The Rich Tapestry

We all should know that diversity makes for a rich tapestry, and we must understand that all the threads of the tapestry are equal in value no matter what their color.  --Maya Angelou

A new mural covers the wall of a building across the street from the National Park's Brown v Topeka Board of Education site.  We were given the opportunity to help underwrite the mural project and to paint on it some as well.  The day we painted was memorable for me.  As I worked, my family painted alongside me on the right, and some of my students painted with me on the left.  I have worked with many students through my years in the Topeka Public Schools.  We chose TPS for our own kids' education.  USD 501 does not have a perfect history, but it does have the distinction of being the place where America attempted to right a wrong for a little girl named Linda Brown and all other children who would follow.  Children deserve safe, welcoming, and adequately funded schools in which to learn.  It is a priveledge to do my part to help see they get that in Topeka.

Ten Things of Thankful

A Supreme Court ruling  that stuck down Separate but Equal

The opportunity to work along with others--some I know and love, some who simply share the understanding of the importance of the Brown v Board decision

A tapestry of colors 

My family.  My students.

Beautiful weather that lures you outside

Cooperation that leads to a finished project

Plants

Love and support from the people in my life

Stories--whether the lifestory of a person I know, a book that captures my imagination, family tales that I have heard a million times.  Stories give life meaning.

And the Other Is Gold: TToT

My grandma (third from the left) with some of the friends she played softball with back in the day.

I don't know if it is because I have reached a certain age, but recently circumstance has brought old friends back into my life after years of separation.  I didn't part with any of these women on poor terms.  Rather we became busy with the responsibilities of careers and families.  In some cases moves put miles between us.  In each case these were women I love who have enriched my life with laughter, shared tears, and immense wisdom.  

Early this summer a mutual friend told me she had been in touch with our old friend Beth.  Completely in keeping with her fearless nature, Beth had signed on to donate a kidney to a friend.  When it turned out that Beth's kidney also matched a different person awaiting transplant, and another donor matched Beth's friend a whole saga began.  By the time the operations were complete,  the circle had expanded to include ten people giving and receiving kidneys at KU Med Center in Kansas City.  By the point I heard about all this, Beth was recovering nicely and was ready for visitors.  So, we went, our lunch date extending into the night.  Despite not seeing one another for fifteen years,  we picked up the conversation as though it had only paused a minute earlier.

About a week later I ran into another strong woman friend in the grocery store...not my usual grocery, or hers either.  It has been ten years since we have seen one another despite living in the same city.  When we knew each other our daughters danced, and she and I did many volunteer activities together to support the ballet.  Life handed her a series of misfortunes that she certainly didn't deserve, but unsurprisingly she handled them with courage and wisdom.  I am sad that I had no idea she was struggling with these challenges and therefore did nothing to reach out.  I am not surprised, however, to find her on the other side as positive and strong as ever.  Coincidently, she is moving closer to my house now, and we've had the opportunity to enjoy each other's company once again--picking up the thread of our friendship just where we laid it down years ago.

At the beginning of the month I received a letter from a high school friend who I have not seen in over twenty years.  For ages we stayed in touched through long, colorful letters.  Months might go by without hearing from each other when suddenly one of us would find a fat envelope stuffed with page after page of detailed stories of the latest off-the-wall experience one of us had.  The last three or four letters I have sent over the years have missed their intended mark, and I had no idea how to find her.  Out of nowhere a fat envelope stuffed with pages detailing her life fell through the mail slot in my front door one day and my heart soared.

Yesterday, I was at an inservice taking a break from a dry presentation when someone came up behind me and squeezed my shoulder.  I turned around to discover an old friend, the mother of one my daughter's dearest childhood friends.  Again, we hadn't seen each other for a very long time and hadn't gotten to actually visit in even longer.  At the end of the day we got together and talked heart-to-heart for a couple of hours.  What a joy to discover that her little girly-girl has grown up to be a chemical engineer who loves her work.  My heart swelled with pride for her despite having not seen her for many years.

When I was a Brownie (about 1967) we used to sing a song at Scouts that declared Make new friends, but keep the old.  One is silver, but the other is gold.  There is no way that I could fully appreciate the meaning of those words in my Brownie Scout days, but today I know them to be the absolute truth.

My Ten Things of Thankful this week:

Beth (and Gwen for reconnecting us)

Beth's brave contribution to the successful kidney transplants

Charleen

Robin 

Kelly

Old friends

Good memories

Support, love, laughter, tears

That is more than ten, but I am blessed with an abundant life.

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.

TToT: Throwback to Summers Past

…back in Kansas,  there is much to be thankful for.

Little kids and their great sense of style.  How can you go wrong with a red glitter visor and patriotic tutu skirt?  Not to mention the confidence to wear it in public!

Rain that brings the temperature out of the “hazardous” range and offers a life saving drink to the outdoor plants.

Watermelon.  Cold, juicy watermelon.

Summer binge reading.  

An example of graciousness: Sunday at church an elderly gentleman mistook a decorative gem stone for a mint, placing it in his mouth and causing concern among the crowd.  I attempted to get him to spit it out for fear he would choke, but only succeeded in confusing and embarrassing him.  Soon after, a lady sitting near us reached for her purse.   Pulling out a tissue she lightly folded it into a square, leaned over to him and said, “When you are finished with what you have in your mouth go ahead and slip it into the tissue.”  Genius, unadulterated genius.  He swished the hard stone around his mouth a couple more times before discretely depositing it into the tissue.  Not only did she stave off a choking disaster, she allowed him to retain his dignity.  Her gracious act was a thing of beauty.

Sun tea by the gallon.  Cold and crisp.

Mammographic proof of healthy breasts.  And 364 days of smoosh-free existence.  I am never quite ready for my close-up.

Watching my friend at her father’s funeral this week, I was reminded of my mom’s funeral a few years ago.  My kids surrounded me with both physical and emotional support.  It is one of my earliest memories of them all three as adults, roles reversed with them caring for me.  The pride and affection of the memory is still as strong as it was in the moment; I am tremendously grateful for these three people who make life pretty much as good as it gets.

~~~~~~~~

The entry above was written several summers ago.  I happened across it today as I was deleting some old files from my computer, and it was a timely reminder of how much of what is really good in life remains the same from year to year.  As another week comes to an end I remain thankful for all that gives refreshment, for the love of family, the company of friends,  the innocence of childhood, the written word, and fathers.  This week I am especially thankful that I never had to face the possibility of someone beyond my control separating me from my children; and though it has been far too long in coming I am grateful that faith leaders are raising their voices to say that our government doing this to families is morally and spiritually wrong.

Ten Things of Thankful

A Drive in the Flint Hills

Traveling down Interstate 35 near mile marker 106 in Kansas you'll find yourself in the Flint Hills.  I love this open space of rolling grasslands.  The grasses display an array of colors that never ceases to fascinate me.  The undulating plain goes on forever in all directions interrupted only by the occasional tree or livestock.

There is a point as you head south on the highway that the otherwise straight and predictable roadway disappears into the gentle curve of the land.  Look into the distance and you can see where it emerges from the hills and continues on its way.

To me the highway is a metaphor for life.  We make our plans and head on our way, but life throws an unexpected obstacle in our path.  The thing may appear to swallow us whole.  Our vision may be limited so that we may not be able to see our route.  The best we can do is move forward always trusting that we will come through this thing.  The way will become clear once again, and we will continue on our journey.  We only have to trust.

Surely Goodness and Mercy

This was a weekend for reflection.  I came home Friday ready to relax my mind and body.  Instead I was greeted by the news that a neighbor and friend from church had died suddenly this week.  Two doors down and I had no idea.

I didn’t find his death shocking because of his age or general health.  I find it shocking because I hadn’t even considered it happening.  Because it was yet another death in that generation that separates me from death. Because he leaves a wife who loved him and shared his life, and her pain makes me wince.  And so my weekend began with a funeral, a farewell to a wonderful person.

Afterwards, I met with a friend to create a gift for another friend.  I took individual strands of silk and marino wool and through the waft and the warp, through friction and pressure and the saturation of water that reminded me of the tears of a lifetime, I coaxed those fibers into a silky woolen scarf that will warm my friend.

Sunday afternoon I met my sister at an estate auction where a lifetime’s possessions of a man she knew were being sold.  Table after table told the story of a life.  A love of photography. A well traveled, well read man.  A long marriage.  His life had ended and was on display for all to place value on.

On the way home I considered how brief life truly is, and how grateful I am that goodness and mercy really do follow me each day.

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.)

TToT: Light

In the midst of winter in a dark world, this sunbeam greeted me when I woke up Thursday morning. Shining its rainbow light on my happy sign, it just made me feel better about the world.  I experienced a particular pang of thankfulness reflecting on all the people who contribute to my personal happily ever after.

I have also noticed lately that the days are getting longer once again.  I am a winter person, but the realization that one day is a little longer than the day before just picks up my spirits this time of year.

I have been feeling healthy --both light of heart and light of step-- lately.  

The Annual Women's March makes my heart soar.  It restores my hope. It made me so proud that my grown kids participated.  As for me, I thoroughly enjoyed getting to serve on the poster committee giving me the opportunity to take part in my own introverted way. 

I believe love really does trump hate, and that light will overcome the darkness.  For that I am truly thankful.

tenthingsofthankful.blogspot.com

My American Story

This week’s Folk Journal topic revolves around our stories as Americans in honor of Martin Luther King, Jr. Day.  What is my American story?  It may not seem directly influenced by MLK, but I think my story is the story he envisioned in his dream for every child.  A carefree childhood where the entire neighborhood was open to you and the adults looked out for you.

I grew up small town, Midwest friendly.

When I was downtown every adult I passed knew I was one of the Woody kids. May not have been able to say my first name, but certainly knew my last.

Walking home from the swimming pool we would run through wet grass whenever we could to escape the blistering heat of the pavement under the summer sun.  Summer also brought lightning bugs, the library’s summer reading program, and wheat harvest.

At Homecoming we celebrated with a bonfire.  Tradition called for the bulk of the firewood to be in the form of an old outhouse liberated from someone’s farm.  By the time I was high school those were in short supply, but the bonfire went on.

At Christmas the local theater hosted a twenty-five cent kids’ movie on a Saturday afternoon so the parents could have a chance to boost the local economy by shopping at Coast to Coast, Gambles, The Fashion Center and Stephenson’s.  We would whisper and giggle through the movie until Lil, the proprietress, came and sat next to my friend, Chris.  After five minutes of vigilant supervision, Lil was fast asleep and snoring, sending us into fits of laughter far more disruptive than our initial offense.

At the grade school I was taught by the same teachers that taught my siblings before me.  I ate the homemade breads and brownies made fresh in the school lunchroom by lunch ladies that included my mom.  I danced with James Howard to Oh, Johnny in the music program.  I served beside my friend, Vicki, on the Safety Patrol and we quietly groaned as Rube the traffic cop, tried out his jokes on us.

Like half the girls I knew I worked as a car hop at the local drive-in burger stand.  After work we would drag main.

I learned right from wrong. Discovered some people earn your trust while others do not. I learned the value of a dollar and the value of an education.  I was loved and I loved. I knew joy and a broken heart all  in a little town smack-dab in the middle of the country.

That is my American story.

TToT: American Citizenship Edition

I am thankful that decades ago a young man from the Philippines became a veterinarian and was hired by the USDA to inspect meat in federal meat processing plants as part of the team that ensured the food supply in America was safe.

I am thankful that out of all the possible jobs from sea to shining sea, he was sent to a plant in a tiny town in Western Kansas.

I am thankful he met and married my sister, and became my brother.

I am thankful that another of my siblings came safely home from his service in the US Air Force

bringing with him my niece and his wife, a woman born in Korea. 

I am thankful that both my brother-in-law and sister-in-law 

joined my family while I was still a child...

That having family from foreign lands expanded my world view and gave me an appreciation for the gift of diversity.

I am thankful that I had the opportunity to witness my brother-in-law in a federal judge's chamber in Thomas County, Kansas as he competently answered questions on American history that the majority of natives would have struggled to answer correctly.

I am thankful that the judge after commenting on his impressive grasp of the history and Constitution of his adopted country, swore my brother-in-law in as a US citizen as my sister and I proudly looked on.

I am thankful that many years later a large group of my family were able to gather in a court room in Sedgwick County, Kansas as my sister-in-law, after successfully completing the requirements for naturalization, stood with a group of immigrants as they all took the Oath of Citizenship to become Americans.

I am thankful I live in a country that boasts a statue that was gifted to US by the country of France and placed in a harbor as a symbol of welcome to those who come to this land seeking a better life.  

And I am thankful that as an American I have the right to free speech and the ability to say that anyone who disparages people who desire a better life or to be part of my native land does not speak for me.

https://tenthingsofthankful.blogspot.com/

Ideal Christmas

December 2014 Mama Kat question of the week: How would you spend your dream Christmas if money was no issue? 

The leg lamp from A Christmas Story has resurfaced in Georgetown, TX.

With or without money I wouldn’t change a single thing about the way my family celebrates Christmas.  We are together Christmas Eve through all of Christmas Day relaxing, baking, eating, laughing and enjoying one another’s company.  There is always someone one of us knows through work or school who we have noticed needs a little extra encouragement at Christmas time.  We prepare gifts and then scheme ways to deliver them to our chosen person or family without getting caught.  During quiet moments on Christmas Day, I wonder how those folks may have felt about their unexpected good fortune this year.

Nothing stays the same forever.  It won’t  be long before our Christmas celebrations are shortened or changed to accommodate spouses and in-laws.  Any number of unforeseen circumstances could impact our ability to be together in the way we are now.  It isn’t an elaborate Christmas Day I dream of, and I have no particular need for it to be white; instead I pray for another Christmas observed in the same simple way that has made us happy in the past.

Love and Joy Come to You

Legend says as the American West was being settled by pioneers,  a candle was often left burning in a window after dark.  This marked the cabin as a safe place to stop for rest.  For the past week I have been anticipating the arrival of my three grown kids from various places.  I’ve had a candle on the window sill as a happy reminder they would soon be home.

Ice has been our family nemesis this holiday season.  The oldest slipped out of Oklahoma between threats of ice.  The youngest had me on pins and needles arriving along with the ice here.  And the middle child is bunking down in a strange hotel in Chicago.  She made it that far from Paris, but can get no closer to home since the rest of the route is ice covered.  And now snow has started.  Not the fluffy, flakey snow, but the kind that pelts you in the face stinging with every blow.  It mocks me as I hear it bounce on the roof making me wonder if air travel is going to be any better tomorrow.

But we are all safe and warm.  We all have a comfortable bed to sleep in even if it is not under the same roof tonight.  We will be together soon.  For now I will content myself with some Christmas music, the cheer of the candle in the window, and the knowledge that the snow outside will look so much prettier when we are all together.

Good master and good mistress,
As you sit beside the fire,
Pray think of us poor children
Who wander in the mire.
Love and joy come to you,
And to you your wassail, too,
And God bless you, and send you
A Happy New Year,
And God send you a Happy New Year

(The Wassail Song)

Written in 2013 as my daughter made her way home from study abroad in Paris.  Tonight she is headed home once more--this time from North Carolina.

Post Thanksgiving Routine

I move slowly this morning, body still tired from the preparations and celebration of the past week.  I am in no hurry as I begin the task of straightening the disarray that comes of having filled the house with company. As I go through the motions of restoring order, generations of my family feel close at hand. I gather tablecloths and head outside to shake errant crumbs of oyster dressing made from mom's recipe onto the lawn.  One bite of that dressing transports me to Hill City, Kansas and a far-too-small house full-to-bursting with our huge, rambunctious family.
Back inside I pull apart tables to remove leaves added to make room for my extended family.  I slide the scaled-down tables back into their usual places where they are disguised as end tables and accent pieces the rest of the year, and smile knowing their true purpose is to provide a gathering place for those I love. I slip the extra chairs I have collected through the years in order to provide adequate seating for all who return each Thanksgiving day into discrete spots throughout the house.
As I disassemble the Thanksgiving scene voices and laughter echo in my memory; some from yesterday, some from years ago.  I picture someone I love perched on each wooden seat as I return it to the place it will remain until November rolls around again. My heart is full as I send up a silent prayer.  It is only right that this diverse group of characters fills my house each year on Thanksgiving, because in truth they are the gift for which I am most thankful.

Mama Kat:  What seven people would you want to invite to Thanksgiving dinner?  The truth is the answer is always my family.  I have to cheat and  tweak the number to more like 27 than 7, but the answer stays my family.

Country Darkness

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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.

Leaving Cedar Street

I climbed over my big brother onto the pickup seat next to my dad.  This was it, the last load.  When we left this time we would not be coming back.

The family had lived in other homes.  My siblings told lively stories about the Pearson house though I had no memory of it.  This was the only home I had known, the house on Cedar Street. I loved this house.

I hadn't wanted to get in the truck.  Hadn't wanted to leave. But when you are four no one asks your opinion.  You just have to go along.

As dad starts the truck I swing around backwards and climb up on my knees.   I ball my hands into angry fists and rest my chin on them with my elbows propped on the back of the seat. I never want to forget this place that I love.  I will keep it in my sights for as long as I possibly can memorizing every detail of it.

The engine sputters and we pull away.  One block on Cedar then a right on West Street. Not a long time to keep it in my sights.  It doesn't matter much anyway.  It is hard to see through clouds of tears.

http://www.mamakatslosinit.com

Childhood Neighborhood

This is my earliest memory.

Small Town Kansas

I was born in a small town

And I can breathe in a small town

Gonna die in this small town

That's probably where they'll bury me

Small Town by John Mellencamp    

Maple Hill, KS

We have been all over small town Kansas this week, trekking from the Northeast to the Southwest corners of the state.  Several of my siblings met at the grave site of our brother in a remote part of the state--a place too few of us have visited in the twenty-five years since we lost him. That gathering served as a wonderful reminder of the importance of family, the gift of sibling love, and the kind of small town town that shaped us in our formative years.  Rather than attempt to put into words all that I am feeling thankful for, I will let these Kansas images speak for me.

Maple Hill, KS

Ulysses, KS

Ulysses, KS

Maple Hill, KS

Burdett, KS

Ellinwood, KS

Ellsworth, KS

Ellinwood, KS

Ellinwood, KS

TToT