For Gwenyvere, 8th Grade Graduation June 14, 2012
It was on days like today--
I'd take you out to the sandbox by the shade of the garage
and listen to the wind blow through the trees and write.
I'd watch you bury your Sesame Street characters
until my heart was full and my head was empty--
the sounds of summer breezes moving to a background
of your small high sweet voice
full of sentences, demands, and pretend.
When the ache of longing for summers past would overwhelm--
I'd pack you up to go see Mema and Aunt Edith.
I'm writing this on the back of a speed warning
and a draft of your valedictorian speech in the car at work--
which sums us up quite well.
Tonight, I'll hear your sweet precise voice giving your speech,
and I'll remember the shade by the garage
and the wind of 13 years ago
when there was just you and me.
I'll remember today's wind and how it felt like a message
from my mother to us both--that she's here in these memories,
in the sound of summer trees, in the points of life
that connect our dots through years and eras and moments of
memory, stillness, and mothers being proud of their daughters
who once, not so long ago, were their babies.
Saturday, October 27, 2012
Sunday, January 3, 2010
By Maria Annal, Linda's college friend.
I know it's been many years...I just wanted to say a thank you to her (Ma) for taking in this "orphan" for all those college breaks; for rice-a-roni, frozen pizza, Archie comics, a house full of Christmas and for not caring if there was a misfit kid hanging around.
Thursday, December 10, 2009
Days Gone By (For My Children--Linda)
I found the small princess doll that looked like Belle.
It reminded me of days gone by—of sweet desires—
squeaky toys, stars and moons and skies of clouds.
When hair was twisted, crunched, or in curls, and I knew just how to make you happy. But had no clue how to be myself.
I only knew to drown in moments full of babies’ savory odors, squeals of joy, and salty tears. All of you in a circle around me—corralling my importance.
Sunlit days overflowed with parks green, chilled by oceans, dripping with ice cream—the passenger seat full of Mema or Aunt Edith. Islands loomed ahead, while smooth rocks and shells shaded like the sunset waited for us, below chipped picnic tables on uneven ground.
Autumn leaves fell on dreams of a future where an apple pie would rule majestic from the center of a bare shining table in a cozy clean kitchen. I would stand handing out cookies to my babies as they flowed home from school into my cinnamon fantasy that first found its seed in my grandmother’s sunlit afghan 15 years before.
On brisk days of reality, I pushed strollers and recounted days gone by to tiny ears alongside bow lips that only opened for “Ma ma ma ma ma ma ma” and did not yet know, “Enough.”
Russet snapshots flash—a baby in red on a flat rock in Appleton’s ridge, sweet full cheeks flush in plaid on a blanket covered with leaves at Aunt Edith’s stoop, and a perfect chin beneath a crown of curls that finally dips down in sleep as R.E.M.’s relentless lullaby around the sun works its magic, as the van passes the “Witchy Pumpkin” yet again.
Winter was crisper than autumn, the sharp bite of Northeasters edging out sunny dreams. These days brimmed with Mema in Ames, Walmart, Penny’s—donning her Santa cap as I tried to recreate her magic. It’s so cold here, I do not want to drift back, save for those few balsam weeks.
Spring blooms eternal in southern places, but up here only my dreams of summer could take root in the chilled muddy ground. I chased them impatiently into Aunt Edith’s kitchen for tea as little hands reached in the cookie drawer and we made ready for a drive. Mema’s office would be surprised by a lunchtime visit and little feet would not want to touch the brittle frosted grass of winter’s cold grave.
Those days my best friends were old ladies and my favorite memories were remembering ones older still, all my dreams were merely dreams, and I was trying to be what I had imagined I would be, not what was my share of destiny.
This is where I drift back to now, with a sweet small ache for cocoon days of dim lights by a bedside where tiny feet kicked as I lifted them to change—to days when a trip to the store could bring time with my mother or Aunt, simple favorite foods, and a bright light in small eyes.
I don’t know yet how to reconcile the longing for such company as I’ll never have again—the yearning for a mother, for a family with roots deep in the earth. But I plow on, up hills framed by blueberries with small hands in mine, that grow despite my pleas. I look at the eyes of changing faces and try to keep focused on a path still into them, so that one day we can drive by old places and tell new stories in between, and sweet desires will have safe haven and new dreams will be discovered.
It reminded me of days gone by—of sweet desires—
squeaky toys, stars and moons and skies of clouds.
When hair was twisted, crunched, or in curls, and I knew just how to make you happy. But had no clue how to be myself.
I only knew to drown in moments full of babies’ savory odors, squeals of joy, and salty tears. All of you in a circle around me—corralling my importance.
Sunlit days overflowed with parks green, chilled by oceans, dripping with ice cream—the passenger seat full of Mema or Aunt Edith. Islands loomed ahead, while smooth rocks and shells shaded like the sunset waited for us, below chipped picnic tables on uneven ground.
Autumn leaves fell on dreams of a future where an apple pie would rule majestic from the center of a bare shining table in a cozy clean kitchen. I would stand handing out cookies to my babies as they flowed home from school into my cinnamon fantasy that first found its seed in my grandmother’s sunlit afghan 15 years before.
On brisk days of reality, I pushed strollers and recounted days gone by to tiny ears alongside bow lips that only opened for “Ma ma ma ma ma ma ma” and did not yet know, “Enough.”
Russet snapshots flash—a baby in red on a flat rock in Appleton’s ridge, sweet full cheeks flush in plaid on a blanket covered with leaves at Aunt Edith’s stoop, and a perfect chin beneath a crown of curls that finally dips down in sleep as R.E.M.’s relentless lullaby around the sun works its magic, as the van passes the “Witchy Pumpkin” yet again.
Winter was crisper than autumn, the sharp bite of Northeasters edging out sunny dreams. These days brimmed with Mema in Ames, Walmart, Penny’s—donning her Santa cap as I tried to recreate her magic. It’s so cold here, I do not want to drift back, save for those few balsam weeks.
Spring blooms eternal in southern places, but up here only my dreams of summer could take root in the chilled muddy ground. I chased them impatiently into Aunt Edith’s kitchen for tea as little hands reached in the cookie drawer and we made ready for a drive. Mema’s office would be surprised by a lunchtime visit and little feet would not want to touch the brittle frosted grass of winter’s cold grave.
Those days my best friends were old ladies and my favorite memories were remembering ones older still, all my dreams were merely dreams, and I was trying to be what I had imagined I would be, not what was my share of destiny.
This is where I drift back to now, with a sweet small ache for cocoon days of dim lights by a bedside where tiny feet kicked as I lifted them to change—to days when a trip to the store could bring time with my mother or Aunt, simple favorite foods, and a bright light in small eyes.
I don’t know yet how to reconcile the longing for such company as I’ll never have again—the yearning for a mother, for a family with roots deep in the earth. But I plow on, up hills framed by blueberries with small hands in mine, that grow despite my pleas. I look at the eyes of changing faces and try to keep focused on a path still into them, so that one day we can drive by old places and tell new stories in between, and sweet desires will have safe haven and new dreams will be discovered.
Monday, November 30, 2009
Today. 11-30-09
It's the year anniversary of Ma dying, here are some of our memories.
Shea: Always getting ice-cream every time I went there.
Fiona: Sitting at her crowded table, under the happy lamp. I colored in a mermaid coloring book picture and she told me to put it on the refrigerator.
Linda: Going to a store on Christmas Eve alone with her when I was little. It was cold and dark, the parking lot was nearly empty. The store was bright but almost as empty. We were getting our traditional Christmas Eve rippled sour cream and onion potato chips. On our way out, I saw a sweet white stuffed mouse wearing a Christmas hat and scarf on a display shelf, I pulled it down and hugged it tightly. She bought it for me, which was unusual back then. Not like the Mema she became--buying anything a grandchild looked at. I am holding that same mouse right now. He is even more sweet and precious to me now.
Saturday, June 13, 2009
Birthday Princess, Linda, June 4, 2009
Today is my first birthday without my mother. To say my birthday without my mother doesn’t feel the same seems redundant. Without our mothers, we would have no birthday. There isn’t a mother in the world that doesn’t remember something about her child’s actual “birth” day. The details of our children’s first Christmas, first Easter, even first birthday celebration get fuzzy and blend together. Pain makes memory more vivid, emotional or physical. It makes sense that this day remains crisp in a mother’s mind, the memory of a small human making its way out of your body in one form or another.
But this morning when I woke up, I was surprised to find that umbilical cord was still there, the end now dangling in the netherworld. I could pull it in hand over fist, and find its end raw and unattached. I waited for the reassuring calm and comfort that my brother and father have spoken of feeling enveloped in, as they feel my mother’s presence. But like my sister, I felt nothing. My mind then moved on to guilt. Wasn’t it too bad that I never said to my mother, “I can’t imagine a birthday without you.”, or “thanks for the life”, or even a simple, “thanks for all the birthday spoils”, of which there were many.
What my mother lacked in patience for traditional mothering throughout the rest of the year, she attempted to make up in holidays and birthdays. I often feel the strain as a mother to try and live up to the exuberance of my holidays past, and the generosity of my mother in my children’s holidays and birthdays.
When we were little, whether our birthdays will filled with just our family of 5 or with a few friends thrown in, there were always streamers and balloons and cake and numerous, numerous presents. The last present was always hidden in a treasure hunt led by creative, witty clues all written in my mother’s neat slanted script. Later in life, when she lacked the energy or ability to do the actual “leg work” of a party she was still always ready with the cash fund and usually some general orders. No one’s birthday went by without a dinner, a cake, ice cream and some presents, even when cash was tight.
My mother’s indulgence has damaged my real world expectations. When C and I were first dating, I remember being stunned when he forgot to buy me a present. How could that be possible? I was the birthday princess! This year, lacking the drive of my mother’s birthday spirit, C asked me “Do you want a cake?” I looked at him as if he was crazy, as if he had just asked me would I need my feet for the rest of the day or would I like them chopped off. You see, my mother has spoiled me. What a shame, now that I am acutely aware of just how much, that I can’t spoil her back.
Thursday, March 5, 2009
Joyce's Journal Entries
Ma had a few scattered journals, so much like me. New notebooks with one or two entries. Unfortunately, she became the most diligent about keeping them only when her focus became health oriented, interesting for a doctor but not so much for us. Deeper in the past I found a couple entries that warmed me to know she had such peace and embraced her Maine, her cottage, and her life for a short time each year. I was also impressed by her ability to capture these moments so beautifully in words.
Portion of Ma's Journal
9/22/1988
...What a glorious day!! I didn't see Mars last night as it was too cloudy. But today was outstanding. rich blue sky with wispy, fluffy clouds. Good full sunshine on the rapidly changing foliage. The swamp maples are ablaze. The trees are smaller and less full than sugar maples but their color is radiant beyond compare. Every now and then as you drive along you catch a sharp, clear blue sky, some beginning to change green leaves and an artists slash of brilliant red—unexpected—breath taking—thrilling brilliance. No pollutants today, no fog. Along most roadways the ferns and the undergrowth are fading to a pale orange, light browns. The trees are getting undressed ready for their winter covers. My cottage is friendly, peaceful, soaking up all the good vibes, breathing a sigh of relief as everyone pulls away. Just god and the animals remain. I heard a loon a couple nights ago that sounded very immature. It sounded like an early summer loon. I don't know how it could have wing feathers and develop meat enough to migrate. The loons are still with us.
Labor Day Sept. 4, 1989
The end of another summer at Lermond Pond. There are birds chirping, tweeting and whistling in the trees. The chipmunks chatter away at each other. A gentle breeze plays across the sun-dappled cove. I look for a fish to glide silently by but I haven't seen one in the past hour that I've been sitting here...Pond lillies grew in the Athearn's side of the cove this year. The Athearns never did come down this summer. The Keizers never even put their float in. They still don't want to sell so I guess the cottage will always be a place we long to have and hold. It's home to the kids and a great place to live six months out of the year.
A car came as I wrote (one always does) but it was a couple visiting “the Bossers”. The lake is still and blue. The trees are still green with no hint of fall in the distance. Up close some of the leaves are browning! The sky is endlessly blue. No clouds and only a hint of dust or pollution along the horizon. Hatchet Mountain is clearly visible with the power lie trail going over the middle like parted hair. As I write birds flutter from branch to branch making dancing shadows on the paper I write on.
Jack is sunning himself on the dock and Torie lies in majestic pose guarding her turf with a low grumble at the new intruding voices...
The sun is going over the top of the trees and the cottage and it's cooling down a little. The jay bird is still chark, chark, charking. A cicada rubs its legs. Spiders, ants and various bugs scuttle across my body and the table. It must be the season for “granddaddy long-legs” as I brush off three or four a day and I hadn't seen any since we arrived here before this past week. The breeze has picked up enough for me to put on my jacket. I haven't heard the call of a loon for a long time. Jack says he hears them every day. Sometimes at night I hear one.
The old man sits there like a little boy putting on his shoes. His body is golden like a greek god. You can't see his graying hair from here. I'll do a little color change on it today. Torie waits patiently for Jack to gather his mat and hitch up the float walk ramp.
I've rambled enough for one day. Almost an hour of just being quiet outdoors. I used to have two months of this every year. “You never miss the water til the well runs dry.”
Portion of Ma's Journal
9/22/1988
...What a glorious day!! I didn't see Mars last night as it was too cloudy. But today was outstanding. rich blue sky with wispy, fluffy clouds. Good full sunshine on the rapidly changing foliage. The swamp maples are ablaze. The trees are smaller and less full than sugar maples but their color is radiant beyond compare. Every now and then as you drive along you catch a sharp, clear blue sky, some beginning to change green leaves and an artists slash of brilliant red—unexpected—breath taking—thrilling brilliance. No pollutants today, no fog. Along most roadways the ferns and the undergrowth are fading to a pale orange, light browns. The trees are getting undressed ready for their winter covers. My cottage is friendly, peaceful, soaking up all the good vibes, breathing a sigh of relief as everyone pulls away. Just god and the animals remain. I heard a loon a couple nights ago that sounded very immature. It sounded like an early summer loon. I don't know how it could have wing feathers and develop meat enough to migrate. The loons are still with us.
Labor Day Sept. 4, 1989
The end of another summer at Lermond Pond. There are birds chirping, tweeting and whistling in the trees. The chipmunks chatter away at each other. A gentle breeze plays across the sun-dappled cove. I look for a fish to glide silently by but I haven't seen one in the past hour that I've been sitting here...Pond lillies grew in the Athearn's side of the cove this year. The Athearns never did come down this summer. The Keizers never even put their float in. They still don't want to sell so I guess the cottage will always be a place we long to have and hold. It's home to the kids and a great place to live six months out of the year.
A car came as I wrote (one always does) but it was a couple visiting “the Bossers”. The lake is still and blue. The trees are still green with no hint of fall in the distance. Up close some of the leaves are browning! The sky is endlessly blue. No clouds and only a hint of dust or pollution along the horizon. Hatchet Mountain is clearly visible with the power lie trail going over the middle like parted hair. As I write birds flutter from branch to branch making dancing shadows on the paper I write on.
Jack is sunning himself on the dock and Torie lies in majestic pose guarding her turf with a low grumble at the new intruding voices...
The sun is going over the top of the trees and the cottage and it's cooling down a little. The jay bird is still chark, chark, charking. A cicada rubs its legs. Spiders, ants and various bugs scuttle across my body and the table. It must be the season for “granddaddy long-legs” as I brush off three or four a day and I hadn't seen any since we arrived here before this past week. The breeze has picked up enough for me to put on my jacket. I haven't heard the call of a loon for a long time. Jack says he hears them every day. Sometimes at night I hear one.
The old man sits there like a little boy putting on his shoes. His body is golden like a greek god. You can't see his graying hair from here. I'll do a little color change on it today. Torie waits patiently for Jack to gather his mat and hitch up the float walk ramp.
I've rambled enough for one day. Almost an hour of just being quiet outdoors. I used to have two months of this every year. “You never miss the water til the well runs dry.”
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
Tuna Casserole Recipe
I learned quite a bit about old fashioned cooking from Ma. This one is not so old fashioned, but it's definitely a family favorite!
Ma’s Tuna Casserole
1/2 stick of butter
3 c. milk
1/4 c. flour
1 bag noodles (Muellers is best)
1 sm. can peas
2 tbl. sugar
1 can tuna
10-12 slices of American cheese
Make a white sauce using the butter, milk, and flour. (Over medium heat, melt butter in a saucepan. Beat milk and flour. Add milk/flour mixture to saucepan. Raise heat to med/hi. While stirring contantly, bring to a boil and remove from heat. The sauce should be lightly-moderately thick, but it doesn’t matter too much.)
Meanwhile, bring water to boil in a pasta pan. (Cook noodles as directed. Better to slightly undercook than to overcook, but it’s not a huge deal. Strain noodles when finished.)
Pour white sauce into the pasta pan and return noodles to the pan as well.
Heat peas and strain. Add sugar and stir lightly. Add peas to the pasta pan.
Drain tuna and add to the pasta pan.
Stir entire mixture.
Rub stick of butter on edges and bottom of a 2-3 qt. baking dish.
Pour mixture into the dish and spread evenly.
Cover entire top with slices of American cheese. Place extra cheese over seams between slices.
In preheated oven, bake at 400 degrees for 10-15 minutes. (It’s okay if the cheese gets some brown spots.)
Let cool a bit. Then serve in sections (like lasagna).
To reheat, cut a section and place on a plate. Heat in a microwave. (It helps to cut the section in halves or thirds before reheating.) This is one of those dishes that gets better when reheated!
Enjoy!!!
Ma’s Tuna Casserole
1/2 stick of butter
3 c. milk
1/4 c. flour
1 bag noodles (Muellers is best)
1 sm. can peas
2 tbl. sugar
1 can tuna
10-12 slices of American cheese
Make a white sauce using the butter, milk, and flour. (Over medium heat, melt butter in a saucepan. Beat milk and flour. Add milk/flour mixture to saucepan. Raise heat to med/hi. While stirring contantly, bring to a boil and remove from heat. The sauce should be lightly-moderately thick, but it doesn’t matter too much.)
Meanwhile, bring water to boil in a pasta pan. (Cook noodles as directed. Better to slightly undercook than to overcook, but it’s not a huge deal. Strain noodles when finished.)
Pour white sauce into the pasta pan and return noodles to the pan as well.
Heat peas and strain. Add sugar and stir lightly. Add peas to the pasta pan.
Drain tuna and add to the pasta pan.
Stir entire mixture.
Rub stick of butter on edges and bottom of a 2-3 qt. baking dish.
Pour mixture into the dish and spread evenly.
Cover entire top with slices of American cheese. Place extra cheese over seams between slices.
In preheated oven, bake at 400 degrees for 10-15 minutes. (It’s okay if the cheese gets some brown spots.)
Let cool a bit. Then serve in sections (like lasagna).
To reheat, cut a section and place on a plate. Heat in a microwave. (It helps to cut the section in halves or thirds before reheating.) This is one of those dishes that gets better when reheated!
Enjoy!!!
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