My son and I recently went to Missouri to attend my mother’s family reunion which was twice as sweet as it was only days after her birthday. There was a special program this year at the reunion to recognize and honor James Edward H., who died in battle on French soil in WW1. His gravestone had never been appropriately decorated, but the VFW had a memorial plaque installed recently. And now his story was told to the dozens who gathered round his gravestone, by the nieces and nephews he never knew, some reading letters that he had written home to his parents. This was followed by a 21 gun salute from the local color guard and taps, played by two bugles, echoed over the country side. Many were moved to tears, as was I.
Afterwards, my immediate family drifted away from the crowd, for this is the same small country cemetery where my father was laid to rest two summers earlier. Mom wanted to see if the grass seed they had scattered earlier in the summer had been embraced by the abundant summer rains, and we were all thankful to see that it had. Finally, the right combination of seed to water to sun.
My mother, noting that others had marked their family plot with wrought iron hooks, had installed one near my Dad’s stone. Stating that she was sure that my father would have liked it, my Mom chose a kinetic sculpture with cups of bright colors that moved with the motion of our presence. My brother had securely wired the metal mobile to the hook. I stood with my brothers and sister and we were happy with Mom’s inspiration. I gazed over the small farm pond nearby and listened for my fathers beloved quail, who had called out so gently during his grave side service … but I did not hear their voice this day.
As we drove away on the old narrow gravel road, I noted out loud that the colorful baubles were no longer in motion. My brother quietly acknowledged that they were not moving as we drove in earlier. Had they only been in motion as we gathered round to spend these precious moments with my father’s memory? moved by …..?
I am not surprised that I was not the only one who felt Dad’s presence.
* annette
Showing posts with label Missouri. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Missouri. Show all posts
Thursday, July 30, 2009
Thursday, July 2, 2009
Further Memoirs of a Hippie Chick
I went for quite a few years in my hippy days without shaving my legs. Why? Freedom … Laziness … Rebellion … who knows? However, I will never forget my mother telling me over the phone that I would have to shave to be a bridesmaid in my brother’s wedding. It was kind of embarrassing to be in a position where my mother felt it necessary to even bring it up, but at the same time, it totally proved that I was indeed a legitimate and recognized “hippie chick”. It had to be true if even my mother noticed. And I did shave, for my brother, my mom, without a fuss. It was my gift toward my brother’s marital bliss.
Although once I arrived in Missouri and saw the bridesmaid dresses, I realized it was totally a moot point. It was a long pastel blue sun dress with a very wide ruffle ~ the width of the bodice in fact, but demurely off the shoulder. Which I remember distinctly because my mother also insisted on taking me shopping for a strapless bra, even as I argued that the design of the dress completely camouflaged the fact that I had any girl parts that needed to be covered up. However, as part of my “hippie chick” dress code, I often went braless, and my mother was taking no chances. So much preparation for such a momentous day; I was scraped clean, my mother was happy and the bride and groom were blissfully ignorant of my sacrifice.
At some point after several hours into the wedding reception, drinking and dancing the night away, I found myself in the bathroom one stall away from my sister. My very important strapless bra had worked its way down around my waist and was nestled below my ribcage. We were laughing hard as I confessed that I had no idea what to do with it, it would be much more comfortable wrapped around my neck as a stole. Would anyone, beside my mother, notice? We decided to just let it be. We left the bathroom with tears in our eyes, probably presumed to be sentimental sisters of the groom! Only the tips of my toes were visible under the long hem, I can only hope that I remembered to shave them.
* annette
Although once I arrived in Missouri and saw the bridesmaid dresses, I realized it was totally a moot point. It was a long pastel blue sun dress with a very wide ruffle ~ the width of the bodice in fact, but demurely off the shoulder. Which I remember distinctly because my mother also insisted on taking me shopping for a strapless bra, even as I argued that the design of the dress completely camouflaged the fact that I had any girl parts that needed to be covered up. However, as part of my “hippie chick” dress code, I often went braless, and my mother was taking no chances. So much preparation for such a momentous day; I was scraped clean, my mother was happy and the bride and groom were blissfully ignorant of my sacrifice.
At some point after several hours into the wedding reception, drinking and dancing the night away, I found myself in the bathroom one stall away from my sister. My very important strapless bra had worked its way down around my waist and was nestled below my ribcage. We were laughing hard as I confessed that I had no idea what to do with it, it would be much more comfortable wrapped around my neck as a stole. Would anyone, beside my mother, notice? We decided to just let it be. We left the bathroom with tears in our eyes, probably presumed to be sentimental sisters of the groom! Only the tips of my toes were visible under the long hem, I can only hope that I remembered to shave them.
* annette
Thursday, November 27, 2008
CRANBERRY SALAD
It is Thursday morning, an entire day set aside for giving thanks. Yesterday I made a batch of home made egg noodles; the first batch I have made in many years. And I must admit it was a little trickier than I hoped. I had called my brother Gary (an incredible cook, he could be the Emeril of KCMO) for a few tips and got his recipe. I got the noodles made, rolled out and cut, and I think they will be fine.
And then I made my first batch of cranberry salad for this season. It is red and beautiful and I had to test it this morning ~ it is great!!!!
On the eve of every winter holiday, you could walk into my parent’s small kitchen and there they would be. The kitchen looks similar from year to year, only the outfits change, and I took the same photograph every time I was lucky enough to share this moment. Mom and Dad … standing side by side, cutting the fruit, sorting the berries, and grinding everything into that scrumptious red delight. My Mom said that she originally got the recipe off the back of the cranberry bag, but I have never seen it there. They made at least a double batch every Thanksgiving. My sister and I set in front of the TV on Friday night and we ate bowls of … not ice cream, but cranberry salad. We fought for the last bite every year; you may imagine that I am kidding, but I am totally serious. The first thing I remember asking my parents for Christmas after I left home, was my own grinder to make cranberry salad. It was necessary to carry on the tradition.
And so I would like to share this recipe with you on this day, quickly, as I must get my turkey in the oven.
Cranberry Salad
1 qt. fresh cranberries ( two 12 oz. bags)
3 oranges – leave peel on one
2 apples
2 cups sugar ( I only use 1 cup now)
1 cup black walnuts
1 pkg. cherry jell-o
Set up your grinder. (I am using an antique model that my sister found at a flea market for $5.) Make up your jell-0 with one cup of hot water and set aside to cool. Wash through berries and discard the soft ones or any with bad spots. Cut the apples and oranges into 6 to 8 slices each. Do not peel the apples but cut out the core. Feed the fruit into the grinder, it is fun … the cranberries pop and the oranges juice up. I do not put my walnuts through the grinder; I chop them up into little pieces and add to the mixture. Stir in the sugar and liquid jell-o. Refrigerate overnight. It gets better every day … and then it’s gone. I freeze some every year to pull out in the middle of summer and then I eat it mostly frozen. It is almost pure Vitamin C.
Enjoy. And thank you, Mom and Dad. I will always love you.
* annette
And then I made my first batch of cranberry salad for this season. It is red and beautiful and I had to test it this morning ~ it is great!!!!
On the eve of every winter holiday, you could walk into my parent’s small kitchen and there they would be. The kitchen looks similar from year to year, only the outfits change, and I took the same photograph every time I was lucky enough to share this moment. Mom and Dad … standing side by side, cutting the fruit, sorting the berries, and grinding everything into that scrumptious red delight. My Mom said that she originally got the recipe off the back of the cranberry bag, but I have never seen it there. They made at least a double batch every Thanksgiving. My sister and I set in front of the TV on Friday night and we ate bowls of … not ice cream, but cranberry salad. We fought for the last bite every year; you may imagine that I am kidding, but I am totally serious. The first thing I remember asking my parents for Christmas after I left home, was my own grinder to make cranberry salad. It was necessary to carry on the tradition.
And so I would like to share this recipe with you on this day, quickly, as I must get my turkey in the oven.
Cranberry Salad
1 qt. fresh cranberries ( two 12 oz. bags)
3 oranges – leave peel on one
2 apples
2 cups sugar ( I only use 1 cup now)
1 cup black walnuts
1 pkg. cherry jell-o
Set up your grinder. (I am using an antique model that my sister found at a flea market for $5.) Make up your jell-0 with one cup of hot water and set aside to cool. Wash through berries and discard the soft ones or any with bad spots. Cut the apples and oranges into 6 to 8 slices each. Do not peel the apples but cut out the core. Feed the fruit into the grinder, it is fun … the cranberries pop and the oranges juice up. I do not put my walnuts through the grinder; I chop them up into little pieces and add to the mixture. Stir in the sugar and liquid jell-o. Refrigerate overnight. It gets better every day … and then it’s gone. I freeze some every year to pull out in the middle of summer and then I eat it mostly frozen. It is almost pure Vitamin C.
Enjoy. And thank you, Mom and Dad. I will always love you.
* annette
Thursday, November 6, 2008
To the Farm
When I was a little girl, my parents drove us to Grandma and Grandpa’s house a lot, sometimes two or three week ends a month. I was the oldest of four, my sister is two years younger than me, and my brothers arrived two and four years later respectively.
I loved every moment spent at the farm but the trip from Kansas City to Union Star was another story. When we traveled on vacation, our parents always encouraged us to set up and watch the country going by. We played all the typical car games but we also searched the landscape for white horses ~ the first one to yell out “Zip” won a point ~ this was our own personal family game. As we drove the same route to the farm so many times, we kids came up with a different strategy; we made a game of who-can-fall-asleep-first. Now that I think about it, I bet my Dad came up with this idea, but we realized that it made the tedious two hour trip seem so much shorter if we could sleep through most of it.
With four of us in the back seat, staking out a territory to call your own was always an issue. Often my brothers would curl up on either side of the floorboard, possibly sharing this space with our little dog Frisky. But the most coveted spot was the back deck ~ that carpeted space above and behind the back seat where the rear window curves down to meet the trunk of the car. Either curled into a ball or folded nearly in half, there was enough room for a skinny kid to ride up there in our blue Chevy Impala. The only down side of this location was that you may arrive at your destination grumpy from the heat and resembling a baked meatloaf. However, for the duration of the trip you had traveled above the reach of thirty annoying prodding fingers, and that was a good thing.
As we neared the farm over the last final hills whoever was awake would strain to catch sight of the familiar white buildings and then begin the singsong chant, “I see Grandpa’s house. I see Grandpa’s house.” As each napping child came to, they would sleepily take up the tune, even though their eyes were still closed. By the time we rolled into the driveway of our farm we were wide awake and ready for our next adventure.
* annette
I loved every moment spent at the farm but the trip from Kansas City to Union Star was another story. When we traveled on vacation, our parents always encouraged us to set up and watch the country going by. We played all the typical car games but we also searched the landscape for white horses ~ the first one to yell out “Zip” won a point ~ this was our own personal family game. As we drove the same route to the farm so many times, we kids came up with a different strategy; we made a game of who-can-fall-asleep-first. Now that I think about it, I bet my Dad came up with this idea, but we realized that it made the tedious two hour trip seem so much shorter if we could sleep through most of it.
With four of us in the back seat, staking out a territory to call your own was always an issue. Often my brothers would curl up on either side of the floorboard, possibly sharing this space with our little dog Frisky. But the most coveted spot was the back deck ~ that carpeted space above and behind the back seat where the rear window curves down to meet the trunk of the car. Either curled into a ball or folded nearly in half, there was enough room for a skinny kid to ride up there in our blue Chevy Impala. The only down side of this location was that you may arrive at your destination grumpy from the heat and resembling a baked meatloaf. However, for the duration of the trip you had traveled above the reach of thirty annoying prodding fingers, and that was a good thing.
As we neared the farm over the last final hills whoever was awake would strain to catch sight of the familiar white buildings and then begin the singsong chant, “I see Grandpa’s house. I see Grandpa’s house.” As each napping child came to, they would sleepily take up the tune, even though their eyes were still closed. By the time we rolled into the driveway of our farm we were wide awake and ready for our next adventure.
* annette
Thursday, September 11, 2008
CORN SNOB
In my low riding Honda civic I could not see over the tall stalks on either side of the road. It looked as if someone wielding an accurate machete had clear cut a narrow path through the forest of green. I was heading home on a thin asphalt strip between row after precision row of ramrod straight warriors. The heat of the day had elevated the growth fervor of the stately plants and the heady aroma of hot corn silk permeated the air. Checking the rear view, I slowed the car and rolled down all the windows. Inhaling deeply I was transported back to childhood days.
My grandfather had a one acre garden almost half planted in sweet corn. He planted both yellow and white corn, but the new bicolor hybrids soon gained favor as they combined the two colors on one lovely ear. Ahhh, life was good. On the farm we waited in anticipation every year for the corn to “come on”. My grandpa picked it in the dew of the morning and that same afternoon we would deliver it to family and friends in town. They treated it as the glorious gift that it was.
In the kitchen, my grandma would have at least two large turkey roaster pans filled to the brim with corn, with water to cover. Bring to a boil and quickly turn off the heat. She would cook up dozens of ears for lunch and then again for supper. I remember eating 8 and 10 ears of corn at one setting!! I mean ~ when the season was over ~ it was over. Oh sure, we froze corn, canned corn and made beautiful corn relish, but it was never quite the same as juggling a slippery hot ear. We put a stick of butter on a saucer, sprinkled salt on top, and passed it around. It was the fastest, most efficient way of getting the job done. At the beginning of the meal we might butter up 2 or 3 ears at a time to keep us good till the saucer made it around the table again. In the morning, Grandma cut the left over corn off the cob and fried it up in a little butter or bacon grease. Truly, the breakfast of my champions.
I have often declared that I am a “corn snob”. And it is true. I love the new bar-b-que place down the road, but the water logged bright yellow half ear that they include on my plate ~ is a give away. I would rather eat my napkin. I need corn that is picked fresh the day you eat it. Now here I am with my “four-ears-for-a-$1” seasonal addiction that I purchased from a neighborhood farm. Oh Lord what a beautiful sight: my plate loaded with thick slices of red tomatoes and shiny green beans from my garden lying beside long ears of lightly buttered-no salt sweet corn. It is the closest I will every get to becoming a vegetarian. Clang the dinner bell and God bless our farmers!
* annette
My grandfather had a one acre garden almost half planted in sweet corn. He planted both yellow and white corn, but the new bicolor hybrids soon gained favor as they combined the two colors on one lovely ear. Ahhh, life was good. On the farm we waited in anticipation every year for the corn to “come on”. My grandpa picked it in the dew of the morning and that same afternoon we would deliver it to family and friends in town. They treated it as the glorious gift that it was.
In the kitchen, my grandma would have at least two large turkey roaster pans filled to the brim with corn, with water to cover. Bring to a boil and quickly turn off the heat. She would cook up dozens of ears for lunch and then again for supper. I remember eating 8 and 10 ears of corn at one setting!! I mean ~ when the season was over ~ it was over. Oh sure, we froze corn, canned corn and made beautiful corn relish, but it was never quite the same as juggling a slippery hot ear. We put a stick of butter on a saucer, sprinkled salt on top, and passed it around. It was the fastest, most efficient way of getting the job done. At the beginning of the meal we might butter up 2 or 3 ears at a time to keep us good till the saucer made it around the table again. In the morning, Grandma cut the left over corn off the cob and fried it up in a little butter or bacon grease. Truly, the breakfast of my champions.
I have often declared that I am a “corn snob”. And it is true. I love the new bar-b-que place down the road, but the water logged bright yellow half ear that they include on my plate ~ is a give away. I would rather eat my napkin. I need corn that is picked fresh the day you eat it. Now here I am with my “four-ears-for-a-$1” seasonal addiction that I purchased from a neighborhood farm. Oh Lord what a beautiful sight: my plate loaded with thick slices of red tomatoes and shiny green beans from my garden lying beside long ears of lightly buttered-no salt sweet corn. It is the closest I will every get to becoming a vegetarian. Clang the dinner bell and God bless our farmers!
* annette
Thursday, July 17, 2008
Essay: Missouri. Blue Gold.
NOTE TO SELF. Picking Blueberries is way easier than strawberries … which now grow too close to the ground. Raspberries and blackberries bushes have thorns; even Mom’s back yard gooseberries have thorns.
My mom, sister and I decide to skip breakfast in order to get to there early ~ the pre-recorded “Berry Patch” message said there were more pickers than berries and warns that it has been consistently picked out by the end of each day. They open at 7 am and we arrive about 8. We know the routine. We walk briskly up to the self service counter, grab a one gallon white bucket, tuck in the heavy duty clear plastic bag and grab a piece of twine to tie the bucket around the waist, allowing for two handed picking.
Patch #1 has a closed sign on it but Patch #2 is open and there are already heads bobbing above the lush greenness. Row after row of fruit laden bushes ~ but we are in search of the bluest blueberries. There are dozens of muffled conversations drifting above the long steaming rows; mothers exchanging favorite recipes, children comparing the taste of warm juicy berries. The birds squawk from the tall treed perimeter, probably discussing the two legged wingless crowd below ruining their dinner plans.
I see a bush with lots of potential and peel off from my family to seek my fortune. Heat, sweating, picking, quiet thoughts, I spread my arms to take advantage of a cautious breeze. “Levi. Levi?” a woman calls out. “Can you hear me son? Norma Jean, have you seen Levi?” I glance around to see if anyone resembling a Levi is in my row. Obviously he has returned, for that section of the pickers quiets down. We all take a deep breath and continue picking.
I listen in as two women one row over from me but totally out of site, discuss the fact that boyfriend Dan is only good for a few select things ~ I understood quickly that he is very satisfying and, I admit, I leaned towards them as they whispered and giggled. Although I could not hear the juiciest details, I do know that he is definitely not husband material as he is addicted to computer games. Poor Dan.
“Mommy, mommy, look at this one. It is the biggest blueberry ever,” a little boy proclaims. With a condescending snit to her tiny voice his sister explains, “I’m only picking the red ones.” "Tatum, honey……” we hear her mother patiently explain that blue ones make much sweeter pies.
“Come on kids, this section is all picked out, let’s go farther down and start there.” “But mommy there’s a lot of ‘em right here,” her young son declares as Mom herds her chicks off in search of easier pickings. On a hunch I bend down and lift up a branch near where the small boy had stood. BINGO! What a score, the lowest branch was covered with the biggest juiciest blueberries ever. The ones I don’t consume drop into my nearly full bucket.
Trying to get out of the patch, hot as we are, is its own challenge. I raise my voice one notch above the buzz, “Marcia?” “Over here” comes my answer. I am at the end of a long row and start walking east. “Over here” I hear my sister call out again. “Marco” I call out cheerfully. “Polo” I hear from more than one section of the patch. Everyone giggles; I smile as I spot Marcia’s straw hat. Even as we agree that our buckets are full, we cannot help but search for the ultimate berry as we slowly exit the patch with our hand picked treasure ~ blue gold.
TIP: Do not rinse fresh picked blueberries before freezing. Rinse them as you use them. Seriously.
* annette
My mom, sister and I decide to skip breakfast in order to get to there early ~ the pre-recorded “Berry Patch” message said there were more pickers than berries and warns that it has been consistently picked out by the end of each day. They open at 7 am and we arrive about 8. We know the routine. We walk briskly up to the self service counter, grab a one gallon white bucket, tuck in the heavy duty clear plastic bag and grab a piece of twine to tie the bucket around the waist, allowing for two handed picking.
Patch #1 has a closed sign on it but Patch #2 is open and there are already heads bobbing above the lush greenness. Row after row of fruit laden bushes ~ but we are in search of the bluest blueberries. There are dozens of muffled conversations drifting above the long steaming rows; mothers exchanging favorite recipes, children comparing the taste of warm juicy berries. The birds squawk from the tall treed perimeter, probably discussing the two legged wingless crowd below ruining their dinner plans.
I see a bush with lots of potential and peel off from my family to seek my fortune. Heat, sweating, picking, quiet thoughts, I spread my arms to take advantage of a cautious breeze. “Levi. Levi?” a woman calls out. “Can you hear me son? Norma Jean, have you seen Levi?” I glance around to see if anyone resembling a Levi is in my row. Obviously he has returned, for that section of the pickers quiets down. We all take a deep breath and continue picking.
I listen in as two women one row over from me but totally out of site, discuss the fact that boyfriend Dan is only good for a few select things ~ I understood quickly that he is very satisfying and, I admit, I leaned towards them as they whispered and giggled. Although I could not hear the juiciest details, I do know that he is definitely not husband material as he is addicted to computer games. Poor Dan.
“Mommy, mommy, look at this one. It is the biggest blueberry ever,” a little boy proclaims. With a condescending snit to her tiny voice his sister explains, “I’m only picking the red ones.” "Tatum, honey……” we hear her mother patiently explain that blue ones make much sweeter pies.
“Come on kids, this section is all picked out, let’s go farther down and start there.” “But mommy there’s a lot of ‘em right here,” her young son declares as Mom herds her chicks off in search of easier pickings. On a hunch I bend down and lift up a branch near where the small boy had stood. BINGO! What a score, the lowest branch was covered with the biggest juiciest blueberries ever. The ones I don’t consume drop into my nearly full bucket.
Trying to get out of the patch, hot as we are, is its own challenge. I raise my voice one notch above the buzz, “Marcia?” “Over here” comes my answer. I am at the end of a long row and start walking east. “Over here” I hear my sister call out again. “Marco” I call out cheerfully. “Polo” I hear from more than one section of the patch. Everyone giggles; I smile as I spot Marcia’s straw hat. Even as we agree that our buckets are full, we cannot help but search for the ultimate berry as we slowly exit the patch with our hand picked treasure ~ blue gold.
TIP: Do not rinse fresh picked blueberries before freezing. Rinse them as you use them. Seriously.
* annette
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