Life: The Journey Continues

On May 5, 2013May 11, 2013 By AnnIn Writing1 Comment

At a recent writing workshop William Bernhardt asked us to identify three important values in our lives. This being an exercise I had completed in a different chapter of life, my three qualities were easy to list.

I value creativity, both divine and human. My passion for the earth nestles within this category. Additionally my environmental activism, love for wildlife, nature, artistic attempts by my friends and family, music composition, and the process of writing fall under this heading.

I value harmony, in which individual elements fit together pleasantly into a whole. My passion for music and keyboard instruments is included here, of course. But I also list human relations, cooperation, love, honesty, integrity, generosity, service, and commitment.

Third on my list is education, the quality of being a student for life. Openness, a willingness to learn, to explore and to seek new adventure cluster under this heading.

On the rare occasion when facets of all three collide in one place at one time, I feel euphoric. The past weekend at the OWFI annual convention in Norman, Oklahoma was such an event. Opportunities to learn new techniques and consider alternative viewpoints filled the education criterion. Everyone I met, totally involved in the creative process, affirmed my own aspirations. New friendships, laughter, frolics, and plans to meet again created a joyous cloud on which we practically floated home. Education, harmony and creativity—a weekend of bliss.

To have a publisher request to see samples of my writing topped the experience. A new corner has been turned. A new chapter in life has started. Whether the request leads to a published book remains to be seen. For now, I will enjoy the notion that someone wants to see what I have to offer.

Many thanks go to Bill Bernhardt for coaching my pitch and query, as well as instruction on the elements of manuscript creation. Thanks also to my writing friends for reading and offering constructive criticism to polish the words. We are indeed word weavers. The process—the journey—continues! Such is the creative life.

Sanctuary: A Photo Essay

On May 2, 2013May 11, 2013 By AnnIn Earth care, Letters to Septanna, Nature, UncategorizedLeave a comment

“A picture is worth a thousand words”. I wonder how many scenes can be pulled from just one word?

Sanctuary

Sanctuary

Holy

hOly

HoLy

HOLY

Sanctuary

nctuar

y

Sanctuary

sanctuary

reverence

sanctuary

Sanctuary

SANCTUARY

Sanctuary

“A picture is worth a thousand words” but how many scenes can be pulled from just one word?

s a n c t u a r y

sanctuary

SACRED SACRED

SACR SAEEED

SAC R RED

sanctuary

s a n c t u a r y

Sanctuary

s a f e

sanctuary

sanctuary?

courtesy Rebecca McCutcheon, The Winfield Courier

sanctuary?

s-a-n-c-t-u-a-r-y-?

S-A-N-C-T-U-A-R-Y-Y-Y-!!

s-s-s-a-n-k-ch-ch-ch-u-r-e-e-e-e-e

Snt–ay anu–rySnca–y nct r–actr –ntuy ––ncta-tu– r – y

aaghh!

Sanctuary

SaNctuary

Sanctuary

SancTuary

Sanctuary

SanctuaRy

SancYtuary

s-s-s a n c h u r e -E – E !

Sanctuary

Sanctuary

IS IT IS IT IS IT IS IT?

sanc . . . .

SAFE SAFE SAFE

sanc . .sanc . . . .

nc . . . . sanc . . . .BE

sanc SANCtuary. . . .SANCtuary

S A C R E D

S A N C T U A R Y ! ! !

And Jesus went into the temple, and began to cast out those that sold and bought in the temple, ond overthrew the tables of the moneychangers . . . . And he told them, “Is it not written my house shall be called a house of prayer among all nations? But you have made it a den of thieves.” Mark 11: 15, 17

For more information, see

http://www.vjsexoticsafaris.com

http://www.rideforrenewables.com

http://350.org

http://www.tarsandsaction.org

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LpfWCpRvY9c&sns=fb

http://www.winfieldcourier.com/archives/article_e9faf415-cec6-562c-963e-98c3916b12c3.html

Sanctuary (annchristinefell.wordpress.com)

Once there was a Rooster

On March 13, 2013May 11, 2013 By AnnIn Letters to Septanna, Nature2 Comments

Dear Septanna,

Perhaps it was predictable that I should become an environmentalist, an earth-lover, a tree-hugger, defender of Nature from encroaching civilization. I was born in the month of May, the green month. May’s stone is deep green emerald, the color which has always been my favorite. Green represents life, renewal, constancy, dependability. And hope. Green, the cool background color, frames splashes of vivid prairie blossoms during May. Just as the foliage of a wild rose bush catches and holds dew at night, green is a beautiful color, but in a quiet way.

Like me. I’ve always been a quiet person. Public appearances never come easily to me. I am much more comfortable alone on my prairie, pen and notebook in hand, dogs panting happily at my feet after a run through the native pasture. The only sounds I hear besides their panting are wind whistling through bare branches on the trees surrounding our nearly-dry pond, and the screech of a hawk circling high above our heads.

Gentle and kind-hearted, I wouldn’t hurt a flea. Well, maybe a flea. But you get the idea. I am the calm greenness surrounding today’s flashy and assertive personalities.

So what happens when my prairie is in peril from the short-sighted choices of billions of people? What can I do to shake my fellow humans awake? You wouldn’t think there’d be much a timid, background sort of person could do. Those who have great wealth seem to possess the power on our planet today. They seem to be seduced by the prospects of even greater profits and will wield significant influence to exploit our finite planetary resources for short-term gain. At your expense, dear Septanna. But what can one shy grandmother do about it?

Just when I feel all is lost, I recall the rooster. And I find hope.

Once there was this rooster.He was supposed to be a hen, an araucana hen, no less. He should have laid eggs with pastel green shells. Several years ago I bought three araucana pullets for the novelty of having green eggs. Two of those pullets turned out to be roosters. There was only one hen. Pullets are supposed to be female chicks so all three should have laid eggs.

Somebody made a mistake. Twice.

As these two roosters grew, they began to crow. One turned aggressive. He terrorized his brother, his sister, and every other hen in our chicken house.

I exiled him to fend for himself outside the chicken yard. You may be wondering why I didn’t just make some chicken noodle soup. Well, that’s me—prisoner of my own soft heart, I was incapable of harming this fighting cock. I couldn’t kill this rooster. But I wouldn’t have stopped a coyote from hauling him off. He was exiled. He paced the chicken yard perimeter day after day, month after month, even (yes) year after year. He plotted in his wee bird brain how he might gain access to the hens again.

I’d scatter some grain for him every morning—couldn’t let him starve either. But I wasn’t going to let him terrorize my hens.

So he charged me. Imagine that! I was the person who let him live, the provider of his daily food. But he charged me. He seemed to wait until I turned my back and, with a rush of feet across the ground and a flurry of wings, he launched himself toward my legs, spurs outstretched.

I took to carrying a child’s plastic bat with me to do chores. If I thumped the bat on the ground as I approached, he seemed to get the message. He left me alone. Most of the time.

There were still instances when I heard the rush and thunder of his charge behind me. Then some interesting things happened inside me. My heart rate jumped to double in about two seconds. I’d turn toward this fighting cock, raise that bat and swing with all my might. No thought process was involved, simply act and react, a mere instinct to fight my aggressor. On more than one occasion, the bat connected squarely with this rooster’s head. I knocked him silly. He’d stagger around and slump to the ground, quivering and jerking in spasms.

I felt instant remorse. “Oh my God, I’ve killed him!” I thought. As if that would be a bad thing. For me, though, kind-hearted timid little me, it was a bad thing. I dropped the bat and retreated to a safe distance. I watched until he struggled to his feet and dragged himself around the corner of the hen house.

Eventually this rooster met his fate, but not at my hands. However, because of his aggression, I learned that somewhere deep inside of me, I have the instincts and the adrenaline to fight when I feel threatened. I think that’s applicable to our world today, Septanna. My intuition tells me that many of the choices made by my fellow human beings pose a threat—not just to me, not just to my prairie, but to you as well. And there’s nothing more dangerous than an angry mother, be it a bear or a human being. Maybe it’s time to start carrying my bat again and fight for you in every way I can imagine.

Letters to Septanna

On March 12, 2013 By AnnIn Letters to Septanna4 Comments

Contemporary American culture is notoriously short-sighted. We can’t see beyond the tips of our noses, or into the next hour, let alone the next century. Gratification must be instant–because after all, we deserve it.

Yet there is a growing need to evaluate our lifestyle choices for the consequences forced onto unborn generations. Native Americans put it this way, “In our every deliberation, we must consider the impact of our decisions on the next seven generations.” (From the Great Law of the Iroquois confederacy.)

Just how long would that be? It would vary from family to family, of course, but in my own, seven generations covers about 200 years. Could my great- ancestors-times-seven have imagined life in the twenty-first century? I doubt it. Nor can I visualize everyday life in the year 2213. But perhaps there will live a child two hundred years hence, the great-granddaughter of my yet non-existent great-grandchild. She’s the thread of an idea right now, but I’ll call her Septanna. “Sept” for seven and “Anna” for my progeny. What would I tell Septanna about life in my time?

This new category will include letters to the twenty-third century.

Reprise TJ Junkins

On March 10, 2013May 11, 2013 By AnnIn My Favorite Giants, Writing6 Comments

On this journey through life, a chance meeting with another person occasionally develops into a unique and treasured friendship. Today I honor World War II veteran and fellow writer Tom Junkins.

I met Tom at the first writing event I attended following my return to writing. About the age of my own father, Tom had devoted his waning years to recording his life experiences. He printed books, bound them, and offered them to his family and friends. He threw himself enthusiastically into the writing life.

Together we traveled to monthly meetings. He provided enthusiastic encouragement for my projects. I helped him produce one of his memoir volumes. In a conversational voice, Tom’s memoirs recorded his stories as if he spoke to his grandchildren. When his health declined, he responded with wit and good humor, in the style I came to know as Tom’s unique voice.

He wrote, “On Friday June the third at five in the evening, my right leg went numb. I called 911. They put me in an ambulance and sent me to Via Christi, St. Francis. They landed on me like a bunch of crows on road kill, ran all kinds of scans and tests, and scheduled surgery with a vascular surgeon for Sunday morning to remove a blood clot.”

Our days of writer’s meetings drew to a close with his move to the Veteran’s Home. Tom still wrote daily, even as he struggled with growing physical limitations. What have I learned from this writer? He displayed grace and courage when facing his health issues. In this way he reminded me of my own father.

But more than that, Tom’s dedication to the written word is testament to the vitality we find in books. By writing stories for his family, Tom created a gift they can enjoy forever. As I sit in my office, I am surrounded by books, by journals of my lost parents, and letters from long-gone relatives and friends. They live through their words. Their essence and personality shine into my life. When I read words written by giants of my past, their voices echo in my mind. And I know they are still with me, in words and in spirit.

One week ago, Tom Junkins passed from this life. His words speak now only from pages he wrote. With his passing, he joined those giants of my past whose journals and letters provide sustenance for my future. I humbly repost this blog in his honor. I will long remember his enthusiasm for writing. Here’s to you, Tom. May your adventures continue into the next life.

Winter Wanderlust

On March 2, 2013May 11, 2013 By AnnIn Nature, Writing2 Comments

* * * * * *

I long to be thrust into the cold embrace of a winter wilderness,

To tramp upon the crunch of crusted snow,

To smell the pain of icy air expanding when inhaled

* * * * * *

And feel the softness of a flake of snow as it settles warmly on my frozen nose,

* * * * * *

To open and reclose my brittle lips on teeth which shiver in the biting air,

To feel the nip of winter’s ravenous jaws and wind heed not my heavy winter clothes,

* * * * * *

To feel the life-blood freezing in my naked fingers

* * * * * *

and walk on sticks of toes which feel no more;

* * * * * *

All this with longing wakens in me when every year the autumn season ends,

The strange emotion which comes just to restless people,

The lonely call of winter wanderlust.

* * * * *

* * * * * *

To feel these tiny bits of cold and dying is the best way I can appreciate

* * * * * *

The fire-warmth of a little one-room cabin

* * * * * *

Or the stubborn life within a twisted tree.

* * * * * *

To live within the wildness meant forever

* * * * * *

And realize our whims are not supreme

* * * * * *

But Nature, when the time comes, will reclaim us—

* * * * * *

All this makes up the winter wanderlust.

* * * * * *

After the thrust into a wilderness,

* * * * * *

After tramping on the crunch of crusted snow,

* * * * * *

After blood has frozen in my sticks of fingers and of toes,

After the soft, warm snowflake has melted

From some mysterious heat within my nose,

* * * * * *

After the wind has chilled me to the bone,

* * * * * *

Then comes the culmination of this wanderlust—

* * * * * *

The return to warmth, to shed my icy coat,

* * * * * *

Stand and tingle as the rushing blood thaws out my frozen skin,

* * * * * *

Wince in pain as toe-sticks reawaken, and glow as life returns again.

* * * * * *

This is the essence of the wanderlust.

* * * * * *

To long to suffer in the wilderness,

* * * * * *

To will to make my feet and fingers dead-like,

To greet the icy wind with a welcome thrill,

Ultimately, I renew my life.

* * * * * *

After touching death’s cold icy fingers,

To come again and live to love the warmth—

This strange emotion which comes just to restless people,

To touch the ruthless side of Mother Nature

And love as life returns again—

* * * * *

This death, and life, with longing wakens in me

* * * * * *

The lonely call of winter wanderlust.

The lonely call of winter wanderlust.

Recalculating

Half a century ago, young Manuel set out from his home in Quito, Ecuador, to follow his heart to America. Last summer Manny became the newest member of our family when he married our sister. We recently met our new brother-in-law for the first time. What we found was a very young seventy-four-year old man.

The question is, “How does he manage to stay so young?”

The answer starts with five-o-four. This is the time his alarm wakes him every day. At 5:04, he heads to his living room and spends part of his waking hour on his rowing machine. Then he progresses into a hundred and twenty push-ups. Over breakfast, he completes the day’s crossword puzzle to limber his mind. And he’s off to work, a serious volunteer at a near-by hospital where he spends hours every day just helping people.

After work, he refreshes with a few laps at a YMCA pool before he heads home to cook up dinner for himself, his new wife, and any visitors who happen to be there, like us. He’s ready to engage anyone with an examination of life’s unanswered questions over dinner and a little wine.

Probably the questions, as much as anything, keep his mind spry. He’s figured a few things out, and he’s not afraid to share his thoughts.

Most pills, he insists, only lead to side effects that necessitate another pill. If we could get off the meds, we’d be much healthier.

What about headaches? No pill needed. Simply take a few minutes to concentrate on slow, deep breathing. Increased oxygen in your blood will cure many aches.

Questions keep his mind active. His search for answers wins him many friends. Generosity with his time and his talents builds relationships. His service to others nurtures friendships. With solicitous attention to our needs and comfort, he hosted our short stay with royal treatment.

While not everyone might be able to throw away their medications, or soothe a headache with breathing exercises, perhaps we can all learn something from this remarkable man. We need to question our lives and listen for answers. The art of questioning brings the power of listening. Maybe we all need to listen to what our bodies tell us and take preventive steps to conserve our health. We need to trust our own minds and trust our own spirits. I think perhaps we are losing the ability to hear what our bodies and the rest of the world try to tell us.

Contrast Manny’s finely-tuned awareness with the habits of successively younger generations. We are losing something—something which someday we might be desperate to find. We’ve been seduced by a life of ease. Seduced by technology. Seduced by laziness. Instead of listening to our bodies, we want others to tell us how to feel better, right now! We want a pill for everything. And the pills keep appearing.

We’re seduced by entertainment technology. We plop down and veg out in front of the large flat-screens in our homes and we lose the gift of creatively filling our spare time.

We download music and forget how to make our own.

We are mesmerized with cell phone technology. And we forget how to connect with another person in the same room.

We are seduced by shorter and shorter messages, texts, tweets and abbreviated words. And we forget how to touch others with a long hand-written letter from the heart. There is a debate in a nearby town whether children should be taught cursive writing any more. We are forgetting how to write our names.

Automatic transmissions, automatic dishwashers, automatic cameras, and remote controls for almost everything I can imagine fill our homes, our garages, and our lives.

We have been seduced by technology until most of us suffer an orientation disability. We seem to be lost. We can’t navigate without a GPS. (Whatever happened to map-reading or just plain-old-following-directions?) We don’t know where we are anymore, or where we need to go. We want somebody else to tell us where to go, to think for us, to add for us, to write for us, to drive for us, to work for us. Could it be we’re waiting for others to live for us as well?

We’re losing the ability to find ourselves and find our way around life’s perilous paths. We could learn a lot from elders like Manny. He knows how to ask questions and how to listen to his own heart. Welcome to the family, Manuel. It’s nice to have an elder again.

Re-cal-cu-la-ting . . . .

On February 3, 2013February 3, 2013 By AnnIn Family3 Comments

The Consideration Project

On January 27, 2013May 11, 2013 By AnnIn Family, Uncategorized1 Comment

I’ve been thinking about my mother a lot lately. Last week marked a full decade since we celebrated her last birthday with her. It’s only natural she has been in my thoughts. For our appreciation of all the finer things in life, my sisters and I have Mother to thank. She loved music, literature, and the finer aspects of our culture fostered through the arts. Education was a priority for her. Based on her own experience, continuing education was the key to rise above desperation and hardship. She fostered within each of her daughters the value of knowledge, hard work, and a sense of justice and opportunity for those down on their luck. She was also pretty hard-nosed about second chances if one failed to recognize the gift of a first chance. But she remained generous to others all her days.

Actively involved in our childhood education, Mother assigned me the first big project I recall. She became upset by the daily arguing of her three daughters. To combat the incessant cacophony of our constant bickering, she assigned each of us to do a “Consideration Project.” We were to consider each other’s feelings and viewpoints before we erupted into a shouting match. There was paperwork involved. By the due date, I had written a journal of thoughts, choices, and conclusions. This project became a major activity for me. Though I don’t have a copy of my final report, I learned a great deal from the activity. I believe this was the first major writing project assigned in my school years. It was Mother who assigned it, and I still remember the “Consideration Project.”

I can draw parallels to lessons recorded in the gospel books of the Bible. Jesus instructed, “If anyone forces you to go one mile, go also the second mile.” (Matt. 5:41) “If anyone strikes you on the cheek, offer the other also, and from anyone who takes away your coat, do not withhold even your shirt.” (Luke 6:29) In other words, Jesus also encouraged his followers to be considerate of others.

Is there anything more difficult to master about life? My natural response toward someone who has acted harshly against me is to retaliate in kind. Yet, if I stop a moment and give consideration to the other, I might imagine a bit of bad news they may be facing, a hardship in their family, or an argument they may have had with the most important person in their life. Even though a person may treat me unfairly, it helps no one if I pass that injustice along. Not even me.

There have been times after I finish a service job when I am offered payment with a check that bounces. I fretted. I worried. I fretted some more. But when, in my heart, I made a gift to the person of my work, my distress was instantly relieved. Jesus’ instructions for giving beyond expectations were spoken not to benefit those who wrong me, but to lift the load of hatred and resentment from my own heart. Freedom and contentment were my immediate rewards.

Jesus also said, “Do not judge, so that you may not be judged.” (Matt. 7:1) How can I possibly know all the details of another person’s choices? I can’t. Granted, I have never been on the receiving end of a violent criminal act. I have never faced the loss of everything I hold dear at the spiteful actions of others. I honestly don’t know how I would react in those cases. But I do know that I can choose my actions carefully today. I have the power to affect my own life and future, and I can support others who face unknown crises without judging them from my own perspective.

It seems that our nation is in need of a consideration project. Diversity has always been one of the strengths of our country. We defend the right of others to live as their hearts dictate, as long as their choices hurt no one. The bitterness and rancor we see today in our nation gets us nowhere in the long run. The art of politics should be the art of compromise, striking a deal somewhere in the middle that the majority of people can embrace. We defend the rights of those who have few resources. We defend our diversity.

Extremists who deny compromise and refuse action of any sort unless it’s what they want only hurt our country. There should be no room for a “My-way-or-the-highway” attitude. How do we find common ground with folks who will not listen to differing views? On a national scale, we seem to lack something basic. Something like . . . consideration.

Mother, we need your “Consideration Project.” I suspect that if we try, we could find some common ground between the blue and the red. If we consider the views and thoughts of those who differ from us, we might find we share many things. We love our children. We revere the life and opportunities we’ve had. We want others to share similar good fortunes. We worry about what the future holds. The basics of humanity exist in the hearts of people regardless of their political persuasions. If we listened considerately to each other, we might find we share a lot. Our states are not totally red nor blue, just as our own hearts are not absolutely conservative or liberal. We are closer to various shades of purple than perfectly red or perfectly blue. Purple should be the color of our future as we strive to find commonalities in our concerns.

How about a little consideration for each other? I’m ready. Are you?

My Favorite Books

On December 24, 2012February 3, 2013 By AnnIn WritingLeave a comment

In his keynote address at the annual Scene Conference for the Kansas Writer’s Association last spring, author William Bernhardt said, “Write. There is no more important work in the world.” The point was that the pen is, indeed, more powerful than the sword in creating change throughout our world. I’ve thought about his statement many times. How have books impacted my life? I am amazed to think how my favorite books seem to parallel qualities and events throughout my life.

From primary school days, I still have A Baby for Betsy byAnne Guy. This story of a young girl follows her wish for a younger sibling. Her parents ended up adopting triplets. Then I ended up raising three children only weeks apart in age. Folks called them our triplets.

Favorite grade school books included Molly’s Miracle by Linell Smith. In this story, an old mare adopts a filly that arrives from a pre-historic land through a tunnel. Molly names this young eohippus Dawn. The filly never grows bigger than a cat, and ends up leading the barnyard friends back through the tunnel for an adventure in the dawn of time. And I chose geology as my major college field.

Jim Kjelgaard wrote books about animals and outdoor life. Big Red, Irish Red, and Outlaw Red chronicled stories about Irish setters that enthralled me. I read all of the Kjelgaard books I could get my hands on. In Wildlife Cameraman, I learned of an exciting career that supported both my growing love of nature and the intricacies of quality photo shoots.

There were other beloved books from my childhood. The Incredible Journey, My Side of the Mountain, and Island of the Blue Dolphins shared adventures in the natural world and fed my growing love for travel and nature.

Thoreau’s Walden became important when I pored over literary lists for college-bound students. “I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived,” wrote Thoreau. Nor did I want to live a life that became empty and meaningless through the years.

Tolkien’s The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings trilogy kept me entertained for months as I trekked with Bilbo and Frodo through middle earth.

Thor Heyerdahl’s records of adventures in the south Pacific fascinated me with his “back to nature” ideas in Kon Tiki and Fatu Hiva.

W.H. Hudson’s Green Mansions told the story of Rima, an arboreal maid of the Venezuelan rain forest who designed her garments from spider webs.

As a college student during the seventies, I took a general education class called “Can Man Survive?” This course used books like Aldo Leopold’s Sand County Almanac and E.F. Schumacher’s Small Is Beautiful as texts. The experience nurtured what would become a life-long advocacy for Earth care and environmentalism.

Early in my adulthood, The Secret Life of Plants by Tompkins and Bird impacted my relationship with other living things.

Adam Daniel Finnerty’s No More Plastic Jesus changed my life through its pledge to live by teachings of the master.

“‘Lord, when was it that we saw you hungry and gave you food, or thirsty and gave you something to drink? And when was it that we saw you a stranger and welcomed you, or naked and gave you clothing? And when was it that we saw you sick or in prison and visited you?’ And He will answer them, ‘Truly I tell you, just as you did it to one of the least of these who are members of my family, you did it to me.’” Matthew 25: 37-40

For an escape into historical fiction, nothing appealed to me more than M. M. Kaye’s novels of India in the 1800’s. Far Pavilions inspired my visit to India in 2008, where I slept in palaces such as those described in her pages. I walked in Ashok’s and Anjuli’s footprints on the parapets of fortresses.

An article in a writing magazine urged me to read Pilgrim at Tinker Creek by Annie Dillard to study mastery of literary art. Her vivid descriptions of life in the woods filled me with awe for her skill.

Most recently, Bill McKibben’s prophetic words in Eaarth have renewed my quest to take a stand for the planet I love.

The discovery of The Green Bible, with more than a thousand references of God’s love of creation printed in green letters, revived my respect for Scripture. The green letters in this version highlight how God and Jesus interact with and care for all of creation, how the elements of nature are interdependent, how nature responds to God, and how we are charged with the care of creation.

We have been blessed with a jewel among the stars in the universe. We absolutely must find a way to preserve it for the sake of future generations, plants, wildlife, Irish setters, horses, triplets and everything else that writers may write about today or tomorrow.

Can books shape a life? They have mine. William Bernhardt must be right. There is no more important job on earth than to write. The words we share have the power to shape lives for generations to come. We should craft our words with care.

Christmas is a family time

On December 24, 2012December 24, 2012 By AnnIn FamilyLeave a comment

I baked cookies yesterday. Funny how simple things flood my mind with memories. The recipes are family traditions. Using recipe cards hand-written by my parents or grandmother, I find myself thinking of them. Their contributions to our holiday table continue long past their days on earth.

Many memories of Mother involve simple, delicious, baked goods. She was known for fixing a certain apple coffee cake whenever any of her progeny visited—and sending it home with us. In a visit with my younger sister on the sixty-second anniversary of their wedding, we noted how this same recipe has found its way into the next generation or two. Mother would be pleased.

Grandma Georgia baked cookies. Her son, my dad, was a cookie lover. In his retirement years, he mastered his mother’s recipes and shared the products with the rest of us. Keeping the tradition, I pulled out the recipe for molasses sugar cookies and whipped up a batch. The smells and the tastes coming from my oven brought Daddy and Grandma vividly to mind.

Somehow, I ended up with my grandmother’s recipe box. It is full of recipe cards in her own handwriting. The collection is precious beyond words. Gone from earth more than twenty years, it’s almost as if she lives within those inked cards.

Expert cooks from my past also provided recipes for contentment and success in life. Ironically, their lessons become more clear the longer I live without them.

Christmas is a family time and I find myself missing my parents very much. Through memories and traditions, they live in my heart. My children scatter across the miles to establish homes of their own. Some of these traditions live in their lives also. We weave threads that show up in tapestries that link different generations together. It’s hard to predict when the connections will show up in the lives of our children. But when they do, it’s like Christmas any day in my heart.

Thank you, Mother and Daddy. Thank you, Grandma Georgia and Grandmother Mary. I remember you at Christmas time with deep gratitude.