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, makes the cut just because she makes us smile. The others join the bears to await their uncertain fate.

“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 DeeCee

”How do you put the stuff in the middle?” my niece asks, turning the sugar cookie round and round and upside down, trying to find a clue to the mystery. I just smile and say, “It’s Christmas magic!”

Beverly, my co-worker from many moons ago can claim ownership to the original, but non-magical recipe for these soft, savory sugar cookies. Her writing still scrawls across a yellowed calendar page with Monday, May 14th, 1979 dated on the back. Recommended cups, tablespoons, degrees, and minutes have miraculously survived vanilla stains and Crisco smears from many Christmases past.

In a moment of holiday good will toward all, please accept this gift from my house:

2 C sugar 4 ½ C flour
1 C Crisco 2 t baking powder
2 large eggs 2 t baking soda
1 C milk ½ t salt
1 T vanilla

Cream sugar and Crisco together in large bowl. Add eggs, milk and vanilla. In another bowl, mix flour, baking powder, baking soda, and salt together. Mix dry ingredients into sugar mixture. Roll out on floured surface and cut into shapes. Place on ungreased cookie sheets. Bake at 350° for ~12 minutes or until edges turn light brown. Yield: ~ 4 dozen

Adding magic is painfully time-consuming, but transforms these sugar cookies from very tasty to melt-in-your-mouth, when-are-you-making-more, don’t-give-them-away, most-favored cookies! The magic:

Roll the dough a bit thinner. Cut out pieces and place them on the cookie sheets. Spread jam (raspberry is our favorite) on each circle, leaving ¼” around the edges without jam. Put another cut dough piece on top of each jam-covered piece and seal the two edges together. Bake at 350° for ~16 minutes or until edges turn light brown. Sprinkle colored sugar on top while still warm. Yield: ~ 2 dozen

So, try the cookies – you’ll be a hit with all who taste the magic!

Merry Christmas,

DeeCee

Copyright © 2008 HomeBeckons.com. All Rights Reserved.

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, and 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 right 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.

Copyright © 2008 HomeBeckons.com. All Rights Reserved.

Image by woodleywonderworks

Whew!  November 4th 2008 is now history.  All the election rhetoric, prognostications, and promises are behind us, leaving hope and change plus some finger pointing and blame, depending on your perspective.   As my previous posts show, I’m part of the hope and change crowd, but am also keenly interested in how my old party will pull itself together after straying from its principals over the past several years.  Will it be able to right itself and return to its basic economic tenets, support its social conservative base, and yet appeal to those in the middle?  Only time will tell.

I’ve taken grief from some of my friends and family about the whole hope and change campaign line.  My initial support of Obama sprang from his positions on Iraq, foreign policy, taxes, social security, health insurance, and education.  Once convinced on these issues, I let myself listen to the rhetoric.  Is it really so terribly naïve to believe that it’s possible for each of us to positively impact the way our country is governed?  I think not.  This election has shown the power of individuals to find their voices.  We must each continue to press our elected officials to find responsible solutions to the scores of problems our country faces.  With renewed hope in our power as citizens, the change will be ours.   
 

Copyright © 2008 HomeBeckons.com. All Rights Reserved.

Image by Thomas Hawk

Our flailing economy cries out for action, getting top billing by TV pundits, in campaign speeches, and in letters to the editor across the country. Plunging stock prices, bailout blues, lost jobs, and fading financial futures capture our attention like no other election-time topics. With just a few days left before Election Day, I feel compelled to speak out on one other important issue, which seems to be buried under our collective concentration on the economy. The Iraq War.

Iraq presents one of the clearest distinctions between the candidates in this election. Obama supports a plan to drawdown troops in Iraq, recognizing the need to do so without jeopardizing their safety. McCain takes an even stricter stance than Bush – remain in Iraq, no matter how long it takes to “win.”

For those whose first priority is the economy:
Our total cost so far in Iraq: ~$566,750,000,000
Cost per year: ~$140,000,000,000
Cost per month: ~$12,000,000,000
U.S. funds lost and unaccounted for in Iraq: $9,600,000,000

To put these costs in perspective, the 2008 Federal budget provides just $59B for the Department of Education and only $25B for the Department of Energy, which is in charge of, among other things, energy-related research and domestic energy production. To bring it down to a very personal level, this war has cost every family of four in the U.S. $16,500 so far. And the war goes on…

For those who never believed in starting this war:
Yes, Hussein was a despicable man, but our justification for invasion was faulty. The Bush administration exaggerated the threat he posed. Remember, there were no weapons of mass destruction found, and then no evidence found that Hussein was harboring or supporting Al-Qaeda. McCain followed the Bush lead into Iraq and continues to support this war, while downplaying Afghanistan where Al-Qaeda did and does thrive. If his judgment is flawed in Iraq, can we depend on him to lead us through difficult and potentially volatile relationships with Syria, Iran, and North Korea?

For those of us with loved ones in the military:
Amazingly, Bush has not asked all citizens to share the same burden of Iraq, providing tax cuts to the very richest among us during a time or war. McCain plans to continue these cuts for the same individuals and corporations who evade billions in taxes each year through loopholes and offshore tax havens. Instead, Bush and McCain place the largest burdens and sacrifices for this war on those who serve and on those who wait at home for them.

Our sons, daughters, husbands, wives, brothers, sisters, cousins, and friends are serving bravely and honorably in our armed services, just as those a generation ago did in Vietnam. Leaving Iraq will never tarnish the honor of those who have been lost or who are wounded, for they did what their country asked them to do. Leaving Iraq will honor those we’ve lost by not losing others to a situation where winning cannot be defined. Having the courage to change course by taking us out of Iraq shows great strength and honors the troops currently serving in Iraq and those prepared to go when called.

Remember and honor:
4,188 U.S. military dead
30,757 U.S. military wounded, many with lifelong devastating injuries
30% to 40% returning U.S. military with psychological problems

The men and women in our military join their units with the knowledge that they may be called to duty to serve and defend our country. We must ensure that they are only called to the most crucial battlegrounds at home and abroad. We must expect our government to be capable of recognizing a need for a changed policy. And, we must demand that it has the courage to act accordingly.

McCain would keep us in Iraq indefinitely. Obama will lead us to a responsible end to this war. He will call on Iraq’s leaders to take on the responsibility for running and funding their own future. He will return us to a position of respect in the world where our efforts toward peaceable solutions are at least as great as our willingness to exercise our military might. Please keep Iraq in mind on Election Day.

Copyright © 2008 HomeBeckons.com. All Rights Reserved.

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.

Copyright © 2008 HomeBeckons.com. All Rights Reserved.

Image by truette

Besides being a life-long registered Republican, I am also a mature, middle-class, small-town, white, married Christian mother of three, who hunts and eats deer meat. Add farming roots and thirty years of work in a non-union manufacturing company based in a conservative community, and the profile places me firmly in the pollsters’ McCain camp, especially after the addition of Palin to the ticket. Instead, for the first time in my life, I’m actively campaigning for the other side.

With rising costs for fuel, health care, food, and other necessities, more than half of all Americans struggle to achieve or to maintain a decent life. The American Dream, where anyone willing to work hard will prosper, is on hold. We need to rein in a system grown fat at the top with its bias for big business and big money at the expense of decent, hard-working people.

Compare tax plans of the two candidates. In McCain’s speeches and advertisements, he touts his plans to extend the Bush tax cuts. Saying that he is in favor of extending tax cuts sound good, but he never defines how the cuts are divided up across incomes. In his plan, the fortunate American families reporting more than $2.87 million in income per year see an average tax cut of 4.4%, which means tax cuts for each in the hundreds of thousands of dollars.

Contrast this to his tax relief for the 60% of American households at the other end of the income spectrum: those making up to $66 thousand per year. McCain’s plan provides these folks less than one percent in tax breaks, from $19 to $319 each. He offers millions to the richest and pennies to those hard-working people at the lowest pay levels.

Obama’s plan redistributes the tax burden, requiring more from the wealthiest households, while providing tax relief from those who earn the least. The highest income group, those making more than $2.87M, will not see tax cuts, but rather will see an average 11.5% tax increase. All households making less than $250K per year (98.1% of all households) will see a tax cut in Obama’s plan, including the 60% making the least, who will see tax cuts of 2.5% to 5.5%. Even with these broad cuts, Obama’s plan would add less to the national debt than McCain’s. (The Brookings Institution and the Urban Institute, both nonpartisan and nonprofit organizations compared the two tax plans. See a summary at Tax Proposals).

McCain claims that Obama will tax middle class America, but this only rings true if he believes that most families are making more than $250K per year. This attitude puts him totally out of touch with typical middle class workers. I don’t normally begrudge the richest their multi-million dollar homes, yachts, and off-shore tax havens (some of them actually earned what they have), but the Bush/McCain tax cuts unfairly burden the majority of hard-working people whose salaries can’t keep pace with rising costs for food, medical, fuel, and other basics.

McCain’s other tax plans are also based on the belief that if you make the rich richer, they will invest and expand the economy, which will in turn be good for the rest of Americans. He would drastically slash all corporate tax rates (even as gas and oil companies rake in record profits and even for corporations with monstrous multi-million dollar executive pay), hold the line on tax rates on investment dividends and capital gains, increase the tax exemption on inherited properties from $3.5M to $5.0M, and greatly reduce taxes on inherited wealth above this exemption from 45% to 15%.

Again, in contrast, Obama would only slightly reduce corporate tax rates, raise the highest rate on investment dividends and capital gains, keep the inheritance exemption level at $3.5M, and apply the 45% rate to wealth inherited over the exemption.

I maintain enough of my Republican roots to believe in a certain level of healthy free market economics, but am not so naïve to believe that the rich will always act in my best interests. I choose not to depend on wealth trickling down to my level! I favor Obama’s plan, which recognizes the need for a measure of governmental controls in order to ensure that we maintain a viable, working middle class.

With the recent meltdown on Wall Street, both candidates may have to revise their tax plans, but the current stated plans reflect a critical distinction between the parties. Obama demonstrates a solid understanding of who Middle Americans really are and what challenges we face. His specific fiscal plans target the needs of the majority of workers. We can’t afford another four years of unbalanced tax policies.

Copyright © 2008 HomeBeckons.com. All Rights Reserved.

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!

Copyright © 2008 HomeBeckons.com. All Rights Reserved.

Image by Benimoto

“What kind do you want?” I ask, turning sideways from behind the booth counter so that I can point out the goods. “This apple with two crusts or Aunt Marie’s apple crumb? The fat blueberry or Suky’s fresh-off-the bush-today blackberry? Red cherry or that lemon with mountains of meringue? Fresh peach or Janet’s heavenly coconut cream? Allyson’s creamy peanut butter or the home-grown pumpkin? It’s the annual Wyalusing Volunteer Firemen’s Carnival, and I’m hawking the best deal on the grounds - homemade pie!

It’s summer 2008. In many restaurants around the country, three to four dollars buys a day-old, refrigerated, artificial-tasting, barely tolerable piece of pie. In contrast, our fair pies, all donated to the cause by individuals still versed in the noble art of pie baking, arrive freshly baked, sometimes still warm, and all mouth-watering good. Baking a real pie is time-consuming, kitchen cluttering, and sweaty-August hot, so at a dollar-fifty a piece, it’s a baker’s labor of love and a buyer’s bargain.

My aunts and cousins run the pie booth four of the five nights of the fair. Each year we have the same conversation following this typical exchange with a hungry customer. “I want a piece of coconut cream,” the man says. “Which one do you want,” I ask, pointing to pieces from three different coconut cream pies. “I don’t care, just pick one,” he answers, not even glancing at the table behind me. I choose the one that looks least tempting, guessing that he’ll never fully appreciate the finer nuances of pie excellence.

After he leaves, the conversation begins. “How could he let me pick without even looking? I ask, starting up where we left off a year ago. “Yeah, I can’t even imagine that,” my cousin adds. My aunts chime in with equal exasperation. “Not care? How can he not care whether the crust looks flaky or tough?! Doesn’t it matter to him whether the filling is fresh-cooked or second-rate instant?! Can’t his taste buds distinguish between real whipped meringue and artificial gunk from a can?!”

Homemade pie…so good, it’s a melt-in-your-mouth, blast-to-your-taste-buds, can-I-have-another-piece kind of sensation. I fear for the future of homemade pies. Even the definition of homemade is shifting as the fast-food frenzy wipes away memories of the how-to and the tastes-like. Many restaurants and bakeries claim they serve homemade pies when the only connection to the real deal is the oven temperature. Shame on these imposter pies and those who dare to serve them! Sympathy to those who eat them for they travel through life without true pie knowledge!

Fortunately, we can stop the impending demise of perfect pies. It’s a radical, but necessary solution: baking at home. Putting a store-bought frozen pie in the oven does not count! Imagine a pie world freed from high fructose corn syrup, food coloring, and preservatives. Envision a pie so good it sends shivers down you spine with the first amazing taste-jammed bite. You owe it to your family, to your community, and to your country to protect the future of real pie. Generations to come will thank you.

So, pie bakers of the world unite! Roll out those real crusts! Pick those berries! Cook that filling! Whip that meringue! Teach your pie-making secrets to your children, grandchildren, and friends and pass on your pie pans before it’s too late. Be proud. Be strong. Go forth and bake!

OK, so my family might be a bit radical when it comes to pie expectations. I even had to look at over 500 pictures of pies before finally choosing the one at the top of this post! If you know good pie, you already understand the seriousness of picking the perfect piece. If, on the other hand, you are pie-challenged, find someone in your community known for homemade pie and discover one of life’s small, but perfect pleasures. Now, let’s talk about that store-bought ice cream…

Copyright © 2008 HomeBeckons.com. All Rights Reserved.

Image by toddheft

“I like him.” my friend said, somewhat defensively, referring to the landsman who talked with him about signing a gas lease in the Marcellus Shale. “Well, I like him too,” I shot back, “but remember, he probably won’t be around here next year, and who knows what company you’ll be dealing with down the road…

Waste water, well spacing, fracing chemicals, wildlife habitats, lease assignments – all issues worth sparring about with my friend whose eyes are firmly focused on future fortunes to be made from the Marcellus Shale. Marcellus divides us like no other topic. He, the perpetual pessimist, and I, the eternal optimist, suddenly exchange places when debating this on-coming drill fest.

Consider lease assignments… You’ve carefully researched the gas companies before choosing your best deal, becoming comfortable with your landsman, his company’s history, and its financial situation. Now, you’re just marking time until your company’s rigs arrive. Unfortunately your carefully chosen company may abandon you before the ink is dry on your contract or any time business goals take them elsewhere. These multi-billion dollar gas and oil companies craft new deals often, buying and selling drilling rights as they manage their total portfolios.

Recent deals include XTO Energy’s who announced in April plans to acquire 152,000 net acres in the Appalachian basin from Linn Energy. Similarly, Dominion Resources plans to assign drilling rights on 205,000 Marcellus acres to Antero Resources. In cases like these, landowners signed leases with one company, but now, most without any input or choice, will have new partners who possess the legal power to impact their land usage.

Even the natural life cycle of a gas well could contribute to ownership shifts. The output of a typical well drops drastically after the first couple of years of operation and then gradually lessens over the full life. If the Marcellus Shale follows the path of other gas plays around the country, older wells may become candidates for sale to smaller, less financially stable gas companies.

In a standard lease agreement, the original lease follows the sale. You will be dealing with the new company, with few, if any rights to go after the original company should things go badly – capping of old wells, gas leaks, water issues, etc. Some contracts carry addendums stating that the gas company must notify you if they assign your lease to another company. An addendum declaring that the lease cannot be sold or assigned without your approval may offer a bit more protection.

But no matter how carefully you negotiate the terms of your lease agreement, the reality is sobering: you are no longer sole owner of your land. You are no longer lord or mistress of all you survey. You are no longer in total control of what happens to your little heaven on earth. Your newfound prosperity carries a hefty cost - a dramatic loss of ownership and independence.

Consider this extreme, but possible lease ownership shift. A short Reuters article from Hong Kong appeared on-line in July. “China National Petroleum Corp (CNPC), China’s top state oil firm, is thinking of bidding for minority stakes in shale gas assets of Chesapeake Energy Corp… Chesapeake is looking to raise as much as $5 billion this year from selling minority stakes in its Arkansas and Pennsylvania shale gas properties, the South China Morning Post reported.” Will this happen? I don’t know, but it’s enough to know that it’s possible.

“Well, maybe China National is a good company,” my friend offers. “Yeah, I did some research on it,” I replied, “and it looks like it is, but that’s not the point. We’re already drinking Belgian/Brazilian Budweiser, facing Korean- or Chinese-owned GE appliances, and getting used to the idea of Abu Dhabi owning the Chrysler building. What’s more difficult to imagine is that our neighbors’ private, personal properties could someday belong to China or any other country courted by the gas companies.”

“OK, I can see your point,” my friend said, as the sun slipped from view over the hilltop beyond the valley. As I looked out over the lush, green fields bordered by century-old stone walls, I spied a couple of deer stepping cautiously out from the wood’s edge. I made a mental note to take more pictures over the next few months, capturing on paper this beautiful land as it was before Marcellus awoke.

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