Nine Pictures; Nine Words

Kitsch

Refreshment

Vine-ripened

Nature

Fresh

Beauty

Recreation

                                                            Planting

(Photos:  Antique salt and pepper shakers, cup of tea and cookie, grew-it-myself little tomato, spider web during a rainstorm, snapping beans, yellow roses, board game, stained glass window at Danforth Chapel on the campus of Kansas State University)

#314-322 of my One Thousand Gifts.

Sweet Corn

The father-in-law of one of the secretaries at my school has farmed his whole life.  Though he reached the age when many people retire years ago, there are parts of farming that he can’t let go.  Every year he grows sweet corn on a scale that must be considered more crop than garden.  Everyone at our school benefits from his efforts.

I decided to preserve the corn I received after finding food.com’s instructions for freezing fresh corn.  Step 1:Shucking the Corn is the kind of chore that can be done while your mind is  a million miles away.  My mind was on the back porch on a hot summer day in the early 1970s.  Sitting on the concrete stoop I happily worked through a stack of corn that someone had given to our family helping to stretch the food budget required to fill the bottomless bellies of so many growing children.

Corn on the cob was one of the best things about summer in my mind.  I could make a meal of buttery, sweet corn.  I loved pretending with my brothers that our corn eating was like fingers flying across the keys of a typewriter reaching the end of the page with a ding and returning to the other side for yet another line.

I took pride in my ability to remove more of the corn silks than my older brothers could.  No one would get a silk caught like floss in their teeth as long as I was performing quality control.  I often reworked ears of corn my brothers had deemed ready for the pot of boiling water shaking my head at their feeble attempts.

Step 2:  Cook the ears in boiling, salted water for four minutes.  The steam rising above my huge soup pot as I drop in each ear causes my glasses to fog over.  I think of my mother in her hot kitchen.  Our house was cooled–on those summers that it was cooled at all–by a single window air unit positioned in the living room at the farthest point from the kitchen possible.  Standing near the steaming pot in my own comfortable kitchen I suddenly remember that there was at some point during my childhood a unit in the window by the kitchen pantry.  I don’t recall it ever being there, but a memory of my dad removing it floats through my brain.  I am peeking at him from inside as he works outside the window.  Normally, he would grin at me but in this memory he is discouraged.  Why had I never made the connection between this memory and the many memories of my mother’s flushed face as she stood working at the hot stove?

Step 3:  Lay the ears on a clean dishtowel to drain and cool.
Step 4: Once cooled to the touch, stick the end of an ear into the opening of the center tube of an angel food or bundt cake pan.  Using a paring knife cut the kernels from the cob letting them fall into the cake pan.  Going through the motions I can’t help but notice how much my hands have come to resemble my mother’s. Her hands are the things I remember most vividly about her perhaps because they were always moving, always delving into some project that would directly benefit me.

Step 5: Melt butter (1/3 cup was perfect for a dozen ears) , drizzle over the corn and toss.  Place corn in an airtight container and freeze.

I tasted the corn before slipping it into my freezer and smiled at the same buttery goodness I remember from my childhood.  I started this project with the idea I was preserving corn, but came to understand I was really preserving memories.  Memories of childhood summers with simple pleasures in a family who surrounded me in love.

The Old Emerson Fan

This ancient Emerson Electric fan was old as dirt when my husband and I bought it for ten dollars at an auction in 1985 the first summer we were married.  He thought he could rewire it and get it working again; I thought it was cute.  When we got it home, we were both surprised to discover that it ran like a top as soon as we plugged it in, and it cooled a room better than the brand new fan we had purchased just days before.  That new fan didn’t survive to make the move to our current home, but the little Emerson still gets used every day in the summer.  It’s a perfect reminder that we don’t actually need fancy or excess in our lives.  Reliability, simplicity, contentment—of these things I am a big fan.

Scenes From a Tractor Graveyard

Georgetown, TX

Sunflowers

Friends recently sent bouquets of flowers to my church in memory of my mom.  Included with several kinds of flowers were these amazing sunflowers.  They practically glow when the sun hits their petals.

The humble sunflower is a fitting tribute to my mom.  It lacks the sophistication of many flowers yet has a simple beauty that is unmistakable.  Though some consider it weed-like, its infectious spirit brings accolades from others.  It is the Kansas state flower.

It keeps its face towards the sun; even as the sun shifts through the sky the sunflower follows it soaking in all the light it possibly can.  Scientists call this tendency heliotropic.  Thinking of this I realize my mother was a heliotrope.

(Originally shared in 2012, but posted again on Kansas Day 2018.)

Collectors

Recently I ran across the following reflection on collectors written by Larry Erickson:  However defective, collectors are poets, people who deal in metaphors and symbolism.  The pieces we treasure may have limited practical value. The treasure is in their meaning, in the times and people they represent, in the mysteries they hold and the answers they yield.

The words leaped off the page and encircled my imagination.  If I am a poet, what words and meaning can be given to what I collect?  It is not hard to decipher that my metaphors one by one lead me home.

There is home in the crockery mixing bowls that line my shelves.  Home in the wooden boxes that hold heirloom silverware that has graced many a family holiday table through decades.  There is home in the baby utensils that hang on the metal tree in my bedroom; and home in the old toys scattered throughout our house despite the absence of children.

I must be a collector.  As Erikson suggests my possessions hold very little value to anyone other than me; but they represent home and the people I have loved.  And in this world, I have no greater treasure.

Mom's Syrup Pitcher

On the top shelf of my china cabinet sits a brown pottery pitcher from my childhood home.  It held the syrup each time we had waffles.

It is not easy to produce enough waffles all at roughly the same to time in order to feed eight to ten people.  My mom would be a blur of motion constantly pouring batter or turning baked waffles onto a platter.  I am sure that is why waffles were a rare treat at our house.

As soon as two golden squares hit each plate they were slathered in creamy butter.  The butter instantly began to melt and sink into the crusty surface of the waffle.  One by one we would grab hold of the handle of the pottery pitcher tipping it up so that each tiny reservoir of the waffle filled with sticky sweetness.

Maple syrup may as well have been liquid gold with the number of mouths Mom needed to feed.  Instead, she had figured out how to make a low cost alternative long before my time.  It was her homemade syrup that filled the brown pitcher.

I took the syrup pitcher off its shelf tonight to get a better look at it.  It is chipped in a couple places and was never from a pottery line that anyone would consider collectible.  Yet it remains a perfect symbol of my childhood….solid, unpretentious, and oh, so sweet.

Susie’s Homemade Syrup

Equal parts sugar, brown sugar and water (Typically, Mom used a cup of each.).  Place ingredients in a sauce pan over medium heat.  Stir and heat until sugars melt.  Stir in a tablespoon of Maple Extract (available at Amazon.com) and continue heating for another minute or so, stirring constantly.

Be sure to refrigerate any leftovers.

The Soup Pot

Today the temperatures dipped into the range of real winter temperatures.  In an otherwise fairly wimpy winter this caught my attention.  Since I had the day off I decided to make the most of it. For this mild-mannered homebody “making the most of it” meant getting some homemade bread rising on the counter and then pulling out the soup pot.

Making a pot of homemade soup on a blustery winter day is one of life’s simple and great pleasures to me.  The pot itself suggests abundance before the first chopped vegetable hits its bottom.  It is substantial, requiring a bounty from the pantry and the refrigerator.  By virtue of my ability to fill this pot I understand that I am surrounded by plenty.

I chop the vegetables by hand.  The repetitive rhythm gives me time to think about the people I am preparing this soup for.  In its way it is like a prayer sent up for each member of the family for their health and well being.

As the vegetables begin to simmer in a pat of butter they give off an earthy fragrance that reminds me that spring and another growing season lie just around the corner.  Soon the earth will bud and bloom, but for now we rest.  The air is redolent with herbs and the smell of the soup that will warm us from the inside out.  Just now I want nothing more than to hunker down at home on this quiet night with good food and better company.

As the soup simmers on top of the stove and the oven heats the bread, the kitchen gets steamy.  When I began my project a leaf on the viburnum bush shivered outside the window above the cooktop.  The soup simmered and brewed for so long the window is now opaque with condensation and the quaking of the leaf is no longer in view.  Inside my little house all is warm and cozy.

Soup’s on!

Country Darkness

http://www.mamakatslosinit.com

Ron and Gladys had day jobs though I didn’t know much about them.  What I did know was every Wednesday and Saturday night Ron tended bar and Gladys waited tables at the Elks Club which meant every Wednesday and Saturday night I watched their two girls out on the Old Bogue Road.

Ron and Gladys were country people. I was small-town, and there is a difference between country and small-town.  That difference is most pronounced after sundown.

In the country, dark is absolute and perfect.  Even in the smallest of towns the darkness is disrupted by street lights, and porch lights, and light creeping out from the places where someone works late or a poor soul can’t sleep.  But the country is cloaked in darkness.  Each farm seems to have one tall lamppost with a single fixture pointing down, casting a circle of light, but just outside that circle lies complete darkness.

Country people seem comforted by the perfect darkness.  It seals off their day and allows them to sleep in peace.  A small-town girl like me finds no comfort in a darkness that hides what lies outside, and so it was on the Old Bogue Road.

The girls and I had played Hide and Seek until I couldn’t stand any more, then we’d switched to Annie, Annie Over for what felt like forever. The darkness was slow to come that night, and we had made the most of the long summer day.  The girls were tucked in bed now, taking in long breaths that whistled quietly when exhaled.  I was curled into the corner of the couch reading a library book when I first heard something brush against the side of the house near the front door.

I stiffened and concentrated all of my energy into listening.  A thump and then the brushing again.  The sounds repeated until they became a rhythm–thump, brush, thump, brush.  My mind ran over all the possible things that could cause noise like that.  A picture of the front stoop filled my memory, but I could not produce a single thing we had left lying loose that might be swinging in a breeze.

I crept towards the front window near the door each step as silent as the grave. The thought sent a shiver down my spine and I admonished myself for getting so frightened by a little sound.  I flattened myself against the wall and with an almost imperceptible motion pulled the curtain back just far enough to look outside.  Whatever was making the noise was pressed too close to the house to see, but there was an undeniable shadow of movement registering on the edge of the light circle cast by the yard light.  As I stood stock still wondering what to do next, the handle of the door rattled causing my to swallow the golf ball sized lump in my throat.

Padding into the kitchen, I silently slid open a drawer and grabbed hold of the wooden handle of a butcher knife.  Deciding my best bet would be to know who or what I would be up against and to use the element of surprise, I made my way to the back door.  I was going to slip around the house and make my approach from behind.

Descending the back steps on bare feet, I was careful not to make sound.  Then I eased around the back of the house and up the north side, grateful now for the country darkness that cloaked me.  I got to the front corner of the house and froze.  My next step could expose me.  At the very least that step meant there would be no turning back.

I prayed, realizing suddenly the prayer had been running through my head for some time now. I took a deep breath, clutched the knife handle securely, and stepped out of the safety of the darkness at the side of the house hoping I was prepared for whatever I found.  I was not.   At the front door of the house just at the edge of the circle of light thrown down from the tall lamppost stood a cow trying repeatedly to relieve an itch on her back by brushing against the house and then rubbing the door handle back and forth down her spine.

Dropping the knife, I slid to the ground.  I sat alone laughing loudly into the country darkness.  The cow slowly turned her head to look at me in wonder before returning to her rhythmic brushing against the house.

Farmhouse Style

Lately the world seems to be spinning out of control.  The constant barrage of bad news makes me want to escape to a time and place far removed from today.
Looking through photos inherited from my in-laws I found a shot of my husband's grandparents' place.  I know from family stories that this was a place of wonderful Independence Day celebrations and every day family dinners.  The family connection to this place ended years before I knew them, but I can't help but long for this old farmhouse just the same.
Though my longing has no basis in the reality of personal experience what I love about a farmhouse is incredibly clear in my mind.  A farmhouse is honest.  It is filled with quirky things, found objects and family heirlooms.  High end furnishings are nowhere to be found, farmers are too practical to sink their money into material things meant to impress.  A farmhouse isn't trendy.  Farmers aren't concerned with what others find appealing.  They know what they like, and it is often different than what the crowd likes.  It is comfortable, because farmers work hard and need a soft place to land at the end of the day.  It is welcoming, because neighbors may be few and far between, but they are there when you need them.  Uncomplicated, unpretentious.  Worn, but not worn out.  A farmhouse sees a lot of family traffic because it is a warm haven where people are happy to sit awhile.
Today, more than any other time in my life, I wish I had a farmhouse to retreat to.  I would settle into an overstuffed chair with a warm cup of tea and keep the troubles of the day at a safe distance if only for a while.

Scenes From a Tractor Graveyard

Georgetown, TX

January 2014