Memories of Lois

This morning I attended the funeral of Lois Brooks.  A recent widow, for 20 plus years she was almost my sister-in-law.  In the first pews sat her immediate family - children and grandchildren.  Beyond those seats were neighbors and friends like me who had come to say good-by.  Those people and their own memories of her are the legacy she left us. 

I remembered episodes of our relationship:  She loved to sing and would sing bits and pieces of songs at unexpected times.  I loved that about her.  Because of her and Wilbur’s winters in Florida, I became a resident there too.  I am grateful to her for that as well.

Sitting in church listening and observing I pondered the end of life questions the Pastor was attempting to answer.  Why are we here?  What happens after we stop breathing?  I like to believe that the essence of who we are, our soul or psyche lives on in a new and different way in a spiritual realm I can only speculate on.

Where do we go, how much of the life we had on earth goes with us? .  Who really knows the answers to those questions?  I guess Lois knows them now.  ~pam

Kansas revisited

 Now why would anyone visit Kansas?  You know all the “Dorothy” jokes about Kansas – hear tales of boring drives across it’s flat expanse – jokes about it’s corny-ness in August.  My two small dogs, Willy (in front) and Sophie (behind him) decided it was best to just sleep through Kansas.  

Well, that’s just what I did.  I visited Kansas in August.  And – I loved it!!  

My excuse is I was born there, so I always have a sense of being home again when I’m there.  To me, its flat prairies and constant wind are an inspiration.  I want to sing out loud, want to swing my arms as wide as the sky and if my 70+ knees would stand it, run against the perpetual wind.  I notice myself breathing deeply as though I could suck in the simple beauty of the rolling Flint Hills dotted with scrubby stands of cottonwood and willow in the draws.  It would be even more beautiful in spring.  But then --- most places are prettier in spring.

 In the above photo I liked the contrast between the abandoned limestone farm house and it's old fashioned windmill with the modern wind turbine you can see faintly in the center rear.  As I continued west along Interstate 70, the windfarms followed the crest of the hills for miles and miles.  If there is one thing Kansas in abundance it's wind and limestone.  

Standing in line at a fast food place, I heard people who talk just like I do – a flat kind of drawl.  I didn’t have to interpret their language and nuances – everyone spoke just like they should speak!  Plainly!  Hee, hee.  It’s all in the ear of the beholder.  

 Visiting Lingsborg, KS on a 100 degree day wasn't as much fun as I wished .  As you can see my doggies have their tongues hanging out.  I quickly closed my panting mouth long enough for a kind stranger to take this photo.  

My recommendation is to visit Kansas if you must, but only in May or September.  ~pam

Well now – have you ever felt like this?  There are days when my old bones do indeed feel just this way. 

I came upon this pair in a prairie dog town between Boulder and Longmont, Colorado on a recent visit there.  It made me laugh to just see them.  I had to stop and get some photos. 

Looking around, I tried to figure out why these two were here.  There was no indication that there was ever a home there.  No crumbled foundation anywhere.  Then again, no home would need a ‘his’ and ‘hers’ would it?  Next, I thought of a church or even a school.  Still, no indication of any building nearby. 

After looking more, I noticed several fallen down, fenced off areas, like paddocks and at the end of the field the type of open ended shelter used for livestock.  Perhaps this had been a stock auction or small rodeo grounds. 

Wouldn’t it be interesting to talk to some of the locals who have been here 50 years?  They’d have the answers.  As it is, speculating on the former life of these old outhouses is as much fun as actually knowing the facts.  ~pam

Summertime - and the livin; is easy. NOT!!

Dawn of a summer morning looks serene and quiet.  Compared to a spring morning with the cacophony of bird song, there is actually little sound to reach the ears.  But, under-laying that surface quiet is the energy bursting from the sun – a different kind of ‘noise’ if you will. 

In high summer, the most fierce energy is the relentless, burning sun.  Thunderstorms which would cool us a bit, if violently so, seem not strong enough to push themselves against the power of the sun.  Even pernicious weeds in fencerows wilt against this intense sun energy. 

Local farmers have labored in 100 degree heat to cut and bale hay for winter use.  Two tractors with sun burned men chug back and forth across the field cutting, drying, windrowing the hay for three searing, hot days before it’s ready to roll up into bales.  A lot of energy in man power, sweat and tractor fuel are flung against the face of the summer sun

A well-known summer resident is the Red Tailed Hawk.  They literally ‘make hay while the sun shines’ in these suddenly scraped fields.  Mice, quail and rabbits have lived safely under cover of the tall hay until now.  It must seem like a war zone.  Hawks dive and strafe the field like fighter bombers.  Mice and rabbits flee in panic to safety under my porch only to find another danger – the teeth and paws of my twelve pound terrier. 

Gershwin wrote “Summertime – and the livin’ is easy”.  Well --- not always or for everybody.

Making Hay While the Sun Shines

I’m not an authentic country girl.  I grew up in a big city of concrete, asphalt and brick.  But – I think I should have been born a country girl.  That’s where my heart lies. 

The farmers around my summer home are working in the worst kind of summer heat cutting and baling hay.  The hotter the sun, the better for putting up hay.  One evening, just before predicted 3 rain free days, I saw his tractor going back and forth across the field cutting hay after dark by the headlights of the tractor.  Twice the next day, he came with a rake and turned over the fresh cut hay to make it dry and cure.  Third day, he was out again doing the same thing.  By evening, he had his baler going.  It rolls along behind the tractor appearing to do nothing.  Then, suddenly, it opens it’s big mouth and spits out a big round bale of hay that goes bouncing across the field to a stop.  Later, they'll line up these big balls along a fence line out of the way of the second cutting in fall.   

Squadrons of Barn Swallows escort me as I mow the field in the early evening with my own little tractor and mower.  I like that analogy.  It makes me think of scenes from old black & white war movies.  All I can see are their flittering silhouettes against the fading summer sky.  They appear from nowhere after my first pass of the field.  Their aerobatics are quite remarkable.  They dive and swoop after dislodged bugs in steep patterns too extreme for even the most accomplished air show pilot.

This field takes almost an hour for me to mow.  By the time I’ve made a dozen passes, I see some swallows sitting on the elec. line, preening and resting.  I suppose they’ve had their fill.  Others are still following me across the field.  The supply of bugs and the supply of swallows apparently is neatly matched. 

Back and forth, across and down I mow over and over and over again.  Somehow, it seems almost meditative.  Not boring at all.- like following a knitting pattern.  Knit 2, Purl 2 around and around. 

Normally I don’t consider myself a patient person.  Waiting for an upcoming trip, waiting in a grocery store line, or for a very long stoplight makes me fume.  But, the kind of patience needed for mowing a field or knitting a sock is strangely comforting.  Why is that?  How is it different? 

Old Dogs & Old Tricks

 Sometimes I’m amused at myself.  My old hands are having trouble doing the most simple things that I’ve done for a lifetime without even a second thought.  My gramma complained about Ol’Arthur who had taken to living with her.  He’s gotten into my right hand and I’m a ‘rightie’.  A round doorknob is so painful to grasp and turn.  I’m gradually changing all doorknobs to the lever style.  The latch on the bathroom door in my rv requires me to press a button in with my thumb to release the latch.  Just can’t do that anymore.  I’m trying to learn to do things with my left hand instead of my right. 

Therein lies the new problem.  I’ve always bragged that I do many things with my left hand.  I play the guitar a bit – left hand fingers the frets.  I use my left hand on a computer mouse and use the keyboard in the correct method – left hand on a,s,d,f.   I knit, crochet and do hand quilting.  All these things require the left hand to do certain things. 

But, HA!      The simple issue of learning to pin clothes to a clothes line with the left hand seems to be impossible!  How many miles of diapers have I hung in a lifetime?  I know how to hang clothes – just do it with my other hand.  Simple, huh?  But my left hand just seems to be a dummy trying to manipulate the pins, squeeze them over the clothes securely and smooth the item with my right hand.  I fumble the pins, drop wet clothes on the ground, pinch my fingers, if I squeeze the pin a bit off center it goes sailing across the ground to be pounced on by my little dog.  It’s funny and frustrating at the same time. 

Probably, the issue is my re-learning curve is pretty steep.  No problem if the left hand was taught it’s duty from the beginning.  But trying to switch?  Pretty tough.  This old dog is struggling to re-learn an old trick.   ~pam

I’m in love with words – how they sound, what they mean and the uncountable shades of meaning they contain.

Sympathy is the word I’m thinking of today.  I’m not going to a dictionary – these are ways I see the use of the word. 

To agree with some one’s opinions or feelings is to be “in sympathy” with them.  When tuning my guitar, sometimes other strings vibrate “in sympathy” or agreement in tone with the one plucked.  In an art sense, two lines with the same curves or angles are said to be “in sympathy” with one another. 

Now enter the conundrum:  In human relationships we offer our sympathy to a neighbor or friend who has gone through a traumatic experience - trying to say, I care, or I want to help.  I always thought it was the kind, caring thing to do.  Just recently, I found out what it’s like to be on the receiving end of this sympathy.  I was surprised at my reaction.  I hated it! 

Recently, in a novel I was reading, the main character has had a series of miscarriages.  She began avoiding friends because she couldn’t stand any more expressions of their sympathy.  Each expression of sympathy from a friend dredged up the pain all over again when she was trying to forget the incident and go on with life.  That’s what I was doing too.  I stayed away from people so I wouldn’t have to dredge up all the crud to explain it and be polite and thankful for their expression of sympathy.  A close relative is experiencing the same avoidance of people who want to express sympathy for the coming elimination of her job of nearly 12 years.. 

Our culture says it’s the caring thing to do – to express sympathy.  I’ve always done that. 

Now, I will try to find another way to express sympathy and caring.  Maybe just a friendly wave, or a chat about something entirely off the painful subject?   If the person wants to talk about the incident, they will.  How do you handle expressions of sympathy?  Have you ever been on the receiving end until your reaction was “Enough Already”?