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 ancestors. Show all posts
Showing posts with label ancestors. Show all posts
Thursday, July 30, 2009
Thursday, April 30, 2009
In the Kitchen
I have often said, “I am better in the kitchen……” when I find myself lacking in the mechanical skills necessary to know how my car's engine works or how to keep the lawn mower running when it appears to be hell bent on destroying my lawn management day! But it’s true, I am more secure and happy in my kitchen. I am surrounded by culinary items that came to me from both of my grandmothers, who certainly knew their way around the floor bin and back.
For many years I used the measuring spoons that belonged to my Grandma Goldie. I loved them but it seems they moved out of my kitchen at the same time as a former house mate. I grieved over those lost spoons until my son replaced them with a fine shiny set which now occupy a sweet place in my heart.
Of the graduated painted ceramic mixing bowls that I inherited from Grandma Goldie, I have only the large yellow one left. The medium green one broke so many years ago that I can’t remember how. And the small red one dropped onto the ceramic tile floor of my new kitchen shortly after I moved into my new farmhouse. I grieved it’s loss and vowed to rebuild my set. My sister says that they can be found at garage sales and flea markets, neither of which I gravitate to easily, but I remain hopeful.
I have dishes from my Grandma Hazel that I treasure. I have a deviled egg plate that makes appearances on special occasions. I have a pink glass bubbly bowl that reminds me of her; she liked colored glass, just as I do. I have small glass custard bowls that I use for melted butter when my son and I treat ourselves to crab legs. And I have stemmed sherbet glasses that I fill with cocktail sauce for steamed shrimp. Pretty fancy for a small town farm girl!
I have dishcloths that are made from flour sacks that my grandmothers purchased. Baking flour was sold in cloth sacks and they would pick the pattern that caught their fancy and collect enough to sew up what needed to be made. Even though I still use them, gently, I love knowing their history.
I have one aluminum lid that has holes punched on one side. It is used to drain off the cooking liquid from vegetables and pasta or the grease from hamburger; it has a thousand uses. I do not use the aluminum pots and pans that I inherited from Grandma Goldie. I cannot get past the link of aluminum to Alzheimer’s, however I must admit that all of the women in my family had remarkable memories and lived their entire lives in their own homes taking care of themselves till their time to rest in Heaven. And they cooked each meal with these pots every day of their lives. But I can not and I will not give up my dull old aluminum lid with its little wooden knob, still almost painted black. I don’t need it to help me visualize the amazing women of my family ~ they are always with me in the kitchen. I just love it!
* annette
For many years I used the measuring spoons that belonged to my Grandma Goldie. I loved them but it seems they moved out of my kitchen at the same time as a former house mate. I grieved over those lost spoons until my son replaced them with a fine shiny set which now occupy a sweet place in my heart.
Of the graduated painted ceramic mixing bowls that I inherited from Grandma Goldie, I have only the large yellow one left. The medium green one broke so many years ago that I can’t remember how. And the small red one dropped onto the ceramic tile floor of my new kitchen shortly after I moved into my new farmhouse. I grieved it’s loss and vowed to rebuild my set. My sister says that they can be found at garage sales and flea markets, neither of which I gravitate to easily, but I remain hopeful.
I have dishes from my Grandma Hazel that I treasure. I have a deviled egg plate that makes appearances on special occasions. I have a pink glass bubbly bowl that reminds me of her; she liked colored glass, just as I do. I have small glass custard bowls that I use for melted butter when my son and I treat ourselves to crab legs. And I have stemmed sherbet glasses that I fill with cocktail sauce for steamed shrimp. Pretty fancy for a small town farm girl!
I have dishcloths that are made from flour sacks that my grandmothers purchased. Baking flour was sold in cloth sacks and they would pick the pattern that caught their fancy and collect enough to sew up what needed to be made. Even though I still use them, gently, I love knowing their history.
I have one aluminum lid that has holes punched on one side. It is used to drain off the cooking liquid from vegetables and pasta or the grease from hamburger; it has a thousand uses. I do not use the aluminum pots and pans that I inherited from Grandma Goldie. I cannot get past the link of aluminum to Alzheimer’s, however I must admit that all of the women in my family had remarkable memories and lived their entire lives in their own homes taking care of themselves till their time to rest in Heaven. And they cooked each meal with these pots every day of their lives. But I can not and I will not give up my dull old aluminum lid with its little wooden knob, still almost painted black. I don’t need it to help me visualize the amazing women of my family ~ they are always with me in the kitchen. I just love it!
* 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
Monday, October 27, 2008
Essay - True Groundedness
Scientists have learned how to trace where a person has lived by analyzing the constituents of their bones. People really are a part of the land. The plants grow up out of the soil, capturing its nutrients. They marry them in their metabolism with the rain and the sun into life. Then we devour and digest that life, directly, or through the intermediary of animal flesh, and make it into our own living bodies.
I doubt, though, that this tracing technique would work for modern Americans. We import our food so that we can eat in perpetual harvest time. Our food is no more indigenous than we are. And visa versa.
Consider the power in eating only food grown nearby. What if, for generations, we had lived on the same land, cultivating it, gathering from it, and then, finally, planting our own spent bodies back into it? Our ancestors would not just be a litany of names and dates, arranged on a piece of paper, in a family tree. They would actually be living in our physical forms. Our genetic heritage would be fleshed out with the same raw materials that had cycled through our ancestors' bodies. What true groundedness that would be!
No wonder that indigenous people know that we do not own the land. And that the land is the matrix of our truest heritage.
By Terra Rafael
I doubt, though, that this tracing technique would work for modern Americans. We import our food so that we can eat in perpetual harvest time. Our food is no more indigenous than we are. And visa versa.
Consider the power in eating only food grown nearby. What if, for generations, we had lived on the same land, cultivating it, gathering from it, and then, finally, planting our own spent bodies back into it? Our ancestors would not just be a litany of names and dates, arranged on a piece of paper, in a family tree. They would actually be living in our physical forms. Our genetic heritage would be fleshed out with the same raw materials that had cycled through our ancestors' bodies. What true groundedness that would be!
No wonder that indigenous people know that we do not own the land. And that the land is the matrix of our truest heritage.
By Terra Rafael
Monday, October 13, 2008
Essay - We Are the Land
Scientists have learned how to trace where a person has lived by the constituents of their bones. People really are a part of the land. Food grows up out of the soil, capturing its nutrients and marrying them in their metabolism with the rain and the power of the sun into living matter. Then we devour and digest their life, directly or through the intermediary of animal flesh, and make it into our own living bodies.
I doubt that the tracing technique would work very well for modern Americans, who import our food so that we can eat in perpetual summer. Our food is no more indigenous than we are. And visa versa. Consider the power in eating only food grown nearby.
And what if, for generations, we had lived on that same land, cultivating it, gathering from it, then planting our own spent bodies back into that same ecosystem. Our ancestors would not just be a litany of names and dates arranged on a certificate of pedigree. They would actually be living in our bones. Our genetic heritage would be fleshed out with the same raw materials used by our predecessors. What real groundedness that would be!
No wonder indigenous people know that we do not own the land—the land is us. That land is the matrix of our truest heritage. What we do to the land, we do to ourselves and our ancestors.
--By Terra
I doubt that the tracing technique would work very well for modern Americans, who import our food so that we can eat in perpetual summer. Our food is no more indigenous than we are. And visa versa. Consider the power in eating only food grown nearby.
And what if, for generations, we had lived on that same land, cultivating it, gathering from it, then planting our own spent bodies back into that same ecosystem. Our ancestors would not just be a litany of names and dates arranged on a certificate of pedigree. They would actually be living in our bones. Our genetic heritage would be fleshed out with the same raw materials used by our predecessors. What real groundedness that would be!
No wonder indigenous people know that we do not own the land—the land is us. That land is the matrix of our truest heritage. What we do to the land, we do to ourselves and our ancestors.
--By Terra
Monday, October 6, 2008
Essay- Where Do I Come From?
I arrived on the ripples of desire that Mom felt over 50 years ago when she first met Dad, at that Wisconsin dance hall. “He was real cute!” Mom still says with an excited giggle.
I was sparked by the sparkling of snow on Norwegian hillsides my Grandma Moan skied to school and also by the beams of midnight sun in the village where my Grandpa Moan learned to speak his stubborn, Norwegian mind. Those Nordic lights became holograms twinkling in my father’s eye.
I also sprang from Grandpa Johnson’s Swedish immigrant parents whose first six children died before the age of 3. Grandpa Johnson came at the right time to survive, to marry three times and father three daughters.
I was born here by my Grandma Johnson’s spacious womb, where my mother gently gestated, when I was just half of me, a Terra egg in Mom’s fetal ovaries. Mom breeched her way out into the world and I was waiting for the right time when Dad’s Norway and Mom’s mostly Sweden met to form my physical geography.
Then the spirit song that I am, sang through that baby landform, to populate it with a personhood that came to America to live long and prosper and create new vistas for those who would follow.
--HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME! by Terra
I was sparked by the sparkling of snow on Norwegian hillsides my Grandma Moan skied to school and also by the beams of midnight sun in the village where my Grandpa Moan learned to speak his stubborn, Norwegian mind. Those Nordic lights became holograms twinkling in my father’s eye.
I also sprang from Grandpa Johnson’s Swedish immigrant parents whose first six children died before the age of 3. Grandpa Johnson came at the right time to survive, to marry three times and father three daughters.
I was born here by my Grandma Johnson’s spacious womb, where my mother gently gestated, when I was just half of me, a Terra egg in Mom’s fetal ovaries. Mom breeched her way out into the world and I was waiting for the right time when Dad’s Norway and Mom’s mostly Sweden met to form my physical geography.
Then the spirit song that I am, sang through that baby landform, to populate it with a personhood that came to America to live long and prosper and create new vistas for those who would follow.
--HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME! by Terra
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
