Saying goodbye to my dad was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. My mom, brothers, and I surrounded him as he left this life–it was gentle, quiet, and intimate.
We knew that he wasn’t going to get better, and he clearly was ready—tired of the physical pain and struggle he experienced in the last months of his life. He looked at me directly, took my hand, and spoke of this. I honor and respect that. He had lived a great life, maintaining and farming the land he loved. He and my mother had created a strong marriage and family, and he had enjoyed many, many friendships.
Dad in one of his favorite places–the cab of a tractor.
I know all these things, yet this passage into a life
without my dad is painful and hard to navigate.
But I am reminded of gratitude with words of wisdom from our dear Winnie the Pooh. “How lucky I am to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard.” How true. I am lucky to have had such an amazing dad, to have been born into a family with such a commitment, and to have had my dad’s unconditional love and guidance for nearly sixty years.
As I walk the yard this Monday evening, the grass is suddenly greener and a few of my spring bulbs are blossoming.
Hallelujah!
The birds are “twitter-pating” and collecting nesting materials, I hear the spring peepers in the marsh on my way to the grocery, and we will sleep with our windows slightly open tonight.
No, we can’t put away the sweaters and wool socks yet, as by Wednesday they predict a high of forty-five here in Southwest Michigan, but it feels like we survived winter, that we’ve come out the other side of the darkness.
My northern Michigan family and friends are still waiting for a day like this. Know it is coming, dear ones!
He planted them, admired them, and appreciated them for the firewood he cut to heat our farmhouse. In our yard, we always had shady trees, planted by my great-grandparents in the early 1900’s. To the west of the house stood old, knobby pear trees—overgrown and shaggy—whose fruit bounced to the ground with the late summer winds, attracting all kinds of stinging insects. In the front and back yards, we had big maples which we climbed like monkeys, fearlessly scaling the highest branches. We read books in the branches, pretended to take naps, and gave my mother fits when she emerged from the house, realizing how high we had climbed.
Two old trees stand vigil along the road. When I was a child, there were three, and my brothers and I played and built forts beneath them. (all photos courtesy of Oswalt Family Farms)
“Expand! Expand! Expand!” was the farm lending mantra during the late sixties and early seventies, giving confidence to my parents who purchased an adjoining eighty-acre parcel just to the west of our home place. This acreage was divided neatly by fence-rows into four twenty-acre fields. My dad planned to remove the fence-rows, full of sumac and various determined seedlings, to accommodate the farm implements which were growing vigorously larger and larger with the ag-industry’s push for more production.
Dad bought a small used bulldozer and began his demolition work with enthusiasm. We could hear the bulldozer’s engine and the cracking of the fence-rows’ brush as we rode our bikes back and forth, monitoring his progress. Dreaming of running his corn planter smoothly down long rows the following spring, he uprooted trees, burned huge brush piles, and worked steadily to create a large field.
The Angus are pastured on part of the field my dad cleared. While you see many cottonwood trees here, the year before my dad died, he was working daily to clear the dead and damaged trees from this area.
Once the dust settled, the smoke cleared, and the roaring bulldozer’s engine quieted, one tree stood alone in the middle of the huge, cleared field. I imagine it grew firmly in a fence row when my father and Uncle John were boys. It may have been an anchor for fencing, possibly a mark for a previous neighbor’s gate, or even a visual aid to help set a pattern for corn planting. It most certainly sheltered birds, housed squirrels, and supported the buzzards.
Somehow my dad’s grace allowed this old fellow to co-exist in our farm operation. It stood solidly in the middle of whatever my dad planted: corn, wheat, soybeans, even hay. Why did this one tree survive the bulldozer and chainsaw? I’m guessing my dad just couldn’t bring himself to cut that old gentleman down.
Here is the old tree, still surviving and enduring the winter, as the Angus move around him.
When I was a child, the tree was regal and handsome—his trunk thick and healthy, branches strong and many, and leaves lush and green. He became our favorite “secret spot.” Some breezy summer days, my mom would give us permission to pack our lunch and eat wherever we wanted. The tree wasn’t far—probably a quarter mile up the road on our bikes, then a quick hike through the field to picnic beneath his branches. It was cool in his shade, and around his base my dad had piled many loads of stones we gradually picked from the surrounding field.
I’m now a tree gal—influenced, I’m sure, by my dad’s passion for them: I admire the lone Gingko tree on the empty lot north of the bank, whose history is now forgotten; I am amazed by the massive beech tree on the east side of the Sunset Lake, whose totem pole trunk is carved with bark faces; and I notice the local tulip tree population, whose teacup blossoms grace their cool springtime arms.
And every time I visit my mother, I salute the tree, that tough old veteran, a reminder of my past and my dad’s impractical, sentimental side.
Here we are on a Spring Break outing. We went adventuring in Kalamazoo that day.
We are vintage gals. Sisters of the heart. Friends who love the hunt for vintage treasures. Several times a year we have an adventure. We hit the resale and antique shops, visit a micro-brewery or two, and enjoy our friendship. On these days, I don’t think there are three happier women anywhere on the planet.
How these adventures began:
Annette and I began our junking tours ten years ago by paying for a day-long bus trip. We paid nearly $200: this fee included a bagged lunch and breakfast, coffee and on-board cocktails, dinner at a nice restaurant, and arranged visits at antique malls and shops. We loved the time together, and we were treated like queens. It was awesome! The following year, we again handed over our $200 and went along for the all-included jaunt. But when the third summer approached, we decided the two of us could manage this without the bus service. And we did–less the cocktail sipping during drive time. And by the fifth year, Krista joined us.
How we plan our day:
I often do the planning and drive. I guess I like doing that (perhaps it’s the bossy big sister in me) and my friends don’t seem to mind. While we enjoy our traveling conversation, road time is not where we want to spend the majority of our day. Southwest Michigan has many wonderful antique malls and shops–so we can create a 2 1/2 to 3 hour loop, and within that route we can visit multiple villages or outlying antique stores. If we take the adventure in the late summer, farm stands (and pies) wait at roadside.
Enjoying a day together several years ago at a regional brewery.
Wonderful micro-breweries and distilleries which serve a delicious meals are also plentiful in our area. No Vintage Sister adventure is complete without brew sampling and sharing delicious foods together.
Also, many small towns feature unique little cafes and restaurants (which feel rather upscale without an upscale price). Their menus feature local produce, meats, breads, desserts, and wines. All three of us are foodies, and we love trying some new flavors and combinations.
What it costs:
Granola bars, nuts, and water. ($5)
Lunch at a brewery ($20-30)
Supper at a brewery or local restaurant ($20-40)
Gas $25
Vintage and Antique Treasures: We might spend whatever is in our budget that day, but we have saved probably $125 from the cost of the bus trips Annette and I began with ten years ago.
But by far, the best deal is the time spent together.
What we look for and find:
We each collect and admire different things, which is part of what makes these times together so much fun. Krista is a true artist and art teacher. She sees color and possibility in items I often overlook. Annette is a master gardener and also very artistic–her tastes run towards rusty metals and unique architectural pieces, which I have never considered before.
I love the ease of decorating the holiday tables with these vintage vanity trays. There are several styles and shapes. I prefer the oval.
I have started collecting, using, and gifting these vintage vanity trays. I first realized their potential at a niece’s wedding where each table was decorated with these lovely old trays, filled with tiny clear vases, small blossoms, and sparking votive holders. The effect was stunning. I can usually find them for $10-15 at resale or antique shops. They are imperfect–dinged and worn–but who isn’t? These imperfections add character.
If you want to try decorating with a tray and don’t have time to vintage shop, there are beautiful new vanity trays available on Amazon.
The Benefits:
My dear Lake Effect Writers Guild friends at our retreat last summer. We have been meeting monthly for five years. It is something we all make a priority, and we look forward sharing an evening together.
The research is clear: supportive relationships contribute positively to our longevity and overall sense well-being. We are simply happier when we have “people” and times with our people to put on our calendars. We all need activities to look forward to. This can be created in many ways: service groups, hobby groups, clubs, or sports groups are a few ideas.
Looking Ahead:
Summer is nearly here, and I have a new route in mind for our next adventure. (I do welcome a suggestion from you, dear reader, if you frequent a vintage or antique shop!)
We haven’t yet set the next date, but I will have the tank filled, cooler packed, and a heart full of happiness.
It’s a Fine Life.
A Resource: Clicking the image will take you to Amazon.
Here is a book I’ve read about longevity and happiness. It was quick and easy to read, helping me appreciate the value and importance of relationships. I recommend it.
My gardens have been continually changing since I started them over twenty years ago. What began with five spindly plants from one of those ten-dollar-mail-order offers has morphed into a backyard surrounded by perennial beds and ornamental bushes.
Late summer in our garden: perennials, annuals, and–as you will notice from the picture–a few determined weeds.
I didn’t follow any grand plan. I just started buying what I liked–sometimes on clearance at big box stores. Sometimes I set aside enough from our monthly budget that I was able to go to our lovely nursery in town to select a new hydrangea or other foundation-building shrub. And sometimes, my dad would leave a surprise plant or bush on our front porch as he was an avid flower and vegetable gardener. So I would say my love of flower gardening and the various projects grew at a slow pace for about fifteen years.
Here’s another section of the backyard. After this picture was taken, we had the birch tree trimmed , and we re-painted the fence. This summer, this area will receive much more sunlight.
Our garden has grown significantly over the last five years. Our back yard is surrounded by a picket fence, designed and built by my husband. Within the last year, he has moved river rock around the house and is edging the beds with metal. My husband’s involvement in the landscaping and gardening has been a shift for me. By adding his muscle, I have had toadjustto the addition of his opinions. I am used to making most gardening decisions. And while I have been occasionally reluctant, the end result has been very satisfying.
I don’t know how many ton of river rocks my husband has placed around the house. I was skeptical at first, but I now love how tidy everything looks AND we are having fewer problems with mice in the house. Perhaps there is a connection…
After this picture was taken, we trimmed the bushes and repainted the house and fence. We had a wedding in the yard last summer. (that’s a future blog entry…) We are looking forward to this summer when we can just enjoy the yard and gardens.
For the last two summers, this has been Dennis’s special project: a zinnia bed near the road. And again, I wasn’t sure about it. (You would think I’d learn!) Guess what? It is stunning in August.
So, all in all, the change has been worth it: a much improved yard and major projects are completed. And yes, I’m learning to make gardening adjustments!
We no longer go to the old farmhouse for holidays—it is too
much for my mother and has been for several years. I hosted our immediate family
again for Thanksgiving this year, our first major holiday since my dad’s death,
and my tears brined our turkey.
I was doing well: setting the tables, preparing the meal, enjoying
our home filled with our children and grandchildren, but then I stepped on the
cat’s tail, she howled, and I cried.
This grief jumps from around corners and invades the quiet moments of my life. It startles me, catching me without my security system set securely around my heart. Like today—the first delicious snow day of the school year. This gift of eight hours of unscheduled time smiles at me.
The house is mine.
The day is mine.
I sit with my coffee, admiring the beautiful, wet snow smothering
the bird feeders, flocking the pines, blanketing the lawn, and I miss my dad.
I am a magpie when it comes to drink mixology. My friends think I create our special drinks for our monthly gatherings, but the truth is, I am a shameless copy-cat. If Dennis and I go to a restaurant, for instance, I will usually order the seasonal drink special. I often take pictures of the ingredients, and I’m not above asking the bartender about the liquid ratios. (Flattery can get a gal just about anything she wants…) The part I don’t duplicate is the drink name–I always give my “designer drinks” a signature name: the Spring Fling, Summer’s Last Kiss, and the Snow Day are just a few. It has become a tradition and something my friends look forward to.
(by clicking on the image, you can preview the book on Amazon)
The Hostess Gift
So when my friend Krista gave me Tim Federle’s Tequila Mockingbird last year as a hostess gift, it was very appropriate. (It is not unusual to receive a hostess gift from my girlfriends–I think we were all raised by mothers who read Miss Manners and Heloise’s Helpful Hints.) I thanked her and set the book aside–probably placing it on my bedside nightstand. I had never seen the book before, and it was several weeks before I began reading it. I have thoroughly enjoyed it and have appreciated revisiting it throughout the year. Not only are there some delightful cocktail recipes (“One Flew over the Cosmo’s Nest” is a tasty riff on the classic Cosmo and an easy place to start), but there are witty and smart plot summaries and character discussion. Federle’s writing is full of puns and playful word choice.
I recommend it! It will bring a smile to your face and encourage you to create something special for your glass! And, of course, it makes a fantastic host or hostess gift for a future gathering.
“Our rooster
is havin’ a really great year,” my seven-year-old granddaughter shares late
last summer as we weed her herb garden. Her twin brother Caleb is having a
playdate with a friend, so we are enjoying some rare one-on-one time together. She
converses with me in that delightful way young children do with people they
know and trust—completely, openly, sincerely—and she clearly has opinions about
their current rooster and his quality of life.
Hmmm.
What constitutes a good year for a rooster?
All his ladies at his disposal?
I love this picture: Chloe, our little goat girl.
A crowd to admire his strut and swag?
We had
several chickens who wandered the farm of my childhood. When I was seven, we
had a rooster with these feathery bangs we named “Ringo.” The Beatles had just
begun their U.S. tour, and my brother and I found the Fab Four’s hairdos both
hilarious and amazing. When Ed Sullivan featured the Beatles in 1964, I watched,
laughed and danced, shaking my head and playing an air guitar before there was
a name for such things. Our rooster
Ringo was king of the barn and certainly wouldn’t have eaten from my hand no matter
how patiently and persistently I would have tried. A “great year” for Ringo
would have included lots of bugs and corn to eat, as he led the simple life of
an under-appreciated bachelor.
Chloe’s
rooster doesn’t really have a name. Just “Rooster.” He has free range of
everything on their little ten-acre homestead: the woods, the yard, the
driveway, even the garage. He has a selection of twelve fine-looking hens—well
muscled and productive—and he is ever-vigilant, crowing if concerned by a
sudden change or separation of his brood.
So what makes “Rooster” and his year
so good?
“Well, Nana,
he just knows that brother and I are gentle and kind. Our other rooster didn’t
know that. But this rooster doesn’t chase us, so we reward him.”
Hmmm.
How do you reward a rooster?
A trip to the neighbor’s coop for
a little tryst?
A new perch from which to announce
the sunrise?
“So Nana,
sometimes when I’m pickin’ berries, I save some an’ he comes to me and eats
outta my hand,” she continues.
Wow. Really?
“I’ll show
you.” She confidently marches to the nearby blueberry bushes, picks a tiny
handful, and crouches low to the ground. She quietly calls to Rooster.
“It’s okay. You’re a good boy. Come here…I have blueberries for you.” She holds her little cupped hands still and continues to talk softly… gently… and sure enough, Rooster slowly approaches her and picks the berries carefully from her hand. He doesn’t hurt her or peck at her when the berries are gone. He simply cocks his head one when and then the other, then scoots off to scratch for bugs near the raspberry canes. Chloe brushes off her hands, stands, and turns to me, proud and satisfied.
Chloe rewarding Rooster.
Here’s what I know: our amazing world
will be at this child’s command.
My
seven-year-old granddaughter has learned the benefits of giving positive
rewards at an early age. Although she doesn’t fully understand the psychology,
Chloe is discovering how certain actions can maintain or change a behavior. What
power she will have.
My daughter and son-in-law are very involved and committed to their family, but as all parents, they are blissfully oblivious to the tests awaiting them and the quickly developing sophistication of this tiny, expressive redhead.
While Rooster’s
time on this earth has come to an end, our dear Chloe’s journey has just begun.
The silo was filled, the combine greased and stored for another year, and frost covered the fields around our farmhouse when my Dad left for deer hunting. He would be gone a week, and he assured us he would return “before we knew it.” And he was right, of course, as soon our unshaven father was back, unloading his suitcase and telling us stories about the northern Michigan woods he walked, the animals he saw, and the people he met.
Listening and laughing, we excitedly watched Dad unpack, my youngest brother clinging to Dad’s legs.
I’m confident you’ve heard of Marie Kondo and her joyful “tidying”: this movement is becoming a cultural phenomenon: She published her first book, The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up in 2014, followed by a companion book, Spark Joyin 2016.
