Category: Community and Happiness

It’s hard to pick a favorite month, but I do love October. The cool nights, the fresh apples, the first frost. When we were children, October meant Dad was putting in long days harvesting the corn and filling the silos.

Sometimes Mom packed up our suppers, loaded us in the station wagon, and drove us to the field where Dad was working. Often, Dad was on the other side of the field, and we watched eagerly for his wave, signaling he saw us. He carefully guided the corn picker or combine, chopping the straight rows of corn he and Uncle John had planted that spring, working his way towards our end of the field.

Then we would settle on the hood of the car or perch on the rocks along the edge of the field and have dinner together. So happy to see us, he would talk about his day and ask us about our day at school. Dad’s gentle hand rested on the tops of our heads before he climbed back into the combine and we left for home. I remember Mom’s relief, hearing the tractor or combine after dark, announcing his return home on those harvest days. He entered the warmth of home, dirty, tired and ravenous, but always confident in the goodness of life, in what our fertile land could produce, and in the love of his family.

I do love this month, the beauty of these fall days, and all the memories they hold. Anne of Green Gables said it best: “I’m so glad I live in a world where there are Octobers.”

It’s a Fine Life.

By Kathleen Oswalt-Forsythe

Nostalgia and I are long-time friends. Growing up the fourth generation on a family farm, I eagerly welcomed this constant companion. Reminders of the previous generations and their hard work were visible daily: the hay barn’s hand-hewn beams, the old horse collar in the shop, the field stone foundations. My great-grandparents planted two pear trees to the west of the farmhouse in 1908. From my bedroom window, I could watch those knobby branches drop their fall fruit, twiggy fingers wiggling in the breeze.

The childhood faces of my father, uncle, and their neighbors smile from their annual school picture on the steps of the Harper School – a charming old black-and-white photo in my album. Dad’s one-room-schoolhouse days were part of our growing-up-folklore: the mile walk to school, the tag and softball games at recess; the neighborhood’s contribution to salary and firewood. It all sounded magical to me.

When I started kindergarten, I rode to Fulton Elementary School with my grandmother – our 4^th grade teacher – in her white Thunderbird. I couldn’t see over the dashboard, so I watched the trees click by or traced the powerlines as we drove the six miles to school. I loved being with her – my striking grandmother in her little tweed suits with the lapel pins, her suntan hose, and her spectator pumps. After parking, she opened the car’s heavy door for me, saying, “Have a good day, dolly.” I assumed everyone’s school experience was as wonderful as mine; the only way it could possibly be better would be going to “country school.”

Last spring, a frank discussion with my mother-in-law about her one-room-schoolhouse experience revealed a different narrative. She had attended several one-room-schools in rural Illinois before going to high school in a larger town. My mother-in-law is smart, loves numbers, and remembers everything. I’m sure she was a sharp and thorough student, quickly finishing anything her teacher assigned. But when she finished one year and entered a different “country school,” she learned that her teacher had not introduced her to important math concepts, leaving her terribly unprepared for the next year’s expectations. “I was angry. I had lots of work to do to catch up.” Catch up she certainly did, but it was disappointing and stressful for her.

So those really weren’t the “good old days” for many students. Isolation and lack of support in outlying areas created gaps in student learning I hadn’t considered. Today, teachers plan and team at grade level, following curriculum that guarantees students’ exposure to the most important standards. Also, in the 1940s and ‘50s, many students didn’t go beyond the 8^th grade. Many students today are eligible for and receive much needed services and supports, also helping more students complete their schooling.

I will always enjoy looking at those charming school photos or seeing the old structures on Sunday drives, but I am also reminded of the historical and continued need for equity and opportunity for all students.

It’s a Fine Life

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My dad and I enjoyed this story. The main character is a teacher in the rural west.

In fourth grade, my grandmother read these books to our class as we rested our heads on our cool desks after recess. I just loved them and imagined being Laura.

If you haven’t read this book, do. It is amazing.

Today, I am missing the cabin, our old family place on beautiful Batchawana Bay on the Canadian Lake Superior Shore.

Normally, we would be packing our coolers, stuffing our suitcases, and buying extra mosquito repellent and sunscreen. Last week we would have had the oil changed, car serviced, and the tires checked.

But not this year. The Corona-virus and our nation’s inability to control its spread have closed the Canadian Border to us.

I certainly understand this decision, but oh how I will miss the old place, that lovely bay, and the uninterrupted time together.

We are off the technology grid. Our phones have no service. The cottage is without wifi or any internet connection.

We relax. We talk, play games, cook, read, nap–there is no set pace and minimal expectations.

And then there is the beauty of this place.

The cool breeze from the big lake.

The crystal clear water.

The night stars on the velvet sky.

But above all there are the memories. The times we spent as children, with our children, and now our grandchildren.

I have the Batchawana Blues.

It’s a Fine Life.

In a sandy bank, along the road to the old home place lives a prosperous and prolific woodchuck family. Members of their clan have lived there as long as I can remember, chewing the grasses and wild strawberries along the gravelly edges of the pavement.

The original burrow has been passed down through the years, starting with a great-great grandfather who warned his heirs of the dangers of moving away, encouraging them to dig beneath the protective walnut tree. He stressed the merits of staying in the same neighborhood and remaining vigilant of the cars, trucks, and tractors that rumble by.

But, oh, the arrogance of youth.

Some grandchildren met their maker under the decks of my brothers’ homes; a son came to a sudden end along the perimeter of the vegetable garden, while a stubborn sister was silenced homesteading beneath the old stone walls of the hay barn.

They should have listened to the wisdom of their elders.

Late summer I see the offspring every time I visit my mother. They are plump and healthy looking, scuddling into the grasses as I pass.

There was a prosperous colony there before I was born, and their descendants will likely thrive long after I am gone.

Their persistence and tenacity from generation to generation make me smile.

It’s a Fine Life

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I have always loved reading animal stories and imagining their life. My mother used to read “Peter Rabbit” to me. I read from a similar collection to our grandchildren at bedtime. Timeless little tales.

This was my favorite book as a child. I think it was in the book-of-the-month club my mom subscribed to. The little squirrel lives for a time in a dollhouse. What child hasn’t imagined that?

Dennis and I watched a darling little rabbit hippity-hop around the edges of the garden early this morning. Nervous he is not; nervous he definitely should be. He appears to be the only one left of his brood, his siblings obviously the victims of the ever-ready bunny hunters: coyotes, fox, hawks, or cats. As the hour progressed, he became bolder and bolder, venturing into the center of the yard to savor clover blossoms or leaping randomly to try out his newly discovered, athletic abilities.

Taking my camera from its case I quietly slipped out the front door and through the picket gate to attempt a picture. No chance. He slipped back under the daylily canopies and the cool shadows of the hydrangea.

I am concerned about him; this is no McGregor’s garden, but our old calico cat (still surprisingly stealth at seventeen) has caused a quick end to many a young bunny, and the hawks, who often hide in the pine branches, would love a savory snack of this tiny one.

Young Cottontail has made it to lunchtime, and he fearlessly nibbles the grass at the back of the yard. The squirrels (who could use a few more predators in my opinion) chase each other up and down the locust tree; they are cocky, plump buggers–nothing like sweet Peter and his gentle grazing and gazing.

Fearlessly, obliviously, joyfully he investigates our yard. His youthful exuberance has made our day.

I fear his cavalier hours on earth will probably be brief, but despite the hazards

It’s a Fine Life.  

For a week or so each summer, we are lucky enough to have a place to go to beat the heat and get away. It has always been the highlight of our family’s year.

When we were kids, the station wagon strained with the five of us children, a grandmother, two dogs, sleeping bags, fishing gear, and all kinds of caged energy and excitement. Once my dad’s tanned arm draped the driver’s side door, my mom’s sunglasses adorned her face, and we had wiggled into our places, we launched, listening to Ernie Harwell or the gravelly voice of Merle Haggard. Inching along, we left the humid world of corn fields and wheat stubble; just past Mt. Pleasant, the air began to thin and the lovely smell of northern pine forests began. 

Our old log cabin sits on a river and protected sandy bay on the Lake Superior Canadian shore. Our maternal grandparents purchased the vacant property in the late 1930s, and our families have enjoyed it ever since.

Currently, many third and fourth generation cottage owners struggle to maintain, finance, and agree on what to do with older aging properties. So far, the nine families involved have worked things out pretty well, but caring for an aging vacation home is an exercise in love, not logic.

Our grandchildren are the fourth generation of young ones whose lips turn blue in the clear, icy water, whose little eyes faithfully watch their bobbers, whose necks are lined with black fly and mosquito bites. I realize how fortunate we are.

Yes, times have changed. On many lakes in in our area, cottages have been sold, demolished, and replaced with gorgeous year-round-homes. The modest vacation dwellings that remain look out of place, hidden in the shadows of their fine, fresh neighbors.

It’s hard to imagine a new place. Would I miss the mustiness? The brown bats that flutter in the rafters? The snap of the mousetraps once lights are out?

Absolutely not.

But I would miss the wash tubs nailed on the sagging exterior, the familiar creak of the steps and floorboards, the sweet smell of my grandmother’s spices in the old kitchen cupboard.

Family cottages are a nostalgic journey through the years: the cast-off dishes and jigsaw puzzles, the old record players and scratched vinyl. All reminders of our history.

At the cabin, I feel a connectedness to the past and an appreciation for the dear ones no longer here: my dad and grandfather’s favorite chair sits in the shady window, my uncle’s tools hang in the boathouse, my grandmother’s bread pans wait on a shelf.

We will miss the old place this year, but she will welcome our return next summer after we tame this pandemic.

And the discussions and plans for our family place will continue.

At least for now.

It’s a Fine Life.

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We bought one of these in a “tourist shop” when the kids were little. They had a blast swinging at mosquitos.

We bought one of these in a “tourist trap” when the kids were little. They had a blast swinging at mosquitoes.

Our kids also loved Mad-Lib books and had fun with them while traveling.

Always a cabin favorite: jigsaw puzzles.

I’ve fallen in love again–I’m totally smitten, head-over-heels, crazy-punch-drunk in love with this little fellow: Zippy, our twelve week old Boston Terrier.

For the last year, Dennis and I talked about another dog, and Snuggles (our first Boston we loved for many years) had paved a perfect path for another little short-haired darling.

With the shuttering of schools and many businesses, I am now working from home. I suddenly have the appropriate time to properly train and socialize a dog, and we starting looking. With the help of friends, we located a breeder, and now this rambunctious rascal is helping me survive the sadness of social distancing.

According to health experts, pets provide us many health benefits. I have visited many credible online resources and the psychological and physical benefit claims are pretty amazing.

On every site, increased activity is stated as a health benefit. Hmmmm. So far, I can’t say this is true for me. Yes, as soon as he starts sniffing, I am whisking him to the backyard for prompt pottying, but I find I spend much of my morning in pure-puppy-bliss just sitting on my couch with my little fellow tucked next to me. If I had a rocking chair, I swear I would be rocking him like a baby. I know that sounds crazy, but the serotonin release that comes from holding this little guy is similar to how I felt when rocking our babies. (AND the good news is that I am much more rested!)

Stated again and again in the research is how pets bring joy and help to lessen loneliness. Yes, how lonely I have been during this time apart from my family, my friends, my co-workers, my students, and my community. I do feel better since Zippy entered my life. Definitely. He follows me around the house. He helps me pull weeds in the garden. He sleeps at my feet as I work and write. And he sniffs the flowers and watches the birds at the feeders, reminding me of the beauty around me.

(Here’s an odd claim that makes me laugh from the AKC website: having a dog makes you more attractive. Whaaat? Now that’s a stretch, a huge stretch, especially since I haven’t had an appointment with my hair dresser since early March.)

I think we are both lucky to have found each other, and I predict a great future for this relationship.

When Donny sang in 1972 “And they call it Puppy Love. ” I thought he was singing to me about my 7th grade crush. But, when I change the lyrics in the next section, he is crooning to sixty-something me about this love affair with Zippy.

“Oh I guess they’ll never know, how this old heart really feels, and why I love him so.”

Puppy Love.

It’s a Fine Life.

By Kathleen Oswalt Forsythe © May 18, 2020

A Recommended Training Book

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Some of Zippy’s Favorite Chews