For fifteen years, he’s made us smile with his calm and trusting ways.  His life is woven tightly into our family memories of all those years, so he’s sure to come home to us often and especially during family gatherings.  Mutton on mole watch at the edge of the field, Mutton battling with my mom for a spot on the couch, Mutton on the pump room concrete begging for a brushing, Mutton …

Mutton (AKA Mutton-Man, Tubby, Tubman, T, T-Man)
Loved by all who knew him
1995 – 2010

Image by MemaNH (busy)

“They’re all dead,” he finally concluded with as much irritation as sadness in his voice.

I drove a couple more miles on the narrow blacktop in silence, passing another old farmhouse; sorry to let it go by without introduction.  He spoke first.

“Guess they’re all dead now except Old Joe.”

My dad exaggerated a bit, but at 85, he’s one of the last voices of his generation still alive to recall the names and faces of those who once lived behind the walls of the old farmhouses we passed.  One day he too will be gone, forgotten by all but those who loved him best.  And so it will be for all of us.  Growing old beats the alternative, but it sure must get lonely when you’re one of the last ones to leave.

Image by roboppy

I thought of my great-Aunt Belle the other day while frying Spam. She spent all of her long life in the northeastern hills of Pennsylvania busily cooking, gardening, teaching, living. Starting when I was about six and continuing for the next seven years, I made an almost daily trek the half-mile to her house, sometimes on foot through the woods, now and then on horseback through the fields, or most often pedaling my Western Flyer out the rough dirt road.

Together, Aunt Belle and I baked cookies, picked corn, weeded carrots, made Christmas presents, fed calves, and cleaned cupboards. Most of our conversations slid lightly from cats to cows, from school plays to picnics, from ice skating to the weather. At times, we grew more serious, welcoming Alaska and Hawaii into the family, wishing John Glenn bon voyage, worrying about what Fidel might do to us, wondering about Martin’s dream speech, and joining Walter to say good-bye to JFK.

Like most farm wives, my aunt knew how to save a penny in all that she did. The work was ever present – darning socks, patching jeans, hanging out wash, growing a large garden, canning fruits and vegetables, picking berries, plucking chickens, hacking up home-grown beef, skinning rabbits and squirrels, cleaning fish, making do. In some ways, she stretched a penny beyond recognition. I especially remember eyeing our chocolate chip cookies set out to cool on the counter. My recurring challenge? Find the one with more than three chocolate chips! She economized at dinnertime too. Her meals were often a conglomeration of the previous several nights’ meals, kind of mystery casseroles. Like the Spam, they were tasty, but better not to ask what was in them or how old the ingredients were!

As I opened the Spam can recently and picked up a knife, I smiled to myself, thinking of Aunt Belle and her subtle influences on my life so many years later. With three sons and a hungry husband, our Spam slices grew in number over the years from seven to eight to nine to ten, until that little block of meat yielded eleven very thin slices to feed my family of five. I rationed the slices; three for Gary, two each for the boys and me. The funny thing is that it just never occurred to me to buy two cans! Aunt Belle would understand.

She’d understand about the refrigerator too. We bought a new one earlier this year, so when I called Tyler in California, I mentioned the new purchase. “Does it have a light in it?” he immediately asked. His question puzzled me for a minute until I realized he was teasing. Our old refrigerator light burned out about fifteen years ago, and I never replaced it. Did you know that if you put your eyes level with each shelf and squint you can see pretty well all the way to the back without a light?

Today, I’m making chocolate chip cookies. The recipe calls for a twelve ounce bag of chips, but as always, I’ll ignore old Toll House and side more closely with my aunt’s count. Tonight, when it’s cookie time, I’ll just try to find the ones with more than five chips before Gary gets to them. Now, about that missing light in the oven…

Missing my Aunt Belle.

Image by Nikki L.

Wandering through the antique shop aisles, I run my eyes over the glass cases filled with Eastern Star rings, tortoise shell hair combs, tarnished crosses, and pocket watches inscribed on the back with “Love Forever” and “Until the End of Time.” On the wall, a framed, hand-embroidered picture depicts a cozy living room with fireplace and proclaims “Happy 25th Anniversary,” with the loving stitcher’s initials in the corner and the date 1954. Around the corner, a large family Bible lies on a table between a sweet-faced Betsy McCall doll and a sad stuffed bear with sewn-on eyes. A page in the front of the Bible proclaims the birth of two children long ago. Betsy and the bear stare out at all who pass.

Who were the proud owners of these treasures? How did these most-personal items find their way to public display for strangers to pick and pry at and leave behind? Where are the sisters and brothers, the sons and daughters, the nieces and nephews of those who left it all behind? Why didn’t they want their loved ones’ precious stuff? I asked these questions every time I passed through antique stores and finally found some answers recently in a place closer to home.

“I just feel badly that nobody wants my stuff…” My mother’s voice trails off as she slips a small, flowered vase into the box labeled Salvation Army. Her house is for sale, and we’re sorting two lifetimes of memories into four chaotic piles – to move, to sell, to give away, and to trash. A second-generation pack rat, her miniature snails and boxes, decorative glass, paperback books, stuffed animals, candlesticks, photos, and miscellaneous knickknacks compete for space with an equal amount of similar stuff left behind ten years earlier by her mother. As fellow accumulators and keepers, my grandmother and mother were ever mindful of the depression years – not wanting to be without ever again.

“Why do you still have this old umbrella? It’s got a big hole in it!” During three days of sorting, we’ve found the story in everything we’ve touched. The ragged door rug? “Your brother bought that for me the year that he died.” The stained tablecloth? “Your grandma used that every holiday for years.” The glass Santa with the chipped beard? “I bought that one year at the state bowling tournament.” Now, she defends the umbrella. “It was Aunt Edna’s and mom wouldn’t part with it.” I make no comment, but bypass the to-move pile and put it in the small, but growing to-ask-again pile.

“Do you want any of my teddy bears?” my mother asks. I pick them up one by one and claim an old, dark-brown guy with floppy arms, imagining a future grandchild dragging it up the steps. My mother keeps two favorites, and I place the others in the to-sell box, trying not to look them in the eyes. “How about the dolls?” she wonders. We discuss the history of each, keeping my grandmother’s first doll, a tall, brown-haired beauty and two others with close family roots. Another doll, family tree unknown, survives the cut just because she makes us smile. The others join the bears to await their uncertain fates.

“You have at least thirty butter tubs. How many do you want to keep?” I ask, guessing at the answer. “I’ve already gotten rid of that many more; I want these for when I make soup.” I bite my tongue, putting all thirty in the to-move pile, while smiling at the unlikely image of my mother making enough soup for an entire neighborhood!

Old coins, original paintings – artists unknown, two patterns of tarnished tableware, crocheted doilies in many shapes and sizes, yellowed pillowcases – ends fancied up with colorful hand-stitched flowers, mustache cups, costume jewelry, nightstands and headboards that could tell stories if they could talk… My mother agonizes over her choices, frustrated at times at the need to choose. I try to ease her pain. “It’s not that I don’t want your stuff. I just don’t want all your stuff.” She shakes her head and continues to sort.

Stuff! We all surround ourselves with our own peculiar stuff that links us to our pasts, that brings us pleasure in the buying and the keeping, or that fills some other need, perhaps a sense of security to second guess hard times ahead. I came home from the sorting with renewed determination to downsize; to rewind our household to the days before all the stuff. Our sons will find an easier task when the time comes. My shelves, drawers, and closets are losing their clutter to free piles at the end of the driveway, to box loads for the Salvation Army, and in packages to eBay bidders still craving more stuff. And yes, someday, someone will step out the door of an antique shop, clutching one of my former treasures, ready to write a new story.

Peace and happiness to all in 2009.

Image by Aunt Owwee

My eyes shift quickly to the left side of the road as I round the sharp curve, drawn to a boy dressed in hot orange, standing in stark contrast to the dull December browns of the Pennsylvania fields. Three more men flash by my window at sixty-yard intervals, each in orange garb and with rifles slung over their shoulders, waiting to move into the woods. “Oh yeah, it’s the first day of deer season and school’s closed,” I remind myself, and feel a surge of envy as the last man disappears from my rear-view mirror.

Deer hunting! Thirty-some years after hanging up my rifle, that first-day urge still tugs at me even as I head to the mall. My mind wanders into the fields and forests of my childhood. Well actually, perhaps because I’ve skipped breakfast, my first thoughts are of our old farmhouse kitchen table with plates piled high with fried deer steak and hot pancakes, pitcher of homemade brown sugar syrup ready for pouring. “Wish I had some right now,” I think, remembering a time long ago when our farm neighbors from “The Hill” gathered together after the season to share this simple fare, swapping tall tales of the big bucks that got away, playing pitch, and just plain visiting.

My brother hated hunting, but I embraced it, impatiently waiting to turn twelve, and the thrill of my first hunting license wasn’t matched until four years later at the DMV. My dad welcomed my interest in his passion. In the weeks before the season opened, we’d cruise the back roads surrounding our farm, beaming a spotlight into the far corners of the fields, assessing the number of deer and the promise of trophy racks. And then, a couple of days before the Big Day, we’d sight our rifles in by leaning against a porch beam and shooting across the lawn into the black-ringed paper target.

My first gun, a 38-40 Winchester was Gene Autry and John Wayne movie-cool, with a Rifleman-like lever action. For the first three or four years of hunting, no matter where I stood – open field, full woods, or thick brush, the deer came to me, somehow knowing that I couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn with that old 38-40. My father finally bought me a 30-30 Savage, with bolt action. I could hit the barn, but I didn’t feel nearly as cool!

A few more miles down the road, I spy another hunter; a young girl, standing with rifle butt sitting on the toe of her boot, slightly bent over and drawn into herself. “Yeah, I remember standing like that for hours! Freezing, but not wanting to admit it or give up for the day.” After a few years of hunting with a gang of relatives and neighbors, my dad and I settled into a smaller gang – just the two of us. Outside before daylight, we’d take turns during the day standing in our special deer runs while the other walked through the woods to stir up the deer. Alternating between cold-to-the-bone standing and sweaty-hot-in-the-cold walking, we’d cover every inch of our hundred-fifty acres and much of the neighbors’, hope still alive, only driven homeward by darkness.

“I’ve got to get the gun-cleaning fluid out someday soon and take a whiff of it,” I think, weaving into the left lane of traffic. “I can’t quite bring back the smell of Hoppe’s, but I know it smelled really good.” Everything smelled, tasted, and felt good after a long day in the cold – often in snow, sleet, or rain, lugging a rifle up hill and down, fighting through briar patches that grabbed and held on, and climbing over slippery stone walls. Hot dogs frying in butter smelled better than steak on a grill. Baked beans from a can and warmed up on the stove called out as strongly as any gourmet dish Julia Child could cook up. Coconut washboard cookies rivaled fresh crème Brule as the perfect dessert. Feast complete, my dad would light his pipe, while I snuggled under an old quilt on the couch, fading in and out of an out-of-the-cold, body-so-tired sleep as Walter Cronkite read the news.

I remember clearly the day when my 30-30 finally found its mark…the thrill of a snapping twig, slipping the safe off and raising the rifle, waiting, straining to see through snowflakes, aiming, heart racing, adrenaline shutting out the cold, waiting a few more agonizing seconds to make sure, squeezing the trigger, barely feeling the recoil, ejecting the bullet, aiming again, squeezing again, watching helplessly as the deer disappeared, running awkwardly after it in heavy boots, struggling to keep upright on the frozen tufts of dead grass… My father, hampered by his color blindness, looked to me to follow the trail of bright red drops on the brown forest floor. Finally sighting the downed deer, he strode up to it, proud of his daughter and pleased with our day. Pulling out his knife to claim it as ours, he warmed his hands in the rising steam as he worked.

As I slam the Buick door and head for Macys, my attention starts to shift to the Christmas presents waiting inside. One last first-day thought crosses my mind – a reminder to myself to call my father, a master hunter still at it in his eighty-third year. I’ll say, “Thanks, dad, we were great hunters together, weren’t we?”

I eventually lost interest in hunting, growing too soft to stand in freezing weather, swayed by a husband who felt it too dangerous, busy with job and family, and reaching a point, as my youngest son put it, where I didn’t want to kill those forest creatures! For several years though, hunting created a strong bond between my father and me, sorely needed right after a divorce which could have separated us. My love for the land and its wildlife also grew from those hours spent traipsing through the fields and forests of northeastern Pennsylvania…another reason that home always beckons.

Image by StarbuckGuy

“You should be calling your old friends,” my husband reminded me a couple of times in the days before we loaded up the Buick for a trip south to Fredericksburg. He was right, but procrastination, or maybe premonition, prevailed, and after seven hours on the road, we pulled into the Fredericksburg Hospitality House unannounced and unexpected, except by the front desk clerk.

“I can’t believe that you came down here all by yourself back then!” Gary said after we got settled. By ‘back then’, he’s talking about my decision in 1974 to move three hundred miles from home, leaving family, friends, and familiar surroundings far behind. “You know, I look back and can’t believe it either. It’s not like I was self-confident – pretty naïve and scared actually. I was just really determined to strike out on my own.” I closed my eyes and drifted back thirty-some years.

Three job offers came my way back then from Virginia – hospitals in Staunton, Culpeper, and Fredericksburg all needed a registered x-ray technician. Staunton tempted me with the sweet smell of honeysuckle wafting through much of the area, and small-town Culpeper called out to my farm-girl comfort zone. It was Mary Washington though who closed the deal, the hospital providing me the backdrop for two exciting, first-job, out-on-my-own memorable years. Scenes from those years tumbled around in my mind…

Helping the eighty-year-old woman in the dressing room remove her falsies for a chest x-ray… Buying my first car, a Toyota Corolla and almost crashing through the dealer’s picture window after the test drive… Holding hands with a Route US-1 accident victim who would die before morning from burns too severe to treat… Driving a total stranger home after he crashed into a telephone pole right in front of me because I didn’t want to miss the only horse show I’d ever ridden in… Lecturing the drunken barroom brawler on Christmas Eve about peace on earth as I x-rayed his banged-up body… Holding the money from my first income tax rebate for just a magic moment before giving it up for a friend to get her car out of hock… The ridiculously short white uniforms we wore… The wonderfully mixed-up lives I shared with Beverly, Beulah, Judy, Puggie, Kevin, Hugh, Roger, Miss Redd, Marsha, Linda…

I pulled out my cell phone and dialed Linda. We talked for a few minutes, catching up quickly on what the years have brought our ways. We laughed and swapped memories of long-ago chest x-rays, barium enemas, and hip replacements. “What ever happened to Tommy?” I asked, thinking of our boss at the hospital and a fellow horse lover. “Tommy died.” Linda said, sending a sharp, stabbing needle through my heart before I could even ask how and when. “You know she had those stomach problems…” My tears welled up in instant mourning for a friend, out of touch for years, but still very alive in my mind’s file drawer labeled, “Fredericksburg Adventure.” Ah, Tommy, if only we could talk just one more time, I’d say…

Thanks for taking a chance on a kid from Pennsylvania by hiring me. Please tell your dad that I appreciate his help the night he dug the grave in your hard-as-rocks lawn for my dog, Roentgen, after she was hit by a truck. Remember that trip we took to the horse show at the Meadville Fairgrounds when we slept in the stall and had to use the 16-hole outhouse – wasn’t that great fun? Thanks for taking care of Kapoka for three months after I moved back to PA. I probably still owe you for hay and feed. Do you know that I will miss you, old friend?

Bringing someone special back into our lives isn’t always possible to do, so I will cry for Tommy and honor her by treating others more thoughtfully and with greater care. On the way back to Pennsylvania, Gary and I each made a list of people who are important to us, but who we’ve neglected to keep close. If you have a similar list – people to thank, to forgive, to ask forgiveness of, to reminisce with, to remind that they are important to you – call, write, email, visit. You may not get that chance if you wait too long!

With love and appreciation for the life of Thomas Ann Chapman 1946-1992.

Image by Patrick Gage

In 1907, my great-grandma and her six young daughters departed from the western port of Glasgow, Scotland bound for the U.S. in the dirty, stinking, rocking, noisy, damp belly of the S.S. Columbia. Pinned inside her dress was enough money to deliver them all to Ohio where her husband anxiously waited. Unfortunately, after nine difficult days at sea, her kind, caring heart kept them stranded on Ellis Island, just short of mainland America.

“Someone stole all my money!” a fellow lady in steerage cried out. “If you give me yours so that I can get off the Island, I’ll get money from my husband and bring it back to you.” Reluctantly, my great-grandma handed over her savings and gathered her girls close to wait for the lady’s return. The hours slowly ticked by before desperation finally descended; her troubles, when viewed from today’s perspective seem bone crushing. No cell phone to call her husband. No debit card to replace the lost cash. No friend to call for help. No open border to slip through. No way off the island until help arrived from Ohio several days later.

I’ve heard this story many times since I was a child. My imagination always pictures the villainous women, laughing with evil delight as she leaves the island with her ill-gotten cash. Once on dry land, she disappears forever into the crowded streets of New York City, never looking back at or worrying about the seven sad souls left behind. She lives the rest of her life without guilt or regret, but surely someday pays for her dastardly deed. Or, so I chose to believe until recently…

“Did you ever think that maybe she tried to take the money back to your grandma?” my friend asked after hearing the story. “Maybe something or someone stopped her.” I started to protest, but stopped and looked at her with wide eyes, already beginning to create a new ending to an old story. “Wow, you’re right! What if her husband wouldn’t let her go back? What if she couldn’t get back to the island? What if she were just as frantic as my great-grandma?

Perhaps this mystery woman lived the rest of her life with a heavy heart, wondering what happened to the kind, caring woman with the six little girls! Is there another great-granddaughter somewhere out there in America who also heard this same story, but from the other perspective? We’ll never know what really happened that April morning a century ago, but I’ve rewritten the storyline. The feud’s finally finished with no shots fired, and I feel better!

How often do we pass judgment on someone’s actions or words without knowing what truly happened or what is in the person’s heart? In being quick to judge, we take on and carry the heavy baggage of anger, resentment, and blame. I’m convinced that it’s never too late to lighten our emotional loads with a new, positive perspective. Letting go… Having a change of heart… Giving the benefit of the doubt… Forgiveness… It’s worth a try!

Image by ptofnoretrn77

“Rats, I’ve really done it this time. Gary’s not going to believe this!” I started the long walk up the hill, imagining his reaction to my latest fiasco as I stared into the darkness ahead of me.

“You locked the key in the van when you stopped at the mailbox?” He asked. “Well, yeah, I must have bumped the lock with my knee. But, that’s not the only problem. The other key is in my pocket book, and that’s in the van. And there’s one more thing. The van’s still running and the headlights are on!” I smiled at him, he rolled his eyes, and we climbed into the truck to go back down the hill.

His eye roll said it all…just one more in a long line of rescue missions for Diane’s many locked-in keys or lost pocketbooks. Or, at least, it started as another typical rescue. Little did we know…

Under the truck’s lights, we circled the van trying to find a way to open the doors or the hood latch. Unfortunately, the locks on the doors weren’t reachable with a coat hanger like in the old days, and we didn’t even consider breaking a window or a latch on our two-day old Astro van. We decided to go back to the house and try to call someone from the Chevy dealer.

Climbing into the truck, Gary turned the key, but instead of the welcome sound of the engine starting, we heard, click, click, click, click, click, click – dead battery! So, leaving the truck to keep the van company, we walked the six-tenth of a mile back up the hill, still in pretty good humor considering the situation. We wondered how long the van would idle on three-quarters of a tank of gas!

We couldn’t reach anyone from the Chevy dealership, so Gary called a local locksmith, who kindly agreed to help us at that late hour. We drove down the hill to meet him in our 67 Corvette, again leaving the lights on, but this time also leaving the motor on to preserve the battery. First, the locksmith tried each of the 400 master keys on his giant ring, but with no luck. “If I can get a good look at cuts in the key, I might be able to make a key that will open the door,” the locksmith said as he shone his flashlight into the van at the key dangling down from the steering column. As he drove away to get his hand-held key cutter, we turned toward the Corvette, just in time to hear cough, cough, sputter, cough, sputter, sputter as the engine died – out of gas!

We stood looking from van to truck to car in stunned disbelief. I looked at Gary’s face in the glow of the van’s headlights, expecting him to explode in frustration, but instead, he just quietly said, “And all I wanted to do tonight was eat popcorn and watch Dallas!”

The next fifteen minutes passed in silence except for our footsteps and heavy breathing as we trudged up the hill again. An hour later, with no more wheels to choose from, Gary walked down the hill to meet the locksmith. He made several attempts at keys, but finally gave up and went home. Gary gave up too and made the final, long, lonely trek up the hill, leaving behind the idling van, the dead-battery truck, and the gas-hungry Corvette. “Is it still running? I asked as he slipped into bed. “Yup,” he said, “guess it gets pretty good gas mileage!”

The van ran all night, but by the time Gary walked down the hill in the morning, it was silent, turned off by the conscientious locksmith who returned at daylight to successfully defend his key-making reputation. By 8:00, the van, truck, and Corvette all sat safely at the house, ready for another adventure. Good car key habits – needed them then, still need them now! See Locking Keys in the Car.

Image by biddit

“He just shot out of the back seat before we could catch him.” My mother-in-law apologized over and over again, as I fought back a wave of panic. “Why in the world didn’t they put him in the cat carrier,” I thought. Biting my tongue, I quickly told her not to worry. My in-laws are wonderful, kind, and caring people and also animal lovers, so I knew how terribly they must have felt as Mutton raced up the driveway and disappeared into the woods behind the vet’s office.

I first met the escapee cat at a Little League baseball game. Another parent brought tiny kittens to the game hoping to find homes for them. One little gray ball of fluff, whose face reminded me of a gorilla baby, looked at me and we bonded instantly. I took him home hoping that my husband would also find him irresistible. He did, so we christened our new family member Mutton. Now, nine years later, we mourned his disappearance into the wilds six miles from home.

We searched the woods for a couple of days, put flyers in peoples’ mailboxes, and advertised in the local paper, but Mutton was gone. As the days turned into weeks, fond stories of Mutton surfaced at family gatherings as we remembered his gorilla-like face, his raccoon-shaped body, and his calm, trusting personality. Well-loved and hard-missed, Mutton remained alive in my thoughts as the months passed.

Then, one day six months after the disappearance, I was ironing in the basement and saw something move across the small window at the top of the wall. Curious, I went upstairs and out onto the porch. You guessed it! As I walked toward the far door, I saw Mutton coming up the steps onto the porch. He seemed a bit confused about whether he was really at the end of his six month, six-mile odyssey, but I called his name, and he came to me. You can imagine my excitement! I picked him up, calling to my husband, and we fussed over our thinner, but healthy-looking miracle cat.

This story so far isn’t too unusual. I’ve read other tales of pets returning home from even longer distances and in shorter timeframes. What’s the crazy twist to this story? A couple of days before Mutton returned, I dreamt that he came home. That might not seem too unusual either, since I still missed him and thought of him often. Here’s the kicker: in my dream, I walked across the porch toward the far door as Mutton came up the steps, exactly like it happened just two days later!

Did I see the future? Can our minds travel across time barriers? Did Mutton send me a message? Did I send a message to Mutton? Can we communicate with animals or with each other directly with our minds? Or, was it just a strange coincidence?

We recently traveled to Florida, taking Mutton with us and worrying all the way about losing him again. Fortunately, he settled comfortably into his new temporary home. Good thing. At his walking rate of one mile per month, it would take him one hundred years to find his way back to Pennsylvania!