memory of doing the "elementary backstroke" in a pool. And I was missing my glasses -- and my flip flops....AND my checkbook with my CASH!!! But on the chair in my living room was a guy's uniform shirt from one of my places of employment. I was puzzled. I had NO idea where my stuff was, or why there was this uniform shirt in my living room. And without my glasses, I was pretty blind.
I went outside into the hot morning sun and discovered my flip-flops and glasses lying in the little front lawn of my neighbor's apartment. As I was collecting my stuff, and looking for the still missing checkbook, another neighbor came up and asked how I was feeling. from his tone, I could tell there was more to the story.
Chuck, my friend and across the sidewalk neighbor, and co-worker at WUV's International (seriously, that WAS the name of the hamburger joint I worked in), told me that he and his wife Linda had come home from work at about 3AM, hot and sweaty, and ready to go swimming in a neighboring apartment's pool... our complex did not have one. As they walked in from the parking lot, down the little sidewalk that separated the tiny grass lawns in front of the apartments, Linda screamed, "THERE'S A DEAD BODY!!!!" Chuck looked and sure enough, there I was, dead to the world. I had never made it to my apartment. Rather, I had passed out in the neighbor's lawn.
Well, thankfully, they knew me, and got me inside my apartment. They said I was a regular Chatty Cathy once I was awake, and demanded to know where they were going. I apparently then weaseled my way into joining them for the middle of the night swim. Ahha, so THAT's where I was doing the elementary backstroke. And apparently in their attempts to get me into the apartment, Chuck had put down his uniform shirt which he'd been carrying. And, according to Chuck and Linda, we'd also decided the SAUNA was a good idea, as long as we were raiding another apartment complex's pool....
So, as my head was pounding with the over indulgence of alcohol, augmented by an idiotic decision to "sweat out all of the water in my body," I was still concerned about the missing checkbook and cash contained therein. Nobody had seen that. Off I hiked back to campus and over to the traffic booth where my friend Teach worked part-time. I told him I was missing the checkbook and he obligingly drove me around to the various bars we'd visited the night before to inquire about it. Of course, no luck. I was 20 years old and penniless... and not ABOUT to call Dad to ask for money!
Instead, I wrote to my brother Tim. Tim is a year younger than I and, at the time, was serving in the Army in Germany. I dunno, seems like a very intelligent plan to write to someone with an APO address, asking for financial help to tie me over for a week or two.... obviously, those brain cells were going to need a few days, weeks, maybe MONTHS to recuperate.
Over the next couple of days, I did receive birthday cards, which contained some blessed cash to help me survive, and about day 8, I received a notice in my box that I had a letter that was "postage due." By day 8 I was no longer sick from the alcohol, but I was still ticked to have to fork over a dime to get a stinking letter. My friend from high school was notorious for sending me overweight letters, and I was certain this one would also be from her. It was not.
The letter had no return address. It was a plain white envelope, and it was heavy. I paid my dime, and took the envelope, opened it and looked in shock at its contents. It was my checkbook. OK, well that was nice, but since the checking account was now defunct, that was just an overweight piece of mail. Still, I looked inside the checkbook and sure enough, there was all of my withdrawn cash. ALL OF IT!
I was never able to thank that person, whoever it was that found the checkbook and its contents, so easily spent rather than returned. I was disbelieving and thrilled at the same time. And I have remembered that act of honesty by an anonymous person all of these years... it helped reestablish my faith in my fellow man, so to speak. Of course, the eight days I sweated through that "no money, not gonna tell Dad," was a GREAT lesson too!
This evening, as I sat down to unwind, to post about my day, or to muse about what traveled across these brain cells today, I thought I'd share this story... why was I thinking about it today? Well, November 6 is Teach's birthday. He turns 70. I had the opportunity to visit him in my recent trip to FL in September, and we had a lovely time catching up on the past 30+ years..... I hope he has a very happy birthday. I didn't send a card. I didn't make a phone call. But I did remember a day, more that 32 years ago, when he changed my mood, and made my 20th birthday!
Thank you Teach, and HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!!
Teach, taking a picture of me
as I take a picture of him
FL, 9/2010
This morning I awoke to discover it is, once again, Guy Fawkes Day. No, I don't celebrate it any longer, but I ALWAYS remember it -- every November 5th takes me back to the "Penny for the Guy" days. Below is a post I wrote on the subject, now three years ago ... I can hardly believe I have been blogging for more than four years, but so I have!
I have no photos of those days, those preparations by children all over England in the late 60's and early 70's, but in my mind, they are as clear today as if I were still wheeling that Guy around in the barrow.
A single little scarecrow reminded me
On my drive to No VA yesterday, I passed a roadside market, where produce from the owner’s farm is sold. They had erected a healthy looking scarecrow, I think more as an attraction to potential customers than as a real deterrent to crows. Nevertheless, his happy face brought back a memory I thought I’d share.
When I was 10 years old we moved to Cheltenham, England. I have a scrapbook of those years in my brain as vivid as if I could physically turn the pages and touch the pictures themselves. One such picture is of the new freedom my mother enjoyed. Since the public transportation was so fantastic, my mother, who did not have a car to drive, was able to get all over town and had quite a good time doing so. One thing she liked to do was go to auctions.
Now, my mother was not what I would consider a “savvy” auction-goer. But she did come home with some real “finds.” One such find was a piano, which I believe she won for about eight pounds! (I think it cost more to have it delivered than she paid for it, but that is another story.)
Well, the piano tuner came out and kindly assured my mother she would be wasting her money and his time should she pay him to tune it. The felts were shot and it could not be brought into tune. No problem, this was not the first of such auction finds for which Mom had to find another purpose.
About this time in England, we were approaching the legendary Guy Fawkes Day, and we children, oblivious to Mom’s piano plight, were busily constructing our “Guy” for that year. The Guy was constructed much like a scarecrow, taking an old pair of pants and a man’s shirt, stuffing them with straw and paper to make the body and head which we topped with an old hat. With our Guy properly constructed, we loaded him into the wheelbarrow and began our “collection” for the firecrackers we would use on Guy Fawkes Day. “Penny for the Guy, Penny for the Guy” we called as we wheeled our creation past others on the walkway. Pennies and such were tossed into our wheelbarrow, and we were thrilled!
When Guy Fawkes Day arrived, we helped build the big bonfire onto which the Guy would be ceremoniously tossed at just the right moment, as we set off our purchased firecrackers. Out of the garage and house we dragged all the auction “finds” that Mom had discovered were just so much junk. The pile this particular year was huge, as it had as its focal point, the piano.
When dusk fell, we, the six kids, supervised by our parents, and in concert with neighbor families performing similar rituals in their “gardens”, danced around with excitement as we watched the Guy’s funeral pyre reach optimum proportion. Then, with glee, we flung that wretched Guy atop the flames and set our firecrackers off (symbolic of Guy Fawkes’ attempt to burn down Parliament.)
Though this was not the first year we had enjoyed this holiday with our British friends, it was the first year that we enjoyed such a musical and explosive rendition of the event. For, as that piano burned, the piano strings sang and then, with reports greater than our purchased firecrackers, exploded as they broke free of their pegs! I will never forget the sound of a piano burning. Even as it seemed a little sad that an old instrument had met such demise, I always thought how wonderful it was that it went out with such a bang! And, to think, a single little scarecrow reminded me….
Well, let's see, we've been back home for ten days now and I still haven't caught up! I'm working, essentially, double shifts at work to try to catch up on all of the work that did not get completed, or even touched, in my absence, while at the same time fulfilling the daily onslaught of work they all dream up for me. On the other hand, I have a job and I, honestly, am thankful for that!
Yesterday, after completing shift number one for the paycheck, Joe and I went over to the pond house to take the potted plants inside to winter over, before the first frost could kill them. It was dark by this time, of course, but we decided we needed to get this chore done, regardless of whether we could see what we were doing. We worked under the artificial lights and filled the beater van with the still blooming summer beauties. In the dark, we cut back the lovely poke weed that we have taken to nurturing as part of our summer garden (it grows 10 feet tall and taller), we moved the heavy potted plants inside the house, to give a little warmth to the foyer, and we swept off the front porch and walkway before locking up and leaving.
Poke Weed Looks Like Tree at the Porch Steps
Judy, Under the "shade" of the poke weed!
As we worked on this task, one that we would naturally do as part of our fall to winter prep work, I thought about the comments offered by my Realtor when she held an open house for other Realtors last week. She reported that when she solicited constructive suggestions about improving the saleability of the house, the others gave her these:
Curb Appeal - very nice (could clean up some of the flowers from Summer) but loved the landscaping, wished the back yard was opened up more (park like) to view the water from the house
View From the Back of House Looking Down Path to Pond
Overall Exterior- excellent, great,
Overall Interior- perfect, excellent, very, very nice, loved room sizes, floors, trim (all excellent), nice, good
What would you recommend to sell this house-price too high, too high price for this market, lower the price
Additional Comments- just the general economy market, some had problems getting appraisal on recent sale another, much more congested neighborhood, appraisal was $20,000 under sales contract, house is wonderful as well as property - just current market conditions. Some had no idea that was as private as it was back at your property,liked the extended garage, already dehumidifier in crawl space, loved the idea of "income producing property with Hickory nuts", thought you had done a great job with the home - showed "like new" except the screened porch could use some more quality updates- when sitting you couldn't see out and maybe paint the wood (these were suggestions).
I had to laugh when I read the comments. I thought how silly these people must be to believe I would run out and spend THOUSANDS of dollars to make a beautiful home on a gorgeous property even better... and then lower the price to sell it. I dunno, this just defies logic in my pea brain. But the thing that really irked me about these fabulous suggestions was that NOBODY has brought a SINGLE potential BUYER to even LOOK at the property, and it has been on the market since July.
Now, I suppose it makes sense that people are not interested in paying what I am asking for the house, for ANY house. The economy IS tough and no, it does NOT appear to be getting better. But if I wanted to reduce the price on the house, I doubt I would also be considering pouring money into it to cut down a bunch of beautiful trees so that a Realtor can see the pond from the back porch...750 feet away. Nor do I believe I would be hiring contractors to rework the screened porch so that the bottom half matches the top half, with only screen for walls, turning it into an elevated covered deck with only screen protecting the potential new owners from falling down to the ground.
My theory -- if the Realtors want to sell the property, bring on the potential BUYERS. If the potential BUYERS make a contractual request to make modifications to the structures or the property, or to reduce the price, well, we can negotiate.... but without the potential BUYERS, I think I will just continue to use it as my "hotel space" for visiting family and friends.
So, now, the "summer flowers" have been tidied up and are now sitting in the beater van here at the old farmhouse, awaiting a new home... in a yet-unbuilt greenhouse... but, that's about the best I can do to satisfy the Realtors, I'm afraid. No, I don't want to continue to pay for a house in which I never intend to again live, but I don't see the benefit in giving it away... especially when there is nobody standing in line to look, much less, making offers.
Flowers in Beater Van
And after taking care of that little chore, I was ready to return for "shift two" in front of my computer.... it was nearly 5 AM before I crawled into bed for the "night" that lasted until 9:47 AM when I awoke LATE for my first meeting. ARGGHHHH....
Well, enough of that, I have just taken my fun break for the day today, and am determined to finish today's second shift BEFORE midnight... no, REALLY!!!
My parents had six kids in seven years. I won't go into the "interesting" explanations for these facts, explanations my mother has shared with me over the years from time to time, but suffice to say, they, apparently, had not actually "planned" to have a large family. To be honest, in those days, six kids wasn't really a huge family. And as it turned out, my first husband, and the father of my children, grew up as one of eight children, though admittedly, the eight were spread out over nearly 20 years. Still, this post is about my mother, and so, I suppose, I should get back on topic!
Mom was 23 when I was born, number two, fourteen months after the birth of my sister. She turned 29 years old, less than a week before her youngest child was born. Mom was an only child, so being part of a large family was a new experience to her. Things that we took for granted, Mom was experiencing for the first time... things like, "never a moment to herself," and "always tending to someone's needs, while ignoring her own." On the plus side, she had resident cheap (OK FREE) labor, which she started grooming at very early ages to take over the dynasty of such things as LAUNDRY, IRONING, WEEDING, WASHING DISHES, DRYING DISHES, ... you get the idea. Mom and Dad employed the "job board" to ensure we had a decent rotation and became competent in all facets of maintaining a zoo... er, household.
Oh, yeah, and Mom MADE our clothes
And we dressed up so FANCY, huh?
As if there were not sufficient responsibilities with six children, our "family" was extended to include the typical pets, dog, cat, monkey, hamsters, guinea pigs, hooded rats, fish, and the occasional chipmunk or rabbit "caught" by one of her brood. Oh, and of course the chickens that were the result of biology class "experiments." Let's just say, Mom had her hands full.
Umm, the "head" of the family
is missing part of his head!
Don't we make
lovely stair steps?
Oh, just go sit on a
WALL somewhere, will you??
One by one, we reached the age of maturity (though the state of maturity was much farther down the road) and we left for college, or the military -- to follow our own dreams... dreams that almost certainly included doing a "better job" than our parents had done! (When I think back to those days and those thoughts, I am a wee bit ashamed of my lack of appreciation.) By the time number three child was heading into the military, my parents had called it quits on their 21 year marriage, opting to take different paths into the future. My mother was 42. I was 19.
Just before my 23rd birthday and two months after my mother turned 46, my son, her first grandchild, was born. My mother had a new dilemma, at this point. She needed a name. She had started her life as "Ruth," sharing that of her own mother, and had been known as "Ruthie" all of her childhood and adult life. Her children called her, "Mommy, " and then "Mom," and SOMETIMES, "MOTHER!" Now she had to determine what her grandchildren would call her. She had a little time, yet... Stephen was precocious, but he did NOT come out of the womb knowing everyone's name!
Mom was concerned that she would be "old" if she were a "Grandma," or a "Granny." Her own mother, my maternal grandmother, had opted for the name, "Granther," which we thought was totally normal and fine... it was, after all, just a name. Mom, however, did not want to be "Granther" either. So it was that she announced one fine day, that she had decided she would be called, "Grandmommy."
My paternal Grandma,
with Grandmommy and Stephen
"Grandmommy????" each of her brood of six repeated, as the news traveled far and wide. "What kind of name is THAT??" Some of my siblings actually declared they simply COULD not use such a name for their children to refer to their grandmother! (Not that they HAD children yet, but just in CASE they had children, the very idea of that name was ridiculous.) To cloud the situation further, both of my parents remarried and my father, "Grampa" to his grandchildren, had to be differentiated from Mom's new husband who ALSO chose "Grampa." Since Dad was first, he was "Grampa" and my stepfather forever became, "Grampa John."
Well, so for the next two years, we learned to teach our son to call his maternal grandmother "Grandmommy, " his paternal grandmother "Mommom" and so forth. Just before my 25th birthday and when Mom was just 48, I provided her with her second grandchild, and her first granddaughter. And the name started getting used more often, as the children spoke "about" her as well as to her, using her chosen name. And then my, heretofore reluctant siblings started populating the "Grandmommy," chorus further as they provided seven more grandchildren. At some point, even the siblings who swore their children would never use that odd name, must have resigned themselves to the fact that this was what their mother was called by the generation they created.
I suppose this post seems an odd one, out of left field, as it were, but as I was looking through photos over the weekend it occurred to me that this is one decision I have not yet had to make... what to be called by my future grandchildren. Perhaps I will never have to make that decision, and I am certainly not trying to suggest my children start increasing their families any time soon... after all, I'm only 52... way too young to be a, er, ummm, "Granny?" But my mother was only 46 when she had to deal with this, and I suppose I'd better start thinking about it... could happen -- you never know! All I know for sure is that when I found the pictures of my kids with my mother, my BRAIN interpreted as, "Grandmommy with Stephen and Jenn." And there you have it. Here we are, more than 29 years after she asked to be called that, and I am FINALLY there... without thinking, and doing so as easily as I called my own grandmother, "Granther."
Yesterday was Hallowe'en. I am fully aware of that, but the fact of the matter is, I live in the boonies where no young costumed treat-seeker will EVER meander by. So, it seemed appropriate to take advantage of a glorious weather day to get some much needed yard maintenance performed at the "pond house." The evening before, as we pulled away from a CraigsList pickup, we witnessed the beautiful red sunset, and determined Hallowe'en would dawn a beautiful day.
Sunset, Hartfield, VA
Sunset Hartfield, VA
We planned on getting an early start, and, as seems our norm, managed to get over there oh, around 1PM... (well, that's early afternoon, anyway).
Beautiful Autumn Day
So, before we headed over, Joe got together some "supplies." Yes, these supplies included some tools for the tasks at hand, but they also included some empty bins, and some plastic bags, you know, the kind we get a million of every trip to the grocery store. It was obvious from the inclusion of these items that we had ulterior motives about our "work day" at the pond house.
This is, after all, HICKORY NUT SEASON. For those of you who are not aware of this spectacular season, at least at the pond house in Gloucester, VA, this is the season during which I typically tromp through the woods for hours on end, collecting fallen hickory nuts that haven't already been consumed by the copious local wildlife. Last year Joe joined me for the first time in this activity, and together we collected well over 1000 lbs of hickory nuts.... I sold them all on eBay, as I had for a couple of years.
Road to Pond House
Still, I normally start this activity the last week of September, but work travels dictated I would not be around to enjoy the nut season until late October, so late October is was. The fall leaves are brilliant right now, and the woods' canopy, with the bright blue sky peeking through the red, oranges and yellows, creates a beautiful environment in which to "exercise."
Hickory Nut Collecting
Exercise is the best way to describe this activity, because the 7 1/2 acres of hickory trees are not laid out in orchard-like arrangements, where a rake or something mechanical could be used to collect the nuts. We literally walk MILES as we stoop to spy the nuts hiding amongst the fallen leaves, and stoop further to pick each one discovered. We stoop to crawl under and through lower growing brush that hides our treasures. We climb up and down the short but steep "hills" that are the embankment to the pond. And we duck to avoid the ever-falling hickory nuts. We get a workout.
We thought we should do the maintenance work first and then start nut collecting. We tried to fire up the lawn tractor and the battery was dead (darn it... NOT!) So, Joe set the battery on the charger and off we went nut collecting.
Hickory Nuts Amongst the Fallen Leaves
Judy,
Pregnant with Hickory Nuts!
From Pockets to Bags
We were not disappointed with the crop this year. By the time the light was waning and we returned to complete the maintenance work, we'd collected 67 lbs of the nuts... that weight AFTER removing their hulls. Well, OK, we obviously are not going to catch up and reach or exceed our last year's record of over 1000 pounds sold, but the squirrels got a serious head start on us this year!
Showing off HEAVY Bag of Hickory Nuts
Nut Collectors at Day's End
One Day's Haul = 67 Pounds
While Joe finished up the yard work, I took the nuts inside and gave them their "bath." There is a reality about hickory nuts grown naturally in the woods. They are subject to the nut worm. The nut worm enters the nut during the time the nut is forming, and they feed on the nut until it drops from the tree. At that point, they bore a hole through the shell and hull (if it is still on the nut after falling) and go into the ground where they do whatever nut worms do to procreate for next year. So, before selling the nuts on eBay, I do my best to ensure what I am selling are worm-free, delicious nuts. Hence the "bath."
Nuts, Bathed and Drying
I fill the kitchen sink with hot water and dump the collected nuts in, cleaning them of the forest floor dirt and removing all "floaters" from the batch. Floaters indicate an empty shell... nut meat usually eaten by the worms, but sometimes just never formed. Once bathed, the "good nuts" are put on towels on the counter to dry. From there, after they are sufficiently dry, I load them into sacks (multi-use Judy uses knee high pantyhose for her hickory nut sacks.) These sacks are stacked on the shelves in a temperature controlled environment, where they await shipment. I like to give them about a week on the shelf before shipping, lest a nut or two which passed the bath test still contain the worms... they make their way out within the week and I can separate those nuts with the holes from the sacks. The mesh contains the worms sufficiently and, as it turns out, these nut worms make wonderful fishing bait!
Fall Fishing Anyone???
By the time we left the pond house, headed home past the now-quiet homes that earlier hosted hundreds of trick-or-treaters, passing by the group of four Sheriff's deputies in the subdivision between the pond house and the main road (very colorful, and when asked what was going on, the deputy said, "we don't know yet,"), we were exhausted. It was a glorious fall day and I guess you could say we did our own kind of trick-or-treating!
