booandbunny

He worked in a wood carving booth at the Chicago World’s Fair, creating portraits with inlaid wood. There was a self portrait that hung in his house; a tiger on the hunt; some ships I think. He spun candlesticks on a lathe and created hundreds of pieces I’ve never seen, each one loved by the family member who received it.

He was a musician early on, playing drums in a band during his college days and maybe a bit after that. A college fella in the 1920s, he had privileges that many around him did not.

He was an engineer who designed machinery for the food industry. I remember the smell of his home office and the amazing tools he used to create machines on paper until he was almost 80 years old. What would he think of the 21^st century?

He was a man who did what he had to do, quiet but for a sharp, dry wit. I don’t know anybody who ever really heard him complain. How many men could spend the first 30 years of married life under the same roof as their mother-in-law? A nightly cigarette on the porch, my dad says. After dinner Grandpa would step out for a smoke.

And he had his workshop. A place to retreat and use the science that paid his bills to create the art that fed his soul. It wasn’t just a place where new things were made. It was also a place where old items found new life, like this table. It was the base drum to his set when he played as a college kid. When I remember this table, exactly as it sat between two stereotypical La-Z-Boy chairs, I am reminded of the reasons I appreciate it so much and the reasons I never knew its true beauty before I brought it home last year.

It weighs nothing now, but the gingerjar lamp and the sliding piles of National Geographic, Woman’s Day, Redbook and newspaper TV listings kept it firmly planted in that dreadful 1960s carpeting for almost half a century. It never wobbled or warped. It stood firmly at the center, quietly doing what it had to do … just like Grandpa. And when Grandma told me the year before she died that she wanted the table to be mine someday, it was my honor and privilege to guard this treasure.

Readying the house for the holidays, a time that always transports me back to that little ranch home of theirs in rural Illinois, I pulled back the protective coverings and gave the wood a little drink … a little Liquid Gold love.

“Grandpa, I’d really like to learn something about woodworking. I know you can’t really teach me now, but where should I start?”

“Get yourself a piece of wood.”

Gee, I wonder if my smart-assedness is genetically embedded somewhere. A smirk and a shake of the shoulder as I think this. Then I remember him at the dining room table. I’m not sure I ever heard him belly laugh, but a quiver of the lip and a shoulder shake often followed his own remarks. The lemony smell sets into my brain and I again fall in love with the care put into this table top, the time put into the matching of the grain, only to have it hidden all those years by countless periodicals.

My mind wanders in the circular motion of polishing. I wonder why so few of us actually make things anymore. I wonder about families and how very far apart so many seem to be these days, including our own since he and Grandma died. I wonder about waste, consumption, the value of something we know we can just replace if it wears out or gets ruined. I wonder what, if anything else in my house, is built to last the way this table has lasted. The Christmas tree lights click on. His smirk crosses my face again as I answer my own question:Memories.

A Sunday Scribble ... on Wednesday :)

“Some SuperHero,” my 7-year-old said in one of his ornery moods. “All she had was a stupid pen.”

“Well, the pen is mightier than the sword,” I said, uncertain of why, as it came out.

“What’s that mean?” he asked. “Oh, ’cause she could jab people in the guts with that pointy thing?”

How typical of the young American male. Exactly when did good-deed doing (which is what superheroes do, right?) become enveloped with explosions and weaponry?

“No, because she believed in something and she never stopped working to make it happen.”

“Whatever.”

Definitely too ornery to talk about a book we’ve enjoyed for several years now, Thank You Sarah, the woman who saved Thanksgiving (Laurie Halse Anderson).

The SuperHero in question is Sarah Hale: author, publisher, the first female magazine editor in our country, proponent of schools for girls, opponent of spanking, corsets, bloomers and bustles and, more importantly slavery.

“When Sarah saw something she didn’t like, she picked up her pen and wrote about it. She wrote letters. She wrote articles. She wrote and wrote and wrote until she persuaded people to make the world a better place. Nothing stopped Sarah.”

So when she saw our great feast relegated to a regional celebration she set to the work of creating a national day of thanksgiving. Slowly, slowly states beyond New England began to declare an annual holiday, but this wasn’t enough for her. “Sarah Hale wanted the whole country to celebrate together, like a family.”

Here the illustrator depicts a group of women headed for an official looking building. They bear an enormous quill as if it were a battering ram. The men on the steps are unmoved. Sarah, of course didn’t give up. Thirty-eight years and finally the fifth president she lobbied agreed with her. It was in the midst of the Civil War. “America needed Thanksgiving, now more than ever. A holiday wouldn’t stop the war, but it could help bring the country together.” And in 1863 Abraham Lincoln said yes.

And so, as I do every year, I take heart in Sarah’s tale. One person can make a nation stand up and take notice. So this week, as we sit down together, I’ll be thankful for Sarah Hale, without whom children across America wouldn’t have taken those few moments in class this week to pick up a pen, pause in search of the words, and then write: “I am thankful for … ”

In the spirit of the season, I thought I’d use my 100^th post to say thanks to all who come here and to those I visit elsewhere. You inspire me and remind me that never, ever am I as alone as I might feel for whatever reason it might be. There are so many who have touched me as we’ve been swept up in this net. What once was a fish out of water is now braving the Seven Seas. Thank you. Thank you. And Happy Thanksgiving!

Reading this last week this came to my head from nowhere … it shows how much of a smart-ass I am in real life. I hope my admiration for those who dare to be themselves in a homogenized hurry hurry world comes through. For Jessie, thanks for always daring to be you:

She appeared a few months ago. I’d never noticed her before. Between changing my radio station and aiming the coffee mug at the cup holder I looked up at the road just long enough to see her there, walking and reading. That doesn’t seem too safe to me.

I confess to being absolutely no good in the morning. I don’t read a newspaper and leave my home computer off. By the time I’ve parked at work (about a mile and a half from my house) I’ve had enough coffee and radio to feel that I have a clue what’s going on in the world. (At last Brittany and Kev split!) Then I cruise the E, Star and People websites before diving into the work on my desk.

But she is always there … walking and reading and reading and walking and it is always a book … a thick looking book. I don’t know anyone who reads books. Do you think she watches TV? And where is she walking anyway? Does she just not have a car?

Yesterday we managed to meet up at a stoplight and she read the whole time. She only raised her eyes long enough to look both ways before crossing the street. Good thing, too. I cursed into my cell phone as my coffee spilled when I almost hit her. Walking and reading ... that doesn’t seem too safe to me.

Don’t see her today, probably because I stopped at the drive-thru. (They took forever!) How does anyone have time to walk anywhere, especially in the morning? I wonder. I flip through the radio dial as I open my Cra-Sandwich. I slam on the brakes just in time. There she is, in the crosswalk.

Walking and reading ... that doesn’t seem too safe to me.

Melba always reminds me to celebrate my good fortune … that I should feel pride in the work of my mothering and take this special time to feed my creative beast. For Melba:

Double Baked Potato Soup
1 large russet potato
1 large sweet potato
2 Tbsps. butter
¼ cup flour
2 cups half-and-half
1 14-oz. can chicken broth
½ cup sour cream
¼ cup sliced green onion (I use the whole thing, not just the greens)
Salt and white pepper to taste
6 slices bacon, diced and cooked crisp
2 oz. finely shredded sharp cheddar cheese
Scrub potatoes and pierce with fork. Bake in 400-degree F oven for 1 hour, or microwave (high) for 5 to 8 minutes, until cooked through. Let stand until cool enough to handle. Peel potatoes, coarsely mash and set aside. In heavy 3-quart saucepan, melt butter over medium-high heat. Whisk in flour to make thick paste. Slowly whisk in half-and-half and broth. Cook over medium heat, stirring constantly until thickened and bubbly, about 2 minutes. Add mashed potatoes, sour cream and green onion; cook until heated through. Season with salt and pepper. Top each serving with bacon and cheese.

Hubby and I started our blogs about the same time. Where I got frustrated and lacked commitment, he kept going. So, when the new year rolled around I renewed my commitment and, as always, he was very encouraging. The hard part for me was making the connections. And just on the day I was about to give up again, I found Alexandra. Not only was she interesting, she was inspiring. And through her blog a new world opened. I can’t find the permalink anymore, but one of the first of her posts I read encouraged writers to leave anonymous notes in places, little stories to surprise those who find them. Here is one of my little stories I left somewhere last winter, For Alexandra:

She was trying to listen, but the distraction, the attraction, was just too strong. She’d seen him more than once when meeting her sister here for coffee. Always he was at the same table. Always with the cliché coffee house laptop. She wondered what was on the screen.

Couldn’t be too interesting, she thought, for she knew that he had noticed her, too. He didn’t smile often, but had once thrown her a crooked grin. Tingles.

She hadn’t tingled in quite some time, but certainly wasn’t about to give up hope. His hair was a bit longer than the first time she’d seen him and he brushed it out of his face now. No rings.

He closed the laptop and pushed back on his chair, making to leave. She sat up a bit. She was between him and the door, you see. And just as her eyes rose, expecting him to, his body made a smooth motion away from the table and her insides twisted with a strange reaction.

For whatever reason, she found his wheelchair quite alarming. Well, unexpected. It didn’t make her afraid, it was just that, well, things now weren’t as they had seemed. As he drew nearer she found herself boring her eyes into her sister’s.

“What’s wrong with you?” her sister said with a twist in her face.

“Maybe she wasn’t expecting me.” He offered a crooked grin as he came to a stop at their table. Her sister looked at his sharp jaw and brown eyes and grinned. “I have to go to work,” she said. “Call me.”

Another squeeze of uneasiness hit her as he made himself quite comfortable at the small table. His hand was right next to hers.

Tingles.

Another crooked grin.

She spent that Saturday morning learning, laughing, tingling. She spent that Saturday afternoon sharing things about herself she hadn’t shared in some time. She spent Saturday night in his arms.

Sometimes, things are exactly as they seem.

Her blog is In the Middle. Her comments come up as Martie, but for some reason in my bookmarks she’s The Mad Hatter. She constantly reminds me we are so many things, the sum of parts our own, parts we created and parts we nurture. For Martie:

The bag is ever more swollen as the years go by: daughter, sister, friend. Far down at the bottom of it now is a smashed black pillbox with a teasing little veil. The guys liked those back in the day … that was her single girl hat. It might be a bit moth eaten, but she couldn’t bear to throw it away. What if, God forbid, she needed it again someday … or maybe just for dress up, you know, when he feels better. Wife, mother, sister, friend. Auntie, now grandmother … confidante. All her hats were in there … stuffed in the bag no one could see but this woman. This woman, like so many others, moving across the earth and touching lives every minute, not knowing the sweet breeze her perfume left behind or the calming effect of her approach. The leading lady in her own production, the Mad Hatter knew how to fill every part.

It’s a gift I’ve never considered myself having received. But in exploring the blogosphere and following connections I sometimes find myself moving writing implements across paper, but no words come out. Instead I get something like this, which is for Jim:

I’m still learning to photograph the wild creatures that move any faster than my sleepy cat, but this was one of those moments where conditions and camera collided. I didn’t even realize there were three birds until I cropped and enlarged on the computer! For Endment:

In the past few months I’ve noticed myself stopping and taking pictures in my mind. This one came on a day out with the family, right after we got the new camera. We were walking in a historic area when the two of us paused at this knotted tale and he said “Now that’s something you should take a picture of.” So I did. And, despite this wider visual exploration, I still find the desperate need to put words to things. For Hubby, I offer an evening of silence sometime in the very near future! But elsewhere I must add words to this photo, which brings a rhythmic roll to my ears. For Liz:

fatal flaw knot in pine

piece of wood creature unnamed

men and steel landscape tamed

From the ground you speak to me.

Your future is our history.

All aboard, departure’s nigh.

Move us Westward railroad tie.

There is a world that moves me but I’m never quite sure how to share it. I never know just what style will hit me at any given moment. The best way to illustrate it is a short story … Hubby and I took a weekend away to see one of his (and now one of my) favorite bands. These 60-somethings, who several decades earlier had knocked the world on its ear with what can only be called blistering sound, probably never intended for one of their songs to re-assure a mom out in the cheap seats on her first overnight away from her three babies. But that’s what they did. You just never know how music will hit you. For Anne-Marie:

Sometimes, I feel I gotta get away
Bells chime, I know I gotta get away
And I know if I don't, I'll go out of my mind
Better leave her behind with the kids, they're alright
The kids are alright

Claudia always brings me something new to enjoy. If only I could complete some of my projects I would share them here … alas, I’m still trying to clean up the disorganized jumble of supplies. But she’s been talking so much about paring down and changing her lifestyle I find myself cringing every time I bring the many American plastic containers into my kitchen. Thank you not only for the warm creations you share, but for the reminder that less really is more. I haven’t gotten far, but I’m having more fun checking off this list than I ever have had checking off any other cleaning list! For Claudia:

So many words have been pulled from me. Words I didn’t know I had, but for the prompts at Sunday Scribblings. I’ve been stingy lately, not posting many Scribbles, so a shot of pages filled, for Laini and Megg:

I'm still clicking. Are you? I put this bookmark right under my blogs folder and so I see it every day. Click here and then click on the fund free mammograms box every day. THANKS!

It’s one of those days where all the things I should be doing are make me say: “Ah. Hmmm. Na.” And all the things I want to be doing are making me say: “K. Oh. Well … I can’t really give it the kind of time it deserves. Na.” And so time slips away into whispy thoughts on the first sunny day I can remember in awhile … maybe two weeks?

The blue birds are back. They make me feel so strong. The trees and farmland that once surrounded my sub-urban landscape have been plowed down, making way for more driveways and vinyl siding. Yet these little troupers persist, today seeking refuge in the neighbor’s 25-foot tall ornamental grasses before swooping down for a bite to eat. I couldn’t get any good shots of their color but will keep trying. They are native to Missouri and so pop up at the strangest of times in my backyard.

The cat has migrated from the dining room to her winter nest … at the foot of my husband’s side of the bed. She gets good sun there for a good portion of the day and generally doesn’t budge unless I or the dog comes near her. Her migration is usually triggered by the absence of bugs and birds to watch from the windows as it gets colder. It always cracks me up, though, the way she can snap from her slumber and pounce to the next thing. It’s nice enough I opened some windows just now and she can’t decide which one will make the best perch.

My post-election thoughts resemble antelope scattered by a big cat’s pounce! Show me? Show me! We’ll show you! Just when I’m bracing myself for the backlash—the kind of bumpkin comments we endured after “voting for a dead guy”—my fellow Missourians remind the nation what it means to be a bellwether state. You just can’t tell what in the hell we might vote through! Dear Chris Matthews, Tim Russert, and Co.: First, let’s set an old record strait. We voted for the dead guy to get rid of John Ashcroft. Fat lot of good it did us. Oh well, water under the bridge. Now, please stop saying turn-out for Claire McCaskill helped get stem cell passed. I’d like to think turn-out for stem cell got Claire McCaskill elected. People I know turned-out to vote on the issues, despite being turned off by candidates of every shade. Thank heavens. I think we look so much better in purple than in either red or blue.

Finally, the clean machine, part two. The other day I was wildly motivated, taking Capt. Kindergarten to his room on a mission to find some carpet. I put him on the school bus after lunch and went back in. Every drawer emptied and re-filled with only what belongs there. Now that he has his stuff put away he has places to spread out and play and he is all the happier for it. Poor hubby, though. The job of purging the toys the kids have outgrown falls to him. (He’ll give away so much more than I will!) Next is my daughter’s room, which I like to call an organized mess. Like me, she sees no need to tackle it if the stack still stands up!

OK, one thing I really can’t skip doing … time to cook dinner.

Such a week! Company was coming and going, so I emptied out my dining room, bringing it to a serenity it hasn’t seen in months. It started out as a creative zone. I had been taking time here and there over the summer to work on some scrapbook pages. The school year started and things fell away. A bunch of bags and boxes were mounded there for classroom parties. Another bag came in with holiday crafting supplies. Eventually it just became a dumping ground. Who could create in this mess? I was finding it UN-inspiring.

So, initially my intention was to just get it organized.

The submissions to that art show in September. The theme was black, white and red all over. (I’m going to edit the playoffs into the Cardinals piece and find it a home.)

Everything I need for a scrapbook I haven’t started.

Holiday promises … blank canvases that will be turned into gifts with a few hours of work and a lot of love.

There were several other beginnings of projects … all of which I would love to curl up with. But today I concentrate on the clean. It stayed like this until yesterday, when I had more company. I put it all up, covered the mats with a nice tablecloth and lit some warm, welcoming candles.

And now I’ll go into my usual November plunge. For some reason I love to get things sparkling clean before the holiday decorations go up after Thanksgiving. So Kitty, you can have your room back, for awhile. Here she is in the window last weekend. I'm just loving my new camera!