Home Beckons

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 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…

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.