God Bless the Child

I’m painting again….

Seems like I’ve spent more time painting in my life than most folks: painting as in primer and enamel, Rustoleum and latex, barns and gates and secondhand furniture.  Walls and wallpaper (don’t judge), ceilings and cement.  Scenery, signs, one 1966 Chevy pickup (construction orange) and perhaps my finest work, the big red geranium in a clay pot that graced both the false front on a long gone greenhouse and an even longer gone Ford three speed delivery van.

 

This propensity to paint is just one way I am my father’s daughter.  The only question is whether this craving to cover with color is a result of nature or nurture.  We earned our stripes the old fashioned way: no paint brush until until the target was scraped clean or wire-brushed free of flakes and rust.  My sister and I served at least a seven years’ apprenticeship painting farm gates and ourselves with gallon after gallon of barn red from Orscheln’s.   By nature, these children of the Depression and wartime were thrifty and fixed what broke, a task made easier by my mom’s talent with a sewing machine and my father’s engineer mindset.  By nurture, their children picked up sticks, pulled weeds, painted peeling farm buildings….and still do all of the above.  I shared with both my folks an appreciation for the timeworn and a desire to resurrect and put back to work stuff with some miles left to go.

Me, painting the numbers as high up as I wanted to lean

My dad, painting at the peak of the Red Barn roof

That's me, painting the numbers on the big red barn lots and lots of years ago.  In this picture, I've got a lot of rungs in front of me and I'm feeling pretty secure up high. Full disclosure, I did some of the painting on the gable sides of that barn, as high as that ladder could reach.  It was terrifying; I even curled my toes inside my shoes in an effort to make myself one with that ladder.  Exhibit two: my father, two ladders up on the steeply angled roof of the tallest barn in Moniteau county.  Lightning bolt high.  Once, on a vacation in South Dakota, he offered to race us to the top of a fire tower.  Laura scampered up ahead, as nimble as a squirrel on a high wire.  I made it about three flights before freezing up and retreating to join my mother on the ground.  When it came to heights, I was definitely my mother's daughter.

By nature, my father was orderly and tidy...I’d say almost to a fault, but that would be accounting using my standards of organization.  My mother’s best friend says my mom would hurry home from a visit to make sure the messes on the counter, or table, or other remains of the day were shoved under a counter or into a closet or otherwise cleared from the deck.  This story makes me laugh, being as picking up stacks of books, photos, mail and magazines and transporting them upstairs far from the beaten path of any company is my chosen way to deal with clutter. This habit is just one of the ways I’m my mother’s daughter. Over time, piles of lists and papers and catalogs accumulated on my parents’ kitchen table too, proving that even my father’s sense of order was no match for Newton’s Second Law of Thermodynamics.

The haphazard little girl learned discipline primarily through practice.  For much of my life, music was the strongest bond and common language between my father and me. He was a good teacher; I learned to listen to the sound I was making, to formulate an ear for what a clarinet should be...based on my dad’s clear bright tone, not the assortment of squeaks and groans in our school band. In music, he was patient with my mistakes, counting effort and practice to the good, but that didn’t keep me from quaking every week when it came time to test my exercises. My life is forever richer for the bond forged with my dad and the knowledge and appreciation of music heard and music performed.

My father was witty, quick with a quip or retort.  I wished I could be.  He was the sort of man one listened to.  My mother was kind, a patient and sympathetic ear during our one long distance conversation a week during college, or while she cooked in her farm kitchen and I chattered from the table.  In her later years, she was quiet, and I missed our conversations, though she was still perfectly happy to hear me talk about gardens and kids and loved to look at the pictures I took of home and farm or travels far away. Now I have stacks and stacks of the photo albums she constructed, reminders of a curious mind and an artist’s eye with the lens. I grew up with houseplants in every room and a camera bag on every outing; those habits are second nature not just for my sister and me, but deeply ingrained in her grandchildren as well.

What do we remember of our childhood?  I watched two people do their jobs: my father as the breadwinner and spiritual leader and my mother as caregiver, homemaker, and partner.  But these separate jobs were overshadowed by what they did together, which makes Clint Black’s lyrics oh so true….

“The way we work together is what sets our love apart

So closely that you can't tell where I end and where you start.”

Role Models

Millie is frustrated.
Wild animal tracks have been spotted near the school and she is afraid the little children are in harm's way. She also thinks her family isn't treating the situation with the seriousness it deserves. As part of that family, I'd say she's probably correct in that assessment: there is a deeply serious vein running through the family tree, but one has to dig through quite a bit you-know-what to get to the root of it.
But this is Millie. She's not wringing her hands dithering; nope, she's on the phone, calling on her network, and making something happen.

In my opinion, no sensible wild critter would DARE lurk near anyone's munchkins, knowing Millie is around. There's a force field, and being a great grandma has not diminished its clout.

Back in the day, I was a newly wed, rookie farm wife, with the willingness to help of a five year old and just about the same level of expertise. The learning curve was steep, and like Sisyphus, I felt I spent as much time going down as I did climbing up. Blessedly, there was a sympathetic soul nearby with seemingly endless time to drink coffee and help me settle in.....and it wasn't my husband! Nope, it was my mother in law, and I can't imagine any young wife joining a family/family business has ever enjoyed a more open armed, open door, open relationship with her husband's mom

She taught me to wallpaper, reupholstered my grandma's handmedown couch, coached me through chicken butchering, shared meals, and helped me find a home at church. I was invited to play bridge every once in a while, build floats for parades, and begin a decades long tour at vacation Bible school.

There have always been projects erupting in her house. Perhaps its a grandchild or great grand child's quilt. Perhaps a costume, or a dress for a wedding party, or a kennel of Pound Puppies, or a dozen pillow case dresses for missions. If there isn't a sewing machine on the table and a thicket of pins in the armrest of the couch, there's a stack of newspaper articles and photographs to testify to a love of family lore and community history. These works in progress are all the evidence I need of what it takes to continue a life well lived: service, work, and curiosity drive the engines of body and mind and keep the machinery well oiled.

An open door and open mind attracts all kinds of characters; itinerant sales folk find ham sandwiches if hunger pangs strike. Millie has more than one piece of ruined upholstery to show for her warm hospitality. There are lots of contestants, but only one winner in the 'favorite'aunt category (sorry, Aunt Debbie!) and this Grandma Millie is everyone's confidant. As each generation of babies becomes toddlers, then rambunctious grade schoolers, then uncertain junior high athletes, varsity cheerleaders, linemen, forwards, FFA presidents, leads in the school play, and graduates in robes and tassels, Grandma and Papa have worn their butts smooth on Tarkio High bleachers and their voices raw screaming 'Go Big Red' and offering helpful suggestions to the officials on the scene. It can be a full time job.

It isn't easy having a big heart; your family doesn't end with your kin. Loving all these years leaves scars only God knows and those who grieve along and share the burden willingly. Prayers are sent up and prayers are answered, not only in heaven, but even day by day in real time on earth. When that happy result occurs, I am convinced angels join in the rejoicing....life on earth is not an equation, but we should embrace our gift horses whenever we can.....

And my mother in law takes her joys on a daily basis....her priorities are clear; life, love, and laughter trump order, and everything can wait for tomorrow if there are grandkids to cuddle. Just another lesson to live by: Appreciate the past, and deal with the present one layer at a time.

This is what I know, my kids know, and my grandkids will remember: "I love my rooster, My rooster loves me" , Kkkkkkk-Katy, beautiful Katy, you're the only ggggirl I adore.." , or, all together now, " I live in Montana; I wear a bandana! My spurs are of silver, my pony is gray..." These are the tunes my babies heard, bundled in blankets and encompassed, enfolded in generous, ever open, untiring and ever lovin' arms.

To offer unconditional love unto the third and fourth generation? Is that not Biblical in its scope? Are we not blessed, every one, to bask in that home spun glow for more than our allotted three score and ten?

Just what I am thankful for today ....and I am not alone.....

Posted with Blogsy

The Family Jewels

It has been a busy but productive two weeks in the family kitchens.  

The cucumbers are gigantic, yellow and bloated on the fence, but we've canned our fill of bread and butters and refrigerator dills and can shrug off any recurring guilt. A generous picking of blackberries was distilled down to 14 jars of jam.  Not to be out done, the four grape vines on the corner of our yard produced six ice cream buckets and a 2 gallon pail of little purple and marble sized green grapes. Then the late summer, early autumn apples began to drop, requiring yet more containers: 3 gallon pots, 5 gallon buckets and a couple of honest to goodness bushel baskets were pressed into service.  The apples are tasty out of hand, but there are so many wonderful ways to preserve them for fall and winter!  

Then...finally, the tomatoes come on. 

Right at the peak of a late summer heat wave, the vines I've been resolutely watering yield their bounty.  More pots, a milk crate and a couple more 2 gallon rubber buckets are piled high with Celebritys, Romas, not-so-Early Girls and whatever other orphans I couldn't bear to let wither away in June.  The slugs have taken a few bites, but for the most part, the fruit is smooth, firm, not mushy and perfect for canning.

From the depths of the basement, to the tall shelf in the kitchen closet, from the back of the utensil drawer to the tangled hardware of the crockery in the corner: out comes our version of the family jewels to be drawn into service for another summer of tomato seeds, pungent vinegar, and the royal purple of the brambles.  As steeped in tradition as any family recipe, as worn as any tarnished silver brooch, as indispensable as a spare set of keys, a fresh battery, an iphone....is the stainless steel canner I bought from Spiegel after burning out two enamelware pans in six years; the jar lifter and jar funnel are original equipment....

 ....as is the 3 1/2"quart Revereware pot my mother gave me for my wedding shower.  It has boiled corn, pasta, and simmered more pots of chili than I can count in these 36 plus years.  It shares the cupboards with Grandma Eunice's deep and wide 14"skillet and Grandma Froerer's 1 and 1 1/2 quart saucepans.  There is more than a century of feet to the fire for those Revereware copper bottom pots and even boiling some tea bags dry but dimmed their stainless steel luster.  The next generation can try its luck....

How many cooks do you know still using their 1970s orange Tupperware measuring cups?  Or spooning the flour out of their 1978 faded metal canisters (purchased from goodness knows which defunct discount store with the aim of keeping varmints out of the baking supplies if not the rest of the porous household)? This measuring cup set has the oh so important 3/4 cup, something I use in nearly all my baking recipes.  For instance, the 3/4 cup is part and parcel of the 2 3/4 cup flour used to make a loaf of white bread in my ever so antique bread machine.

Blake and Ben bought me that refurbished, reconditioned West Bend bread machine many years ago.  When you are married to a farmer and your birthday falls in mid October, you had better plan on a steady diet of gifts from either a hardware store, NAPA, or the local equivalent of a Pamida or Dollar General.  In this case, when Blake asked me what I wanted for my birthday, I had just been to Pamida and had an appropriate answer....  I have ordered but two small replacement parts for that thing over the years.  A loaf of bread from that machine is considered a treat by the grandkids, especially slathered in butter and honey or peanut butter and home made jam.  The recipe is in my brain and the ingredients always on hand.

Ahhh, I do, of course, have more than one set of measuring cups.  These sturdy stainless steel cups and a matching set of spoons (my spoon set had shrunk to a quarter and a half teaspoon)were from Ben and upgraded my equipment one Christmas morn.  But that big yellow Rubbermaid batter bowl?  That I bought for myself.  Also many years ago.  I am rather daunted to find it for sale and listed as "vintage" on numerous Etsy sites.  

Alas, here is a casualty of long life and the multi tasking!  Millie gave me a big green Tupperware bowl when we were married along with the recipe for her Christmas morning Bubble.  I treasure the recipe card itself; it is well worn, though I will admit that, were a family vote taken, most would forego all gifts on Christmas and even Christmas dinner for a plate of Grandma Millie's bubble.  And the big green bowl?  One year someone used it in a remodeling project...after holding "mud"for sheetrock, it was honorably discharged from the kitchen.

Oh, all right!  You can say what's on your mind.  The kids have pointed it out more than once.  Yes, these utensils are SHOT!  As a matter of fact, they might even be hazardous to one's health.  The melamine (yes! melamine!) handles are faded (a classic harvest motif) or busted or both.  The chromed finish is history; only a matter of years before oxidation is complete and the spatula and soup ladle match the slotted spoon for liquid holding capacity.  The wooden spoons range from full to gibbous waning moon with the toothless grin befitting their relative antiquity.  But Laura gave me the utensil set and...I am loath to dispose of wooden spoons with such a patina of experience.  At least as long as there's room in the crockery.

Despite appearances, there is also room in my recipe box.

There is room for Granny's Brown Bread, chock full of raisins and baked in either a cranberry sauce or pork and beans can. The little round slices were just so darned cute and just the right size for kids to pack in their lunch box with their sandwich and apple.   I have a recipe card for her Favorite Fried Chicken too, even though its been years since I pan fried chicken  But Granny had Grandpa write that recipe card for me in 1977 after he had suffered a stroke and just seven months before he passed.  It is part of the family heritage.  Grandma Froerer could fry a mean chicken too, but the recipe she wrote out was for the pineapple upside down cake she had waiting for us every time we came to visit...whether it had been six months or six days since we'd seen her.  I still use the 9"cake pans she gave me....the white enamel is visible just below the rim. Guess we've probably ingested the rest over the years!

My mother's tiny cursive appears several times in the recipe box on random pieces of paper, notecards or index cards, but those are just pennies to the doubloons in the treasure chest of taste and tradition she has passed along.  Some recipes rest untouched, committed to memory and familiar by use, like the teriyaki marinade for chicken or steak, stir fry or grill.  

Others I read each and every time I make them, like this dog eared copy of Ma's Coffee Cake, so there will be no missteps, whether I'm making gooey rolls, crusted with sticky brown sugar and syrup topping as I tip them out of the 9x13 pan, or pulling out those same faithful paintless 9" cake pans and forming two fruity struesel topped coffeecakes.  These coffeecakes are labors of love tied by the apron strings of the past to the taste buds of the present.

But...enough flipping through the pages of memory. Today's tasks await and that means turning these:

into these:

using these.... oh wait, those are the old ones.....

Ah....that's better...newer, non rusty Wilton loaf pans from Ben and Kenz

To make these...

Apple Crunch Bread loaves...what passes for legacy around here...