OUTSTANDING PEOPLE

[I'm repeating this post because I think showing our appreciation for what others do or have done for us is always in style. It's another kind of gratitude.]

Since the first of the year we've honored the late Martin Luther King, Jr. with a day of his own; birthday-observances of Abraham Lincoln and George Washington. We've celebrated St. Valentine, St. Patrick, and journeyed through Lent to the joyous day of Easter.

Today I’d like to honor some ordinary folks who don’t have their own day carved out of the calendars we all hang on our walls, but who are, just the same, outstanding. I’ll give them aliases so they won’t be embarrassed if they find out they’ve been discovered.

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My mother’s first job outside the home was in a truck stop as waitress. She was perfect for the job—friendly, big smile, hard-working, full of good will. So my first outstanding person is a waitress I'll call Margo. Margo reminds me a lot of my mom: short blond hair, blue eyes, confidence in herself and her ability to do the work, personality-plus. I eat at the restaurant where Margo works about twice a month, more often in good weather. I always sit at one of “her tables” so we can chat. She knows what I like, even though my tastes change from time to time. She remembers little things, like salad dressing on the side, no croutons-no onion, on my salads.

A couple of times I ate at that restaurant when Margo was on vacation or it wasn’t her day to work. The other servers were good at their job, but I discovered I had to work harder to get my meal the way I wanted—Margo’s memory helps mine so much I don’t have to strain my brain.

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My favorite clerk at the pharmacy where I pick up prescriptions is Jenn. She’s nearing retirement, and I’ll hate to see her go. We’ve had a rapport from Day One—she remembers my name (I’m not there often enough to be considered a “regular”), always smiles; if I see her out in the store, away from the prescription counter, we always take a moment to chat. Not long ago I was at the pharmacy in the cold-cold weather, and we agreed we didn’t have cabin fever yet. She said, “I wouldn’t get cabin fever anyway! I always have plenty to do—reading, stitching, cooking . . . .” Sounded like something I’d say.

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The Post Office clerk I liked best was Pat, who has now retired. I saw her one day at Walmart and almost didn’t recognize her—she’s let her hair grow long. But she’s still outgoing and we recognized each other. Her knowledge of her job was wonderful; if you had a question, she could answer it. If you wanted to know the quickest way to get your package delivered, but didn’t want to mortgage the ranch to pay for it, she could provide possibilities—usually more than one. She always wished the postal patrons a good day when they left. I definitely miss her.

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So far I’m not worried about my family doctor (whom they now call the primary care physician) retiring soon. She’s the age of my son, about 10 days younger, so I can always estimate just how long she’ll probably be practicing. Naturally I continue to seek her advice because she’s good at her job—not just caring and compassionate, but intelligent and willing to work with a patient who refuses to take another pill (moi) or go to physical therapy again (also moi). 

But there's a plus-side to our visits, such as: what brings me there that day (usually 5-7 minutes on that one); how my writing is going (she writes books about anecdotes from her practice, a la James Herriott); how her writing is going; or if not writing, her current involvement in a triathalon, marathon, family wedding, or trip to a developing country with medical students. I leave her office feeling healed in spirit, as well as in body.

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Finally, I want to lift up three teachers who touched my life so that the ripples of their knowledge, their teaching, and their caring for their students are still opening out.

First was Miss Kincaid. (I've written about her before.) Ercel Kincaid taught fourth grade at Lincoln Elementary School in Charleston, Illinois. She was gentle and kind. She never humiliated a student. She encouraged talent. In her class I wrote my very first fiction story—I think it might have covered the front and back of one page of lined notebook paper. I fell in love with writing because of Miss Ercel Kincaid.

As a college undergraduate in English, I stressed over every darned paper I had to write. The problem wasn’t getting an idea—it was presenting all the information I needed to make the point. A three-page or five-page paper presented little problem; I could get my head around that size. But a 10-pager? Or 20?! I had the good sense to enroll in Advanced Rhetoric—which as we all know sounds like the dullest of the dull. But in the capable hands of Hank Sparapani, a recent IU Ph.D. recipient, the course was a joy to go to. I fell in love with writing all over again, all because Dr. Sparapani said to me, “You have great ideas. You just need to learn how to organize them into essays.” Nobody had ever told me I had great ideas. I nearly wept with joy. And I did, indeed, learn how to organize my ideas into essays.

The third teacher was Professor Steven Hollander, another English Department instructor, who taught several of the graduate level classes I took for my Master’s. This was another case of instant rapport—we had a similar sense of humor, liked the same music, read the same authors; we became friends, as well as teacher and student. When I taught comp classes in the department, Steve was the comp director. From him I learned how to teach—not because he gave lessons, but because I observed him in his classes and recognized his methods would suit me also. 

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Do you have outstanding people in your life? Of course you do. The connections we form with folks we meet often, or seldom, do a lot for us: lifting us up, teaching us something about ourselves, and treating us as if we’re important to them, too. I wouldn’t be surprised if we are.

Let someone know you appreciate who they are, what they do, maybe how they do it. You'll make that person's day!

 BLESSINGS!

After the sabbath, as the first day of the week was dawning, Mary Magdalene and the other Mary went to see the tomb. And suddenly there was a great earthquake; for an angel of the Lord, descending from heaven, came and rolled back the stone and sat on it. His appearance was like lightning, and his clothing white as snow. For fear of him the guards shook and became like dead men. But the angel said to the women, "Do not be afraid; I know that you are looking for Jesus who was crucified. He is not here; for he has been raised, as he said.

MAKING ALL THINGS NEW(ER)

The house next door north has been empty for two years. The former owners had to leave--the man had ill health and had to go to a nursing home. The woman who had taken care of him went to live with family members. Our neighborhood, without any formal organization about it, took on the responsibility of looking after that house and yard. Our concern was that it become a derelict property.  Even though there were mini blinds at some of the windows, it was clear to anyone who made a study of it, that the house was unoccupied and, basically, uncared for. But the grass was mowed from time to time and trash was removed from the patio.

A few weeks ago we learned the house had sold at sheriff's sale. Then we began noticing people coming around to do a little work on the yard--blowing leaves from the past two years into piles and shifting them to the curb out front. Picking up the sticks brought down by wind and rain.

Recently that house had a break-in. It happened in the wee small hours of Sunday night/Monday morning--patio door broken and apparently someone entered. We woke up in the morning to learn that our street had been full of police cars and officers milling around, lights on, people checking out the house inside and out, neighbors out rubbernecking. Except us. All this had taken place around 2 AM. I sleep on the side of the house nearest that patio and I heard nothing. (So much for claiming to be a light sleeper.)

Couple days ago a crew of young men arrived at 7 AM and began to replace the old roof, part of the necessary rehabbing of the property. I'd been away most of the morning and over the lunch hour. When I returned at 1:30 there was a trailer load of old shingles standing in front of the house and a new medium gray roof up there. The roofers had departed to another job.

That's what I call renewal.

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Tuesday, on my way home after a busy morning, I spied a forsythia bush in full bloom and bright color. Wonderful welcome to April!

My bird feeders are half-empty again. We filled them last weekend! The diners are: goldfinches, now wearing their bright summer clothes; house finches, with purple cloaks; blue jays occasionally; sparrows looking their usual inconspicuous brown (good for hiding in plain sight among other sparrows); and from time to time, grackles. (I do think God made a mistake with grackles--they should be out eating stuff in the fields and roadsides.)

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With all this renewal going on around me, I had to get into the act myself. A week ago a friend invited me to her house so we could work on watercolors together. Not on the same picture, you understand, but each of us doing her own thing. I was amazed--nay, shocked--at how much I'd forgotten about painting with watercolors. But little by little the brushstrokes and color mixing are coming back.

In a week or so I'll be starting a new quilt. Recently I went with my quilting friend Jane to visit our favorite fabric seller, an independent vendor who works out of her  home. Jane took a large wall hanging to be machine quilted; I shopped for backing fabric for the soon-to-be-started bed quilt in many shades of gray. 

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Amazon had promised to deliver my book order yesterday, so I knew that would be a good day. Any day when there's something new to look forward to--a book order, the promise of a new quilt to make, a text stating that a letter was mailed and I can look for it in my mailbox in about three or four days--that's a good day. (The books came before suppertime.)

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Renewal and promises bring us to Easter, which is nearly here. Now that was a promise to look forward to. The disciples had been told that their Lord would die and rise again from the dead in three days. Did they forget? Didn't they dare believe it was possible? Or were they, like us, so distracted by pain and suffering and grief that they couldn't see beyond the moment to a time of something good?

All we can do is look for the good stuff--keep our eyes on the possibility of joy to come--remember what hope looks like--and share what we see and remember and hope for with someone who needs it.

Blessings and Happy Easter!

Thursday's Child

 SPRING CLEANING

Growing up in the Midwest, in a family of hard workers with strong ideas of right and wrong, I could always count on one thing. Every year the arrival of Spring meant something important: Cleaning Out. Cleaning Up. 

Almost an "off with the old and on with the new" attitude. But not quite.

Houses were swept, scrubbed, and polished until every surface mirrored my face and the fragrance of lavender greeted me every time I came home from school.

Furniture appeared in back yards--not for sale, but for airing.

Clotheslines sagged with heavy bedspreads, wool blankets, small-to-medium sized rugs. Also for airing.

Eventually, after the furniture and other household linens were back in place, out came our winter clothing. Once the wool jackets, coats, and sweaters appeared on the clotheslines, we knew it really was Spring. None of those things would be worn again until cold weather appeared, probably in November. (And you were on your own if you felt cold before the official date of hauling out woolies.)

In those days, not much was thrown away. "Make it do or do without" wasn't just an attitude of the Yankees of New England--it was the difference between having a sufficient something until money again became available to replace it. And, it was a matter of pride.

So I don't recall much of the old stuff going out and being replaced by new stuff. I do recall folks reusing clothing--cutting out the good parts of old suits to make a child's coat, for example. (Clearly, recycling is not a new concept.)

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Fast forward to today--yes, we recycle; been doing that officially for a couple of decades. We've had to re-learn the "make it do" philosophy during a year of COVID, especially when it came to having enough paper products or canned goods.

Then there's another category of Spring Cleaning: our attitudes.

There's a lot--a whole lot--of stuff in the news about diversity, racism, social justice, and more. We're encouraged to think of others. Help those who are having a hard time. If you can't donate money or goods, how about giving a kind word? Or a smile? Or just letting somebody in line ahead of you at the checkout when they have three items and you have a cartful?

It's been a while since I took my attitudes out for an airing--got them down off the shelf and dusted them, rubbed them with a cloth and some fragrant dusting spray to make them shine again. Maybe take them outside and hang them on a drying rack (no clotheslines around here) in the sun and breeze. I think it's time. And Spring is as good a time as any.

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Without our help, Nature comes along and does a super job of Renewal. Every year. Without fail. 

The church encourages Renewal--Easter is a grand celebration of the power of new life.

We can do it, too. It doesn't have to be expensive or labor intensive. How about it?

 IT’S THAT TIME OF YEAR ALREADY?

[Yes, it's definitely that time of year! When I did my shopping I couldn't resist the display of seed packets--bought some (for other people to use). Made my day! My family is full of gardeners--generations before me, generations after me. People in my neighborhood and elsewhere are working in their yards and some are planting things, so, here are some thoughts on gardens that I wrote a couple of years ago.]

Today I’m not very inspired by what I see in my neighborhood, or know is coming up on my calendar (which isn't much). I mean, I’m having green grass, bloomin’ flowers, and singing birds. Oh, and troublesome squirrels, digging in my landscaping. Grrr. Lots of folks are having the same. Yesterday I did a bigger-than-usual shop for groceries and the good old etc. Are you interested in hearing about that? No, didn't think you would.

So, let’s think about something current and nice to contemplate—gardens and gardening. Here are some pithy thoughts to stir your brain:

If you have a garden and a library, you have everything you need.

Marcus Tullius Cicero

[Can’t argue with that one.]

 A garden requires patient labor and attention. Plants do not grow merely to satisfy ambitions or to fulfill good intentions. They thrive because someone expended effort on them.

Liberty Hyde Bailey

[Hmm, effort. Yes, indeed.]

We must cultivate our own garden. When man was put in the garden of Eden he was put there so that he should work, which proves that man was not born to rest.

Voltaire

[Yeah, but sometimes I need to rest, a lot. Sorry, Voltaire.]

 I don't like formal gardens. I like wild nature. It's just the wilderness instinct in me, I guess.

Walt Disney

[Wilderness is fine, but there better not be any snakes and big bears.]

 The best place to find God is in a garden. You can dig for him there.

George Bernard Shaw

[Good one, George.]

 Everything that slows us down and forces patience, everything that sets us back into the slow circles of nature, is a help. Gardening is an instrument of grace.

May Sarton

[Maybe I better rethink this gardening thing.]

 Help us to be ever faithful gardeners of the spirit, who know that without darkness nothing comes to birth, and without light nothing flowers.

May Sarton

[Ah, gardening as metaphor—now I can get into that.]

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When I googled “gardening” I discovered mostly info about flower gardens and what I call English gardens—not a kitchen garden that feeds the manor but cultivated and high-maintenance beauties.

Pole beans make hiding places by August.

Then I thought about gardens in my life, and I time-traveled back to childhood—Grandpa Jenkins was the first gardener I remember. When we went to visit him and Grandma at the edge of their little town, there beside the house was a HUGE garden—what I’d call a couple of acres now that I know what that looks like—where Grandpa tilled, planted, cultivated, and harvested every kind of vegetable. I remember especially the tee-pees he made to encourage the beans to vine up. Those made wonderful hiding places in summer if I wanted to get away from my irritating (male) cousins.

We kids often pulled and ate radishes and carrots right out in the garden. Dirt? Well, yeah, there was dirt on them; they grew in the dirt. We wiped it off on our slacks or on the grass, and chomped away.

By August there was always something to can. My mother and her sisters and sisters-in-law came to help Grandma “put up” pints and quarts of beautiful food. Some of the jars went home with the helpers, some stayed at Grandma and Grandpa’s house. My job was washing the jars, because my hands were smaller than those of my mom and aunts. (And also less swollen because I was too young to have arthritis, a family hand-me-down.)

My own adult experiences with gardening have no romance about them, not even in memory—I recall back-breaking work, sweat, mosquitoes (try picking cucumbers at dawn to take to the local pickle factory), more sweat during canning. But for me, it was an eye-opener: my parents and grandparents went to a lot of trouble and toil to provide meals for their tables. Nothing like an aching back and some itchy mosquito bites to drive home a lesson about how food gets to the mouths of our children.

At my time in life, firmly established in retirement, I enjoy the produce grown by others: my daughter and son who are the gardeners in the family; folks who offer their wares at the Farmer’s Market; neighbors and friends with surplus tomatoes/squash/cucumbers on their half-dozen plants that all produced at the same time.

When I miss the camaraderie of the kitchen at harvest time, I go to my daughter’s in Ohio and cut up, slice, or clean whatever’s going; wash dishes, and jars and lids and rings; stir a pot of something that needs to cook a little before being canned (jelly and pasta sauce); rest my weary back and legs for a while and eat a quick lunch; then back to the jar-filling before I head home. Come winter, I’ll spread jam (that I helped make) on toast and utter an “ummmm.” And when I can’t think of anything to cook, there’s a jar of pasta sauce on the pantry shelf waiting for my gluten-free pasta to join it for a filling dish. Tomato juice? V-4 juice? Just right for soup. Get out the slow cooker and start putting things in.

Nowadays I’m more of an appreciator than a gardener. But I celebrate and salute all those who really dig gardening. J





NINE DAYS!

Can you make it 9 more days till Spring arrives? Of course you can!

Yesterday our temp here in Northeast Indiana was 67 degrees! Windy, naturally. Mostly sunny. And a foretaste of the season to come! When I got up this morning, it was 61 degrees and rain. Also a foretaste of the season to come.

My neighbor's big old maple is already budding. Mine are a bit reticent, waiting until all the other trees have done their big number before coming to the show. But narcissus are up, with tall leaves indicating stems with flowers will be along soon. The resurrection lily has leaves at least five inches above the ground. 

It all looks pretty good so far. Our recent snows (3 weeks ago I wrote about our 6-10 inches of white stuff) have melted. But now lawns are covered in debris--last year's leaves blown in from somebody else's yard, sticks that parted from their trees during the wintry storms and the weight of ice and snow. There'll be plenty of clean-up to do one of these balmy days.

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I hope no one thinks I'm doing my ostrich act--I do know we could have another humdinger of a snow storm--in March, in April. We've had snow in May, for heaven's sake. Nothing is certain just because the calendar declares Spring has arrived. But since Thursday's Child likes to celebrate, we're celebrating the Signs of Spring--the overture before the main event.

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Another sign of the new season is the arrival of--you guessed it--Daylight Savings Time. By the time we meet again we'll have lost that hour of sleep that happens every year in March. It always comes along just when I'm getting accustomed to early morning light--nice to wake up in the light, not in the dark. The other end of the day stays light longer, and that means I won't want to go to bed at a normal time. Or eat supper at the appropriate hour. When it's so light outside, I'm not hungry. Go figure.

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Here's the great thing about the arrival of Spring--it's a free gift. After a year (or more) of uncertain times--political dominance of the news, illness and death on a mega scale (also much in the news), protests, rioting, marching, speeches--after all that and more, Nature comes along on schedule and hands us a brand new season to enjoy. All we have to do is accept the gift. We had no influence in the gift's arrival time. We didn't order it (though I know a good many people prayed for it to come soon). We couldn't bribe Nature to do it now.

To paraphrase a Simon & Garfunkel song, "Spring, come she will."

 I hope your transition to the new season is carefree, full of joy. Take some time to look for Nature's signs that she's arriving in her new garb. Bask in the sun. Take a walk in the rain. Listen for birdsong.

Till next time, stay safe, stay well. 

Blessings to all...........

MARCH

 

Daffodils like 'Love Call', sometimes called jonquils or narcissus, are the birth flowers for March. Because they often bloom in early spring, they symbolize new birth, beginnings, happiness and joy. --HGTV website

I also read somewhere that daffodils symbolize hope. So take your pick: new birth--beginnings--happiness--joy--hope.

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You probably noticed that the calendar page changed. And in just a little over two weeks, we'll say "It's spring!" 

Most people I've talked to are hoping the lamb-like opening of the month isn't going to slide down into a lionized ending. But it isn't purely lamb-like--sunny, yes, and some warm days. But there's an occasional biting wind lurking around. Our winter coats and scarves and gloves are still hanging around ready to slip on before we head outside.

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Recently I wrote a note to a friend, apologizing for my tardy thanks for her gift. I wasn't sure if I was slowing down or if Time was really and truly speeding up. 

It occurs to me now that this is exactly what my grandparents must have felt. They were married in 1898, had 10 children in the next 24 years, and thus an abundance of grandchildren. We all grew up in "modern" times--jazz, bobbed hair, bathtub gin for the older cousins. Women working in factories during WW II, more jazz, then rock 'n' roll, faster cars for the later group.

As I grew older, I felt my feet dragging when the times started speeding up on me--manners and morals seemed to change overnight; crime came closer to home (no longer just a feature of big city living). When new technology came, I was among those who had to grit their teeth and learn to use computers if they wanted to keep working.

Now that I'm well-advanced in my life, I begin to empathize with my grandparents in their struggle to cope with social change. "Modern times" is a phrase that actually means nothing--every time claims to be modern. New Age is now an outmoded concept. Today's latest-and-greatest is tomorrow's "old school."

What I take away from this line of thinking is this: Why bother trying to keep up? Why not, instead, find what suits us--a preferred way of doing something, a kind of tool or appliance we like to work with, our favorite recipes or quilting patterns or birdhouse designs--and just do those things? Why not, indeed! We can always be creative within the parameters of our faves.

We can still keep up to date with what the world is doing, if we want to, by watching movies and TV series on the hundreds of channels available nowadays. We can visit with our grandchildren and great-grandchildren and find out what they know and like and what's new in their lives. And read--there's always something out there we haven't read yet.

Change is good--it keeps us from growing stale. But change is not good if it's done just to keep up with what the world is doing. Why? Because by the time you change your way of living--especially if you move slowly, like I do--there's yet another brand new way out there waiting for you. 

My experience tells me that what I've done for years, and the ways I've enjoyed doing those things, have become my way of doing them.

It's called being your authentic self. So why not do that!

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Here are some closing thoughts for you:

Daffodils,
That come before the swallow dares, and take
The winds of March with beauty.
–William Shakespeare, The Winter’s Tale

I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o’er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
–William Wordsworth, I Wander’d Lonely as a Cloud

Of Spring Weather:
Chillier, but daffodillier.
–The 1991 Old Farmer’s Almanac

Daffodil fields