Reminisce

2008-08-14T06:00:00.001-04:00

My "Zucchis"

This was a first for me... the planting of zucchini, not from seed, but from an itsy bitsy plant with three tiny leaves. The nursery tag said "zucchini," so I took their word for it. I put these tiny plants in good, rich soil 18 inches apart, as instructed. That's what the tag said, so that's what I allowed, no matter how lost and forlorn they looked. I felt like I was putting babies out in the middle of a vast desert. The tag also said they would take 80-90 days to mature. Gardening teaches patience.

Each morning I went out to the garden to check on how my little "zucchis" were doing. They weren't doing much! There they all sat for weeks not growing very much, but not dying either—so far, so good. Their neighboring veggie's were doing great however. I tenderly weeded them each day fearing the roots of the weeds would grab hold of their tiny zucchini roots and pull them down to who knows where.

Well, we had a bit of odd weather here on Long Island with some days in the high 90's and nights in the 50's, then 2 or 3 nights of heavy down pours. I was sooo tempted to rise from my cozy, dry bed and venture out to see if my young charges were still above ground. I resisted the urge and instead dreamed of big, fat, healthy zucchini. Finally, I had reached the point where I decided to ignore them. I did all that I could. It was now up to them. My attitude now towards them was "sink or swim."

It's amazing what can be seen in the garden very early in the morning. Whilst drinking my morning tea on the patio facing the vegetable patch, I gazed upon the good, solid array of soon eatable vegetables. There I noticed the prettiest large yellow blossoms. I wondered, "What is that?" and leaving my tea on the table, I curiously made my way over to it. What it was, was my little "zucchis" coming to maturity, just like the tag from the nursery said they would. "When did that happen?" I gasped. It seemed like overnight they had all agreed to sprout up with a sudden zeal for life. No more my little zucchis. They were now becoming full fledged, maturing zucchini. Soon they would become the "King Kongs" of the vegetable patch! The nursery tag did not say what size they would actually grow to. The 18" apart rule should have been at least double that. So fast were they growing that I had to move other plants out of their way for their own survival. I think they knew they were the largest, most ferocious plants there. Even the weeds buckled under their vivaciousness. They developed long, thick stems, which became encrusted with short, sticky thistle-like thorns. What had I wrought here? Less than a week later, I noticed so many small zucchini lying about on their bed of dirt with nothing more to do than to live up their promised maturity of 80-90 days.

The funny thing about all this is that I really didn't care for the taste of zucchini until very recently. Coming from an English background, and raised by a Scottish grandmother, they were not served very often, if at all. But the rest of my family loves them, along with a few friends and neighbors with whom I am more than happy to share my zucchini bounty with.

Watching these wonderful plants grow from tiny seedling to large sprawling plant with leaves a good foot in length was a wondrous lesson in botany. In Genesis 1:11 the Bible says, "And God said, let the earth bring forth grass, the herb yielding seed and the fruit tree, yielding fruit after its kind, whose seed is in itself, upon the earth and so it was." As I pondered these words, "whose seed is in itself", the verse took on a greater depth of comprehension. Each and every seed contains all it needs once planted in the earth to become a perfect thing of its own. A little sunshine, a little care, a little water, and as the phrase goes, "There you have it." Sure enough, a giant oak still comes from a little acorn. Jesus illustrates the wonder of a seed so beautifully in Matthew 17:30: "If you have faith as a grain of mustard seed, ye shall say unto this mountain, remove hence to yonder place, it shall remove and nothing shall be impossible to you."

All this is just one of what God's precious seeds can do!

2008-07-28T15:23:00.002-04:00

We were enjoying a leisurely late afternoon lunch at "Smith's" in Sag Harbor when out of nowhere my eldest daughter gazed about her and abruptly said, "This reminds me of your Gram's house." Squelching a look of amazement and not wanting to burst a fragile childhood memory bubble, I simply said, "How so?" I looked across the large expanse of the restaurant with its open French doors leading to an outdoor patio dining area, and the not-to-be-ignored water view of the Long Island Sound separating Long Island from Connecticut. Try as I may, there was no way I could link this place with my Gram's kitchen. There was not even so much as a decent mud puddle on the perfectly manicured, one acre plus property on which sat this eating establishment. Gram's house had no outdoor patio, and there was not a French door anywhere. The interior of this restaurant was sleek and handsomely traditional, and probably seated a good 120 people. Gram's table sat six of us comfortably, seven in a pinch. While all of this was running through my mind, she went on to describe Gram's unforgettable red kitchen floor. Now, the restaurant floor was a highly polished dark oak... impressive, but definitely not reminiscent of hand painted red floor boards. With my Nova Scotia salmon perched on the tip of my fork and my mouth slightly ajar, I awaited the further reasoning of how this place in the slightest, remotest way resembled Gram's kitchen. Her answer to all these unspoken thoughts was, "Don't you think so?" Well that broke loose all my self restraint and I let out a stifled laugh. "No." said I. I was willing at this point to let the memory bubble burst on its own accord. "It's the ambiance of this place." she went on, "I don't feel hurried to finish my meal." She, like me, is always the last at the table to finish eating. "But the floor..." I continued, "What made you think of the red floor?" "Because," she answered with the patience of an elder sister to the younger, "Gram's floor always made me feel so welcome. It seemed to say come in, come in!"

Indeed, it did that! The kitchen was the largest room in the house. Aside from the floor, red was the decorative color. All the windows in the kitchen had cheery red curtains with snowy white ruffled tie-backs. We still had a small black pot bellied wood burning stove which perpetually had a "just ready to boil" kettle on top to be poured into a waiting teapot. (One of my fondest memories, but that's another story!) I further reasoned with her that the closest resemblance to French doors in Gram's kitchen was a wall of white cabinetry. It had three tiered shelves enclosed with double sets of glass doors that reached from the counter to the ceiling. "Yes!" she eagerly agreed. So that's what the French doors reminded her of? I wondered how the large expanse of the restaurant related, but thought it best at this point to, as they say, "Let sleeping dogs lie." Perhaps it's the way the places of our childhood remain so large in our minds, only to discover when we revisit them as adults, how small they actually were. I would leave that thought unspoken, as well.

I find it interesting to hear what children remember about their childhood. What may seem like totally unrelated places and objects can bring back a precious memory to them. It is often that I wonder what our homes in heaven will be like. John 14:2 promises, "In my Fathers house are many mansions; if it were not so I would have told you. I go to prepare a place for you." Just think. Our heavenly Father knows each of us so well that He will provide just the right place for us, and not just any house, but a mansion! Jesus will personally prepare it for us and it will be wonderfully close to Him, for the scripture says it is in the Fathers house. It is almost bitter sweet to read in 2 Corinthians 5:6, "Therefore we are always confident, knowing that whilst we are at home in the body, we are absent from the Lord." Yet we are comforted to know that one day we will be with our heavenly Father in His house, in our mansion. I am quite sure that one room in mine will have a red floor!

2008-06-17T12:19:00.001-04:00

I really do love the good, old ways. Values that carry from generation to generation are tried and true. Friends are like that. When your grandchildren have children and you still have a childhood friend standing beside you all those many years... that is a rarity, indeed. I have such a friend. From the 3rd grade to the present we have kept in communication. All-be-it at times there have been spasms of neglect, never the less, times and situations have brought us back in touch. I reflect on this now, for as innocent 3rd graders, we could have had no idea how the thread of our lives would remain unbroken for almost four generations.

We did not start out as best friends, although we were both in the same schools and knew the same classmates, I didn't go to her wedding, nor she to mine. Circumstances and tragedies in our lives seem to have kept our friendship in tact. Over the years, if it wasn't her rough times, it was mine. Sometimes it was both our rough times that collided until it was hard to tell who leaned on whom. Although our social backgrounds had it's various differences, that didn't affect the need we had for each other’s company. For centuries people have wondered what makes for a true friendship. Well, I can tell you what it is not. It is not the good times and high social events, nor is it the weddings and the funerals, nor the closeness of business associates. It goes much deeper. The other person has an indefinable characteristic you lack. At your weakest point your friend is the strongest. When you are ready to "throw in the towel", the friendship says "Keep going!" A true friend does not ask for, nor expect any payback. All she wants in return is love and loyalty. A price unfathomable.

This special friend of whom I am speaking of had a stroke three years ago, which left her paralyzed in both her left arm and leg. Having to learn to speak again was a major accomplishment. When I had to ask over and over what it was, she said it was not a bother for her to repeat and repeat the same phrase to me. It not only helped me to understand her, but it also helped her to perfect certain syllables that were unclear to others.

At this point in her life she is terribly depressed. With love overflowing in my heart, I had to impress upon her that depression is pride of self. (A bitter pill to swallow) Little by little she has come to see the logic of it. Right now, as I write this, she is sitting in a funeral home. Her husband had suffered a brain aneurysm and died a few days earlier. Of course, I was at her side immediately.

One thing that bothered her immensely, as he laid in a hospital bed, and she at home in a wheel chair, was that she never told him how remorseful she was over her matrimonial misgivings. I urged her to call and speak to him and bear her heart. This was hard for her to do, but she finally did. Those who were at his bedside said he smiled as a tear or two formed in his eyes. I write this with tears in my own eyes as I recall how many years I lived without my Lord. I let so much wasted time and bitter feelings control my life trying by myself to solve my problems. 1 Peter 5:6-7 tells us to cast all our cares upon Him, for He careth for us. What an easy, and yet difficult verse to learn and to put into practice. I implored her to trust the Lord, for He promises to never leave or forsake such a one.

She goes back to Pennsylvania to a nursing home in a few days from the writing of this article, where of course, their solution to depression is to medicate with yet more anti-depressant pills. How much longer I will have my loyal friend with me in this world, I do not know. I can only pray diligently that she keep that verse of scripture close to her heart and diligently seek Him. The old paths are by far the best.

2008-05-14T08:00:00.001-04:00

"Just Beyond My Means"

When a large portion of our population is hopelessly in debt, it seems some of us may well ask, "What in the world is going on?" Gram had a quick wit when it came down to everyday basics. She had hung, (one of many over the years) a cartoon strip on the breakfast room wall. It depicted two neighbors; obviously one did not know the other very well, as one asked the other where he lived. One gave a direct answer; "At 18 Elm Drive in the green house,” the other answered, "I live down the street just beyond my means."

I read that cartoon every morning for about three weeks straight, or at least until it was replaced by another strip. The funny thing was, we all knew Gram did not live beyond her means. If anything she lived beneath her means. Probably that was the one reason that cartoon stayed fixed in my mind all these years. If there was ever a frugal woman she was it. Queen of thrift for sure was she!

How many times did I hear, "Waste not want not." Money, per se', was never an issue— mainly because it was never talked about. I grew up knowing how to take care of what I had. Old bath towels became dishtowels and dishtowels became washcloths and don't ask what the wash cloths became. Well, okay, for one thing the lowly dish rag as they were politely called.

This system of using items for as long as they had an inch of life left in them developed in me a sense of respect for all things. Today we seem to live in a "throw away society." In my young adult life if I didn't have something I wanted and couldn't afford, I had already learned to substitute it for something I did have or could afford. In Gram’s day, being in debt was an embarrassment. The idiom, "Be not beholding to no man" was a virtue. Also just as important was don't be penny-wise and pound-foolish. As prudent as one could be about saving money the other side of the coin was don't put a Band-Aid on a dripping faucet. It ain't gonna work!

Not so many years ago one did not have, nor was expected to have, three or more coats for each of the seasons. There was the winter coat, the spring coat and the spring coat doubled as the fall coat. The same held true for shoes and clothing. Sunday best became school clothes and school clothes became play clothes and play clothes went the way of the humble dishrag.

One last thing... why do families move so often these days? I read that every four to six years the average family moves to another location. It used to be that the house you grew up in was the same house you left when you got married. I think there is something about a family staying in the same homestead that establishes stability in one’s life. Like "over the river and through the woods to Grandmother’s house we go" at Thanksgiving. We always knew where Grandmother’s house was. It was over the river and through the woods! All these old-fashioned notions may not cancel out our national debt, but I'll guarantee our own personal debt would be a lot less.

One of my favorite scripture verses is Luke 14:28. "For which of you, intending to build a tower, sitteth not down first and counteth the cost, whether he have sufficient to finish it." If we are good stewards of what God has given us, we have assurance in Isa.55:13. "Instead of the thorn shall come up the fir tree, and instead of the briar shall come up the myrtle." Did not Ruth, in chapter two, glean in the fields, and did not our Lord bless her greatly? Let us all endeavor to be the good steward that Ruth was and not live just beyond our means.

2008-04-30T22:50:00.003-04:00

Ashes on Roses?

My daughter and grandson were cleaning out her fireplace in the anticipation of the longed for spring and warm summer. As she shoveled out the remains from the latest fire lighting she glanced at me quizzically and asked if I sill wanted ashes for the garden. “Yes,” I replied, “I do.” A strange hush settled over the room. All that was audible was the scrape, scrape of the little metal shovel and the swish, swish of the little whiskbroom. A dustpan lies patiently nearby waiting to be filled with the last of the winter ash evidence. I dearly wanted to inform them of the value of nitrates found in ashes which the agricultural minds of today now agree are essential for fertilizer production. Furthermore I wanted to push my case of ashes on roses but the looks of the faces of my unbelieving audience forbid it. So I will tell it to you...

Gram used ash dust on her rose bushes that lined the east side of the driveway for as long as I could remember. Agreed, it was not always a pretty sight seeing the rose plant leaves covered with gray ash. But after the very first good spring rain how those roses did bloom! According to folklore, the fine ash powder deterred future generations of hungry little aphids from becoming a reality. A bonus to all this business of sprinkling the ashes was that as the rain washed off the leaves the sediment eventually trickled down into the soil, nourishing the plant roots and thereby making the roses and everybody else very happy.

Not to be left out of the mentioning are the weeds always abounding in any garden. They are not particularly overjoyed at having ash dust sprayed all over them. Something in the burned out cinders does not agree with their finely tuned digestive systems. Most weeds just keeled over and died! When admirers of Gram’s roses exclaimed over the fullness of the bloom and the healthy green leaves, Gram just smiled and gave me many a mischievous wink concerning the little known secret we shared over the use of ashes on roses.

I am reminded of Mark 4:25a, “For he that hath, to him shall be given.” Is it not amazing that everything God created in the earth has a unique function? Ashes, which were a bane to many a furnace attender, actually was a much needed soil enhancement for the farmer. I am sure many a farmer wondered what he would do with the mound of ashes he had accumulated over the cold winter months. Funny thing, our heavenly Father knew all along that ashes on roses was a very good thing!

2008-02-26T12:15:00.000-05:00

I remember some events from my childhood not so much as mind boggling ones but ones that usually were everyday occurrences. However, the one I am about to relate I wouldn’t exactly call usual.

One day, we (my sister and brother) came home from school and there was my Gram, of sixty-odd-years, standing on top of our slanted garage room, repairing shingles. She called out to us and as we looked up she waved to us with a shingle in one hand and a hammer in the other. Now as I look back at that scene I laugh at the figure she must have cut to anyone passing by. But to me, she looked as normal as apple pie in July. I hardly ever saw her a “grandmother.” She was always just Gram to me. It was not so unusual seeing her doing the oddest jobs about the house and yard. She was firmly believed that, if a thing had to be done, just DO it!

That evening at dinner, when the events of the day were discussed, Gram quietly told my Aunt she repaired the shingles on the garage roof. Well! She had a fit. “What?” said she, “You went up on the roof? Suppose you slipped and fell” suppose…” I remember wondering what all the fuss was about. Gram was always doing stuff like that!

Now that I am up around that age—I say this with a twinkle in my eye—I often console myself with the fact that perhaps I am too “on in” years to do certain things which I consider beyond my age or, worse, dignity. Almost instantly that all-too-vivid picture of Gram standing on top of the roof with hammer and shingle in hand disperses all pride and slothfulness from me. In no time at all I tackle the project I consider too difficult “at my age.” The Bible has a great deal to say concerning work and slothfulness. As early in Job’s era, God blessed his workmanship. Job 1:10. The heavens praised the work of creation in Psalm 19:1. Jesus with the Father He has finished the work He gave Him to do in John 17:4. surely good hard work must be an honorable thing.

I can hardly remember Gram not working. I’m sure she was the feminine version of the “Jack of all Trades.” Yet, she never lost her femininity. She was as gentle and caring, nursing one of us back from a sickness and at the same time pouring out a pan of milk for the many stray cats that found their home in the rafters of said garage.

"Every Now and Then"

2008-01-29T12:50:00.000-05:00

It was a warm fall day when a neighbor’s cat, in one bold leap, perched herself upon the ledge of a four-foot exterior deck. There she eyed suspiciously everything that moved a quarter of an inch within her sonar perimeter. Being a cat, she knew exactly when the sun would be at its best for a bit of a snooze. But first, she had to choose “just the right spot.”

Walking from one corner, she made a neat little tuck to the right, and continued around the corner to within three feet of a wall. With the precision only a cat possesses, she staked her claim. Pacing back-and-forth several times, she chose a spot where the sun’s rays shone directly on her back.

Tucking her tail neatly about her feet and arching her back in a perfect three-quarter circle, she was the perfect picture of peace and contentment. I am sure I heard her purr, “Ahhh.” But alas! A leaf fell from a tree limb above and drifted due north just past her and watched the intruder of her sanctuary descend to the ground below.

As an unseen spectator, I became fascinated at her single-mindedness in finding her “spot.” Mind you, this was not ever her deck! Did she care? Her concerns were only focused on the exact location for her nap in the sun. Isn’t it wonderful how the Lord made each one of His creatures so interestingly different? It was a blessing to be able to stop and separate myself from my own concerns for a few moments to watch a cat procure its own place in the sun.