I looked into the mirror one dark and dreary day, And suddenly discovered I’d aged along the way.
My hair was grey and thinning, my wrinkles clear to see, Brown spots upon my saggy arms, an urgent need to pee.
Another sleepless night has passed, I’m ready for a nap, It’s time to take another pill but I can’t remove the cap.
I fumble for my glasses, false teeth and hearing aids, They should be where I put them, but memory quickly fades.
Getting dressed is really tough, my balance’s not too great, Aches and pains in every joint, I shuffle toward the gate.
The gate to heaven’s open, but I’m not ready yet, There’s ice cream in the kitchen and the table’s always set!
This is a half fun / half serious poem about aging – things we’ll all face if we live long enough! The last two lines were written with my wonderful mother-in-law in mind. She loved her hot fudge sundaes right until the end at 92!
“Yuck, I got my hair stuck in it again!” I looked back and saw the yellow fly sticker swinging back and forth from the middle of the kitchen ceiling with the dead and mostly dead black flies stuck, unable to free themselves. I gingerly felt my hair to be sure none were there and reminded myself again to duck next time.
That was the Sugar Hill farm kitchen in the early 1960s. It’s hard to imagine today hanging one of those nasty things in our kitchen, but back then, it was a necessity. The farm animals and crops drew lots of flies. Plus, with no storm windows, we placed expandable screens in the windows, which didn’t always close tightly against the windowsills and sides, allowing somewhat easy access by those little black wretches (as my brother called them) into the house.
The old farmhouse was built in ~1906, and as per the times, had no electricity, running water, nor indoor bathroom. Electricity arrived for the first time in the late 1930s and by the end of the 40s, water and
indoor plumbing were in place. By the time my brother and I came along in the early 1950s, we were spoiled by all these modern luxuries!
We did witness one new fangled home improvement in the kitchen. When I was four or five, we got our first automatic washing machine. I can still remember standing on my tiptoes watching in wonder as it filled, agitated and spun.
Of course, our main focus in that old kitchen centered on food. We ate breakfast, lunch, and supper every day at home except for lunches at school, and except Friday nights when we went to town to get groceries and sometimes a burger and fries (for ~30 cents) at Ruth Brown’s Chattaway Restaurant. After eating, my brother cousins, and I played on the sidewalk outside after dark while the adults nursed coffees and sodas inside.
At home, my mother fixed big hearty meals. Most everything came fresh from our garden, orchard, or pond (beans, beets, corn, carrots, peas, cabbage, peppers, squash, potatoes, onions, cucumbers, radishes, lettuce, watermelon, tomatoes, apples, peaches) or from hundreds of quarts of canned goods she prepared each summer and fall.
Our meats came fresh too – deer, squirrel, rabbit, chicken, beef, grouse, pheasant, turkey, pork, and fish. Add to this, homemade bread, rolls, or baking powder biscuits dripping with real butter and homemade strawberry or blackberry jam. Finish up with hot, bubbling apple, cherry, blackberry, or huckleberry pies made from fruit picked on the farm or on the local mountain or sometimes hand-cranked ice cream with milk straight from the cow.
My favorite kitchen food memory though happened one late afternoon when my mother was making spaghetti sauce for supper. She started it and then realized that she didn’t have any salt so she sent me to the barn to get a cup full. She added it to the sauce and let it simmer. A while later she tasted it and added some more salt and left it to simmer. A bit later she tried it again and added more salt, but this time with an inkling that all was not well. She sent me back to the barn to get the bag of salt. Sure enough – Epsom salt! I don’t remember, but we might have eaten baloney sandwiches for supper!
I used my kerchief to wipe the sweat off my face, but the back of my shirt was soaked as I leaned against the hot adobe wall. We were sitting side by side in the shade while the afternoon sun beat down on the poor woman sitting against the opposite wall of the compound. She groaned and tried to change positions, but the ropes around her hands and feet kept her pinned down in the dust with no chance of relief. I reminded myself that my only chance of avoiding the same fate was to act relaxed and talk quietly as though nothing were wrong.
Sitting next to me in that Mexican courtyard was El Chapo, drug lord and leader of a huge international crime syndicate. I laughed at his jokes and talked about what we’d have for dinner, hoping that my voice didn’t give away the wild beating of my heart. One last look at the woman on the wall and I woke up.
Yup, it was a dream – not the recurring kind like forgetting my high school locker combo or being abducted (I’ve learned that if I shout out, my husband will save me every time by waking me up). But, it wasn’t the first time I’d traveled far and and wide during my sleeping hours.
One night, my high school friends, Laurie, Kathy, Kay and I attended a business conference in Yemen. The next morning, I had to get a map out to remind myself where exactly in the world Yemen is.
Sometimes, my dreams take place much closer to home. A few years ago, the weathermen predicted tornados in our area. That night, I dreamed that my cousins and I were in their basement waiting to see if a tornado would hit. I looked out the window and saw a huge fireball barreling down the hill toward the house. In a panic we tried to get out of its path as fast as possible. The only trouble was that I chose to hop on the back of a little kid’s tricycle being peddled by my 6’ 3” cousin. I just couldn’t get him to peddle fast enough!
Another night found me at the Arnot Mall in Elmira. In the men’s department of Penney’s I saw my father-in-law, Al (who was 93 at the time), in his pajamas, practicing kickboxing kicks. And then, fast forward as many dreams do, I found myself immediately at the top of the steps in the food court. Rather than taking the escalator to the first floor, I slid down a giant display of women’s’ underwear. At the bottom, the clerk gave me a disapproving look!
A few years ago, I witnessed (in a dream) a young man drive his motorcycle over the bank of the road down past my father’s house on the farm. He was unconscious and hidden from the road. It seemed so real that I drove to Sugar Hill the next morning and searched for him. I didn’t find him, but I couldn’t ignore the dream.
I couldn’t ignore the dream because of another dream I’d had near the same time. In real life, our cat, Mutton, jumped out of the car six miles from home and was lost. Six months later I dreamed he came home. Two days later he came back home in exactly the way I had dreamed it – coming onto our back porch as I walked toward him. Just a coincidence or premonition? I’m not sure, but just in case I’m glad that El Chapo is serving a life sentence plus 30 years!
You may remember the catchy Jimmy Rogers tune about not being able to roller skate in a buffalo herd or take a shower in a parakeet cage. It goes on to say:
But you can be happy if you’ve a mind to All ya gotta do is put your mind to it Knuckle down, buckle down, do it, do it, do it
I’m typically a glass-half-full kind of person, but on days like today, the being-happy bit isn’t any easier than rolling through a big herd or splashing around in a birdcage. Today is too hard. Today feels impossible.
“You have Parkinson’s,” the doctor said five years ago. I wasn’t really surprised, since I’d spent the prior four months plugging my symptoms into Google – a slight tremor in my left ring finger, slow movements, and difficulty writing and typing. It’s a lifetime sentence meted out to about 90,000 people in the U.S. every year, so I have lots of company. Some days that helps, but not today
Today I need time to cry because I don’t feel good. To take a break from trying to act “normal.” To mourn the loss of abilities like playing guitar. To worry about what’s coming in the years ahead. And yes, to feel sorry for myself for just one day.
Tomorrow, I’ll count my blessings and knuckle down, buckle down to find that happiness. My life is still filled with family to love, kind friends who care, familiar routines that matter, and thoughts of new adventures ahead. Tomorrow will be OK, but not today. Today is just too hard.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Note: I wanted to start writing stories around my experiences with Parkinson’s from a positive point of view. It seemed a bit disingenuous since there’s much about the disease that’s not so rosy and just dang hard. I’m pretty sure that most people who are dealing with this disease or MS or fibromyalgia or depression or other chronic issues face days where their problems seem overwhelming. I wanted to validate that reality before writing more hopeful stories.
Aunt Claire and Uncle Ern Hunsinger lived out the Back Road in the 1950s, first house on the left if you’re headed to Sugar Hill from Hollenback. Aunt Claire, like my grandfather, had red hair, and I would sit on her lap on their front porch to count the freckles on her arms. My mother used to tell a story about Aunt Claire’s cooking. She came to our house one day when the men were filling silo and “helped” my mother fix a
hardy lunch of chicken and biscuits for the crew. She took a butcher knife and hacked up those chicken pieces, bones and all! (Fortunately no one died that day!). I also remember her cake made from scratch. It had lumps of baking soda visible throughout the cake; with icing so thin you could still see the chocolate cake through it. Thankfully, what she lacked in cooking skills, she made up for with her kindness, hard work and good sense.
My memories of Uncle Ern are sketchier, probably because he kind of scared me. After all these years, I can’t remember why, other than that he seemed ancient and had scruffy whiskers. Uncle Ern kept bees and a parakeet and liked to take a nip now and then. My father told of the time one winter when they heard a strange sound down by our barn. Uncle Ern, headed home after having a nip, fell asleep, ran off the road and crashed into a huge pile of manure! Aunt Claire was miffed. Apparently, he really was a good man, so I wish I’d gotten to know him better. He and Aunt Claire sold their house and land to my father in 1960 and moved to Towanda.
My father farmed the fields out the Back Road and rented the house to the Salsman family for a few years. He sold the place in 1967, but whenever I walk or drive by, I imagine Aunt Claire in her rocking chair on the front porch and Uncle Ern down below the house tending his bees. Amazingly, I realize now that my “ancient” uncle was only in his 70s!
The Champluviers lived just a little further out the Back Road. They moved to Wysox in the 60s, selling their place to the Zakrzewskis. One fine summer day as I was riding my horse, Topper, down the hill near the Back Road, I heard our German Sheppard, George howling horribly. He had gotten
his front paw caught in a steel trap set there by a neighbor to catch fox. I wasn’t strong enough to get it open, and knowing that no one was home at our house, I ran the half mile to the Zakrzewskis’ house and got Mrs. Zak. We ran back out the road and together were able to free George. With hindsight, I realize how brave she was to approach a strange German Sheppard in such obvious agitation. She will forever be my hero!
Mrs. Zakrzewski’s granddaughter and her husband live on their old homestead. They established and operate Deep Roots Hard Cider. Check them out at www.deeprootshardcider.com or visit them at 348 Back Road, Sugar Run, PA 18846. Then, follow the old dirt road as it leads you on a pleasant ride through the woods to meet up with Sugar Hill Road. You won’t be sorry you took the time.
Aunt Claire and Uncle Ern lived out the Back Road in the 1950s, first house on the left if you’re headed to Sugar Hill from Hollenback. Aunt Claire, like my grandfather, had red hair, and I would sit on her lap on their front porch to count the freckles on her arms. My mother used to tell a story about Aunt Claire’s cooking. She came to our house one day when the men were filling silo and “helped” my mother fix a hardy lunch of chicken and biscuits for the crew. She took a butcher knife and hacked up those chicken pieces, bones and all! (Fortunately no one died that day!). I also remember her cake made from scratch. It had lumps of lard visible throughout the cake; with icing so thin you could still see the chocolate cake through it. Luckily, what she lacked in cooking skills, she made up for with her kindness, hard work and good sense.My memories of Uncle Ern are sketchier, probably because he kind of scared me. After all these years, I can’t remember why other than that he seemed ancient and had scruffy whiskers. Uncle Ern kept bees and a parakeet and liked to take a nip now and then. My father told of the time one winter when they heard a strange sound down by our barn. Uncle Ern, headed home after having a nip, fell asleep, ran off the road and crashed into a huge pile of manure! Aunt Claire was miffed. Apparently, he really was a good man, so I wish I’d gotten to know him better. He and Aunt Claire sold their house and land to my father in 1960 and moved to Towanda. The Champluviers lived just a little further out the Back Road. They moved to Wysox in the 60s, selling their place to the Zakrzewskis. One fine summer day as I was riding my horse, Topper, down the hill near the Back Road, I heard our German Sheppard, George howling horribly. He had gotten his front paw caught in a steel trap set there by a neighbor to catch fox. I wasn’t strong enough to get it open, and knowing that no one was home at our house, I ran the half mile to the Zakrzewskis’ house and got Mrs. Zak. We ran back out the road and together were able to free George. With hindsight I realize how brave she was to approach a strange German Sheppard in such obvious agitation. She will forever be my hero!
.Out the back road. Down by the swamp. Over along the lane. Up behind the house. Across the apple orchard. Each of these phrases conjures up memories from our Sugar Hill farm when I was young in the !950s and ’60s. Lately, I’ve been thinking about what happened down below the barn.
A small stream, about 60 yards down below the barn, feeds into the swamp. Before electricity came to the farm, my grandfather’s cows had to lumber down the hill for a drink in the stream. In 1938, Claverack brought electricity to the barn, so by the 1940s, the cows could easily drink from water cups hung right by their stanchions. My father told me that milk production doubled with the addition of water in the barn. Why? Because the cows were too lazy to walk down the hill to the stream – often only drinking water every other day.
Unlike the lazy cows, my brother Lanny, cousins, and I raced down the hill to play beside, and often in, that same cold stream of water. We built dams and cautiously caught small crawfish being oh-so-careful of their tiny pincers. When we got too wet, too cold, or too hungry, we trudged back up the hill toward the barn already planning our next great adventure.
One of those great adventure we planned wasn’t nearly as much fun as it sounded. I can’t remember who came up with the big idea, but I was elected to sneak the raw materials that were needed for the plan out of the house. Once gathered up, my brother, cousins, and I met down below the barn to try smoking what was left of my mother’s partially smoked cigarettes. Just a few puffs convinced me that I’d never walk a mile for a Camel, that a Winston doesn’t taste good like a cigarette should, and that I’d never come to Marlboro country!
Despite the many fond and fun memories from down below the barn, it also marked an important place in the cycle of life for our farm pets. In the days before veterinarians figured out how lucrative small animal care could be even in rural areas, most centered their care on cows and horses. These were income-producing animals and most people didn’t spend money on pets. So, when one of our dogs or cats got hit by a car or got sick, my father took it down below the barn, and with his .22 rifle, sent it on its way. In today’s times, it may sound harsh, but as kids, we understood and accepted these swift and sad endings. ❤
Now, let me tell you what happened out the back road when…
I walk through Clark Furniture in Wysox, on a mission to find a recliner, but am sidetracked by shiny new dining room tables. Their highly polished surfaces enhance the distinctive and rich wood grains of oak, maple, hickory, and walnut. For a moment, I’m tempted, but instead return to my recliner search and spend the rest of my time there thinking back to our old kitchen table on the Sugar Hill farm when I was a kid
My Grandfather Lewis Potter’s friend, his identity long lost, handcrafted the kitchen table in the 1920s. Made mainly of oak, with a bit of maple too, it stood solid for 40-some years, hosting daily family meals, holiday dinners, birthday cakes, hungry silo-fillers, homework papers, pancake and deer steak suppers, sewing projects, and my father’s pink Motorola radio whenever his beloved Phillies played night games.
In the mid ‘60s, my father purchased a newfangled Formica-topped model and banished the old table to storage in the granary. It shared the granary with mice and squirrel families for several years until Gary and I rescued it in 1978. We sent it out to be stripped and refinished, but despite the refurbishing, it still carries the scars from the past – a couple of black rings from long-ago too-hot pots, dark bloodstains from multiple November deer processing sessions, an unidentifiable red splotch probably from a school art project, and other imperfections accumulated over six generations of living.
Today, after spending years with Gary and me, our kids, and now grandkids in Powell, North Towanda, and Lime Hill, the old table finds itself at home again on the Sugar Hill farm in our new house overlooking the granary. A tablecloth usually covers the evidence of its long hard history of service, but I smile each time I see the battered surface. As it enters its second century, I’m hopeful that someday one of our sons or a grandchild will continue to add new family memories and think of those who gathered round it for the first hundred years.
When I passed the little white Methodist Church in downtown Hollenback yesterday, I began to think back on Vacation Bible School in the late ‘50s and early ‘60s. My brother and our friends gathered there each summer to read short stories of Jonah’s whale, Daniel’s lion, David’s slingshot, and Mary’s Miracle. We worked on art projects and took a snack break each day – my favorite was Oreo cookies dunked in grape Kool-Aid. And, we sang church-appropriate songs like “Jesus Loves Me” and “Jesus Loves the Little Children.”
As I drove, another song we sang came to mind, one we learned from Mrs. Stone that seems a bit unusual for such a setting. I sang it out loud as I drove past the old Wilmot grange building:
In a cabin in the woods At the door an old man stood Saw a rabbit passing by Knocking at the door Help me! Help me! Help me, he said Or that hunter will shoot me dead Little rabbit come inside Safely to abide
As soon as that last word was sung, I shouted, “BAM!” just as that roomful of kids did so many years ago. I smiled at the memory of us sending that poor rabbit straight to the supper table as pan-fried rabbit next to boiled potatoes, baked beans, and homemade applesauce! We were the young sons and daughters of hunters, most with at least one shotgun propped up in a corner of the kitchen or living room, just in case …
Back home from Dushore, the song kept ringing through my head, so I Googled the first couple of lines and was pleased to find at least five cartoon videos. I watched the first one and listened as the rabbit cried, “Help me!” and was surprised and a bit irritated to hear him then say, “for it’s cold and I might freeze.” The video showed a hunter with a gun, but the words had been changed. The second video was even more troubling. The line in the song was changed to “Fore the farmer bops my head.” The cartoon figure was a wild-haired farmer with menacing eyes carrying a 2X4, apparently appropriate for bopping bunnies on the head.
I grumbled about it for a couple of minutes to Gary, imagining myself with a 2X4 going after whoever felt the need to mess with my childhood memories. If it hadn’t been so late I’d have gone to town for some Oreos and grape Kool-Aid. At least some things haven’t changed.
I owe thanks to the Soviet Union for my introduction to Mr. Burke. In October 1957, they launched Sputnik, the first artificial satellite into outer space. Sputnik sent out radio signals for 22 days, until its batteries died, and then burned up ten weeks later as it fell from orbit and reentered the earth’s atmosphere. Shocked by this achievement, the U.S. government plowed money into new mathematics and scientific educational programs in a concerted effort to “catch up with” this Cold War adversary. New Math came to life, and by 1962 it found its way to the small, rural elementary school in Wyalusing, Pennsylvania.
Progressive for a rural school at the time, Wyalusing adopted a trial program of this new-fangled math and also chose a radical approach to teaching it. Twelve of my fifth-grade classmates and I moved into a classroom with an equal number of sixth graders. Gone were hard-backed math textbooks with countless numbered problems at the end of each chapter; replaced with softbound workbooks with write-in-the-book-as-you-go problems. Those of us who already loved old-time arithmetic soon embraced set theory, non-base-10 systems, commutative property, and other parent-frustrating concepts – New Math of the 1960s.
Chosen to teach in this unconventional setting, Mr. Burke rose to the task. When school started in the fall of 1962, John Glenn had already claimed a page in history after his shot into space earlier in the year. As the first American to orbit the earth, he flew 17,500 miles per hour as he circled earth three times. Mr. Burke brought the excitement of this new space age into our classroom. We built our own rockets in class and one sunny school day, walked down the hill to the town park and shot them off into space, future astronauts in the making!
Not every day was as unconventional. We began each class day with the salute to the flag and a silent moment of prayer, not knowing or perhaps just not yet responding to the U.S. Supreme Court’s 1962 ruling making mandatory prayer in school unconstitutional. Each morning we also practiced handwriting, forming our OOOOOOs and lllllllls, learning to write our letters the “correct way”. I often think of this as I scribble my name on a credit card payment, with my D and S as the only two legible letters. Mr. Burke would be sad.
He’d probably also be concerned about the problems facing our country and the world today. In our school days, he led us in discussions of current events, encouraging us to read (Weekly Readers included, of course!) and watch the news at night. The Cuban Missile Crisis in 1962 caused fear and uncertainty for a few scary days, and we practiced huddling in the hallways in case of a nuclear attack by the Soviets. The following year, Martin Luther King gave his “I’ve Got a Dream” speech, and while I don’t specifically remember learning about the speech at the time, we did discuss racial unrest happening across the country (foreign news to our all-white rural community) and talked about Lyndon Johnson’s signing of the Civil Rights Act the following year.
Every Friday was art project time, and on the afternoon of November 22,1963, we were using an electric drill to spin colored crepe paper into strings to wrap around bottles for Christmas presents for our parents. Sometime after two o’clock an announcement came over the loudspeaker that President Kennedy had been shot and killed. Mr. Burke helped us get through the next few minutes, and Walter Cronkite helped us get through the next few days. I still get chills.
Other events in the country from 62-64 failed to make much of an impression on us until later years. The U.S stuck its toes a little bit deeper into Vietnam, with the first U.S. casualties reported. The very first Wal-Mart store opened in Arkansas and the first Ford Mustang roared to life. Zip codes arrived, along with the new TV show, Jeopardy, and the first federal pronouncement was made that smokers might want to reconsider lighting up. We did watch the Beatles make their noisy U.S. debut on The Ed Sullivan Show, but I’m pretty sure none of my friends swooned or fainted!
Back in the classroom, Mr. Burke shared his passion for the local history of the Delaware and Iroquois tribes who lived on and roamed the lands along the Susquehanna so long ago. He also talked us through the triumphs and tragedies of our country’s fight for independence and later of the battle of Gettysburg. Between battles, we diagrammed sentences, played games of logic, and listened to Mr. Burke’s impromptu stories and lessons about hard work, respect for others and citizenship.
For years, my mother kidded me about the two years when almost every sentence I spoke started with, “Mr. Burke says … ”. Recently, several of my classmates shared stories of those days, and they laughed and echoed the same memory of their “Mr. Burke says ,,,” phase. All these years later we may not recall many specific Mr. Burke quotes, but what we do recall is a man who encouraged our curiosity, inspired us to learn, challenged us to excel, and provided a role model of decency; a kind and compassionate man. While his specific words may have faded, his life’s lessons live on within us, a lasting tribute to a good man. Thank you, Mr. Burke.
Mr. Gerald F. Burke was born in rural Wilmot Township, Bradford County, Pennsylvania in 1916. He taught for 41 years in the local area schools, including one-room schools – Oak Hill, Farr, Golden Hill and elementary schools in Camptown, Laceyville, and Wyalusing. His teaching career culminated in the well-deserved honor of Pennsylvania Teacher of the Year in 1978.
Diane C. Seymour writes stories of rural Pennsylvania from her home on the Potter Century Farm in Sugar Run, PA. www.homebeckons.com
The barn is empty now and the cows exist only in my memories, but oh my, what good memories they are …
“Maddie’ Photo by Marji Beach on Flickr
“It’s time to go get the cows,” my mother said, reminding my brother Lanny and me to get moving as she set the supper table. We grumbled a bit, but out the door we went.
Pasture land on our Sugar Hill dairy farm was limited, competing with woods and cropland so our walk to find the cows took us up the dirt road about 100 yards past an open field to a wooden gate leading into a small pasture. Once in a while, the cows were right there where their day after the morning milking had started. Usually though, they were nowhere in sight, so we lowered the poles to the gate and continued our search.
Sometimes, we stopped just inside the gate at a big white salt block mounted on a stick. We searched for the cleanest spots on the block and took a couple of good licks. Only as an adult did it hit me that the cleanest spots most likely were where they’d been licked “clean” by a giant Holstein tongue!
In the springtime, we passed by beautiful pink blossoms of the mountain laurel bushes, pausing just long enough to pick a few blossoms for my mother. As our Pennsylvania state flower, I felt proud as a kid to have these on our land. I’ve since learned that the branches, leaves, flowers and all parts of the bush are toxic to most animals. Fortunately, they must have tasted badly or our cows somehow knew not to eat them since they never complained of bellyaches!
After passing the mountain laurels, we walked through woods for another quarter mile to the main pasture next to the swamp. If we were lucky, they’d be there after a long lazy day, most lying down dozing off, while a few might still be ripping at the grass getting their last bites in before supper in the barn. Lanny and I were happy that we’d guessed right when we left the gate about where they’d be. Otherwise, we’d be backtracking a quarter mile along the swamp to find them.
We didn’t need big sticks or loud voices to get them started. Cows know when it’s dinnertime, so when the lead boss cow saw us, she made the first move toward home and the others followed. They lumbered along, weaving their ways around the trees, their full bags a sure sign it was time for milking. Some days, as they moved ahead of us, we stopped long enough to find a just-right, not-too-wet and not-too-crusty cow manure pile to carve our initials into with sticks. Then, we ran ahead to catch up with the cows, determined to check on our solidified artwork the next day!
Home at last after their half-mile trek, the cows walked single file into the barn and found their designated spots, putting their heads through the stanchion openings. My father rolled the feed bin down the center aisle, scooping out the right amount for each cow. Those long cow tongues came in handy for swiping feed from a neighbor’s portion! Lanny and I fed the weaned calves, and as every belly in the barn was getting full, my father, brother, and I set off to the house to fill our own. Home for supper again.
