Not so late tonight

We have had a very quiet, fairly uneventful Labor Day. What at one time would have been filled with family fun and the last minute scrambling to get school clothes and supplies all lid out, was instead a laid back day. Baking bread, watching the hummingbird circus in the back yard. The dill pickles are all finished and put away. I must admit, the final batch looks really good. It surprises me when I hear people talk about cooking as a structured activity. Here is the recipe, measure exactly and heaven forbid, don't vary the ingredients, don't experiment... My pickle recipe called for white vinegar, salt, dill and garlic.. Oh yeah, and cucumbers. They were pretty darned good. But what if I used cider vinegar? I like the idea of that slight fruity flavor. And what about pickling spices? They smell so good, that might be a good idea. Well, we will find out in two or three days. If I can wait that long before I crack the seal on those babies! And then there are those beautiful, fermented sweet pickles. Three more days and I can pack them in jars and layer them with sugar. And a few more days after that before they will be ready to eat. I can't wait!! Look at those pickles!!!

As I wandered thru the yard today I noticed that the grapes are slowly beginning to turn purple. It won't be long and they will be ready to pick, and then there will be wonderful, sweet grape juice. This year there will be more juice and less jelly. I still have three or four half pints of jelly left from last year. I love grape juice! I remember visiting my grandparents as a little girl. Gramma always had grape juice for me. She knew... My mother said that before I was a year old, she wanted me off the bottle. My sister was due soon. It was not going well. Milk in a cup would dribble right down my little chin. But fill that cup with grape juice and not a drop was spilled or dribbled! Yup, I love grape juice, always have!!

Conversations with my aunt

Sleepless again tonight. I sit here thinking about a conversation I had with my aunt today. We had been looking at this photo of my dad, my aunt and their baby sister. I knew that the man and woman in the photo were my great grandparents, Billy and Sarah Saxton. Aunt Vesta began to talk about them. She told me that they had been old, as long as she could remember. They were good people. If you were in trouble, if you needed help, you would turn to Billy and Sarah. They had six children, I believe. Oliver, Edith, Russell, William and two sons that we didn't name in our chat. Perhaps my great grandparents appeared old because of the life they were dealt. The two sons who I don't know their names both drown at age 15. How horribly sad. We didn't discuss details, those will come later. Bil and Sarah's home burned. And about three years after this photo was taken, their 32 year old son, and father of these 3 little ones would die after complications from an appendectomy. She spoke calmly, reciting the details like a well known story. After he died, my grandmother and her three small children moved in with grandparents for a little while. Then Grandpa Will's life insurance was paid, and with the one thousand dollars, his young widow paid for his funeral and then bought the home she would raise her children in, and live in the rest of her life. I will never look at this photo the same way again. I see the pain etched on Grandma Sarah's face, and I will always hear Aunt Vesta's words "they were good people."

Late night ponderings

As I sit here awake at nearly midnight, I recall what an emotional day it has been. So many things going on. All I wanted to do is finish my dresser, do a bit of laundry,and make some delicious veggie soup. Ok, so I did all of that, but in between I cried. I cried for the strength it took for my dear to let go that little bit. And I cried when my sister shared how our father had become "fragile". He has always been a strong man. A commanding presence in a room. I see him as that young father who took his children fishing at the dam, with cane poles. Who built a campfire and whittled hot dog sticks for roasting those yummy club franks, and who treated us with Ruffles potato chips and French onion dip on those excursions. I see the young father who helped make individual jell-o molds for his children and made homemade chip dip with cream cheese, onion soup and horseradish on Sunday nights so the family could watch the Wonderful World of Disney together. I agree with my sister, that my father is still that young man, somewhere deep inside, and one day soon, too soon, I fear, he will stand next to God as that young man again, healthy, vibrant. And part of me wants that for him. I saw a movie last week, and a woman was in the same situation, more or less... And she said it perfectly... "I can accept that he is going to die, I just can't accept that he's going to be that way forever." Now I know that to be absent from the body is to be present with the Lord, and that we are all going to die, eventually. But I don't believe I am ready for my father to leave just yet. Whatever happens, whenever it happens, I know that I will survive, I will be strong because that is what he taught me. And the best way I can honor him is to be that strong little girl/woman who he raised.