“Another sunrise, another new beginning. “ -Jonathan Lockwood Huie
It’s early October and sunrise is coming later and later. I miss opening the living room blinds before 6 AM and watching daylight emerge.
Late sunrises make for lazy mornings for me. Now only a few hummingbirds are showing up everyday. They’re all on their way to Marisol’s for the winter. Yesterday one of them was such a big guy! He was nearly as large as the first one I saw this year.
He perched on the feeder for a long time, sipping, slurping, sipping. He was sharing the feeder for a moment but then bullied his way into being the owner of that feeder.
There is another feeder for the timid birds. You need to provide at least a second feeder, that is all a hummingbird fuel stop proprietor can do about hummingbird bullying. Well, she can also try and reason with the bully but the additional feeders are her best bet.
Do hummingbirds travel at night?
Maybe they just sleep at night then refuel and travel only in the daylight. Maybe.
I’m curious too, why are there still a few birds coming through now. It seems so late in the season. Seems so cool after dark for hummingbirds. Are the late arrivals scouts of a sort? They still have so far to go.
When I see the birds today I’ll need to ask them those questions and likely a few more. But for now, again I see the sun’s daily performance begin. It’s the opening act, trying to turn the sky pink and orange on the eastern horizon. Apricot. Yes, the horizon color today begins as apricot.
“Embrace the seasons and cycles of your life. There is magic in change.”
“My mother has a favorite child & she told me so. She said all mother’s do. Their answer is likely the same as hers. Her favorite child, she said, is always the child she is spending time with at that moment, the one she is present with now. And on that day her favorite child was me.”
-Mother In The Kitchen-
Momma loved soup, loved making soup, loved eating soup and she loved sharing soup.
Springhouse Court, a gathering place. The light is streaming into the kitchen from the sliding glass doors. Those doors nearly make up the entire wall on that side of the room. The wallpaper is a yellow checked pattern and covers the lower half of one wall. Momma is in the kitchen. Prepping ingredients for a soup. You don’t see Momma in the kitchen much. Not since we moved to this new place. Not now that the kitchen is so much smaller than the gathering place she had before. Not now that she works for the phone company. The fact that she works there leans more to the reason you don’t find her in the kitchen often. But she still loves to make soups and soup is what I’ve always found to be the most comforting food of all.
When I walk into the kitchen I hear the familiar sounds of my mother preparing a meal. Oil sizzling in the soup pot. Water running in the sink, she reaches to turn it off. The soft thud of the knife as it strikes the cutting board. She cuts the beef into cubes. Vegetables in every stage of prep line the sink and countertop. Mother’s making beef soup today. Specifically, beef and vegetable soup. Rolling the beef cubes in the seasoned flour she asks, “Suzy, will you please bring me those onions? I am about to get ahead of myself over here and I don’t want to forget the onions.” I bring the diced onions to her and smile. Mother uses that phrase ‘get ahead of myself’ or ‘get ahead of yourself’ a lot and a comical image of just that always goes through my mind. The image makes me smile.
In hurried preparation. Mother is moving from sink, to stove, to fridge, back to cutting board. Her smile lights up her face and those brown eyes smile at you too.
And she asks …“Suzy, do you know What?” She asks this same question to all her children and grandchildren. She always says your name before the question. My reply- always the same. And her answer never fails and you know the answer but you never let on. You never let on because you want to hear it, and just as importantly- you know she wants to answer it-so you say “No momma, What?’ And she answers, “I love you. That’s What.”
“I love you too Momma.”
Next to the wall phone, hanging on the same wall as the yellow checked wallpaper, is a framed cross stitched handwork sampler. In her stitches it declares ‘Good Cooks Never Lack Friends’.
The light streaming into the room is interrupted, flickering. Clouds move across the sun’s path. I look to the sliding doors. The doors lead out to the front patio with a small picnic table and just on the other side of the patio is the ornamental peach tree that she planted with my father so many years ago.
Still today, I find one of the best things about memories and Sunday’s soup is you can fill yourself up with their loving goodness and warmth again on Monday.
Momma & Daddy With Tree They Planted-Springhouse Ct
“A Mother is Always The Beginning. She is How Things Begin.” -unknown
“This will all make sense when I am older.” – Olaf, Frozen 2
Gigi’s New Christmas Stocking A Handcrafted Treasure by LaLa
Christmas morning plus four days, the house is quiet again. Still and quiet but I’m missing the kids, the commotion, the hugs, the laughter, and yes, even the squeals and screams.
I’m awake early, looking for something for breakfast. Too many sweets, too many foods, indifferent, undecided. Conflicted, I open the freezer.
Oh No!, Wait! Oh What? Oh My!!! Magic!? Could it be?
There! There-look…in the freezer! Tucked in the front corner!
There on top of the frozen sausages and next to the frozen pancakes….it’s right out of Disney’s Frozen.
I believe…Yes! It is. It’s Anna!
Naturally, on occasion I’ve found Mickey Mouse hiding under the sofa or Donald Duck under the recliner … but this, Anna in the freezer? This is Pure Magic!
Breakfast with Anna! Thank You to the GGK’s for this wonderful after Christmas Breakfast Surprise! It is so Great & It is so Grand being YOUR Gigi!
“When you’re older absolutely everything makes sense.” –Olaf, Frozen 2
“It is astonishing, really, how many thoroughly mature, well-adjusted grown-ups harbor a teddy bear ― which is perhaps why they are thoroughly mature and well-adjusted.” ― Joseph Lempa
Theodor Bayer, ein Imker, pictured at local bicycle shop.
Theodor Bayer, pictured above, harbors in a village in North Rhine-Westphalia, Germany. His apiary is near the river Rur in a village between Aachen and Cologne. Theodor has a large domestic customer base and serves much of Europe as well.
Wellington Bere, pictured below, is harboring in northeast Texas where he is a honey farmer with an extensive apiary serving customers both domestically and internationally.
Theodor & Wellington met at a honey trade fair in Germany many years ago. Now they plan their annual business jamborees to the many German bakeries that purchase their honey in bulk for specialty baking. These honig baked bites include the most delectable Bienenstich Kuchen-or Bee Sting Cake, Honigkuchen, Deutsche Honig Plätzchen, and Lebkuchen.
Every year, another jamboree follows the trade fair!
These jamborees always provide full bellies and the enjoyment of the company of old and new customers.
Wellington Bere, Beekeeper, pictured at home
“The world of the teddy bear is an innocent one, a world that gives delight and hurts not, a world that appeals to all generations and all nationalities”- unknown
“A grandma is warm hugs and sweet memories.” Barbara Cage
An Exceptionally Sweet Photo Shoot!
Today I am grateful for the love of Grandmothers and Circus Peanuts. Yes circus peanuts!
Those orange marshmallowy nuggets of spun sugar molded into the fanciful shape of peanuts in their shell.
When I was a child and we visited my grandmother she always offered us the treat of two circus peanuts from a large bag. Sometimes these goodies were soft and squishy but it never came as a surprise if they were stale and hard.
Truthfully, I never liked the taste but their sweetness represented the love of my grandmother and the treasures were a gift from her loving hands. Two were the normal limit but for the price of a smile you could often win a third.
It’s been so long since I’ve touched my grandmother’s hands but every few years, spellbound, I buy a bag of circus peanuts. I eat only two and I close the bag. They taste no better than they did when I was a child but I am reminded of the love offered from the hands of my grandmother. So in tribute, I slowly reopen the bag and I feast on every circus peanut left in the bag. Loving memories wrapped inside puffy orange-ness. Devoured!
“Imprinted in our hearts is the exact moment we fell in love with the beach.” Judith Frenette
Daddy In The Sand – Summer 1959
Count the waves…’
It was the summer before my 5th birthday the first time I came to the beach in Gulf Shores, AL . Those were the days before condominiums. The cottages we stayed in were at HWY 59 and Ft Morgan Rd., I remember them as Calloway Cottages. Today the cottages are gone and now a shopping center stands there.
The trees I played under are still there, standing in a grove near the highways. This playground of trees is where I first discovered the bother of sand spurs sticking in your feet, and the challenges of removing and disposing of them! This welcoming green area is now a part of the 5.6 mile Ft Morgan Rd Trail, a biking and walking trail that runs through the trees on the north side of Ft Morgan Rd.
In later years we would stay just a few blocks from the beach at cabins called ‘The Sand Dollar’
‘The waves hug your feet…’
Step in. The first stop is the beach. The main public beach had few distractions from nature. At the beach there was only the A&W root beer stand and a former, and perhaps the original, version of ‘The Hangout’. What it did have was the rolling gulf and the largest sand box I had ever seen. Prior to this trip I had only been to the lake and the river so the only thing I was missing across that gulf- where are the trees on the other side of the water?
‘Savor the delicate taste of fresh seafood…’
Tradition became the first place to go was a morning on the beach and then to the cottage for unpacking. Next up was the fish market, fresh shrimp and crab for a hot seafood casserole my mother enjoyed making. I liked going there, I thought the smell of fresh fish both strange and wonderful. Was that Calloway fish market?
‘The familiar feel of gritty sand …’
Sand buckets full, sand castles built and destroyed. It was time for the big hole. Digging a hole deep enough to bury my Daddy took the help of all the adults we could engage. Digging and crawling in the sand to assure he was in up to his neck in the cool and gritty sand. Someone remembers to form that set of coconuts from sand onto his chest.
‘Off the beach…’
Souvenir City was always a stop and a place to buy books about the seashore, and seashells. Buying sand dollars to take home as souvenirs. And the anticipation of watching their hermit crabs and hoping this would be the year you could buy one. Alas, never! But every trip I make I still return to see them.
‘The gulf pounding as it rolls into shore, slamming the beach and the salty taste of the gulf water…a seagull calls’
More than sixty years later I still return often. I return when I need to recharge in the sun, in the salty air, and in the sand. I return to recharge in this, the first place I called my home away from home. This place where I first fell in love with the beach. This place where I still cherish making new memorieseach year.
‘Count the waves…count the memories’
Souvenir- from Souvenir City- Gulf Shores , AL
Wishing You Salty Kisses, Sandy Hugs & Shells to Carry In Your Pockets.
“Even The Dead Tell Stories.”- Marcus Sedgwick- ‘Revolver‘
I know I’ve never talked much about my childhood and I don’t ever talk about my little brother. But after I tell you this story you’ll understand why I never talk about him and you’ll understand why I never talk about the railroad tracks.
It was a longtime ago, I was 9 he was almost 5, it was October.
The railroad tracks were always off limits, yet that was probably one of the most alluring parts of it. The rails ran on a high bank above our backyard. Trains came and went from town, we were never really sure where all you could go if you hopped aboard, but we could imagine.
There were always tales of horror, the ghost that walked the tracks at night- you would only see the light from his lantern shining. The lantern illuminating the track would swing back and forth leaving a trailing arc of light, but never a visible figure walked with the light.
In the fall, around the campfire, someone would always tell the story of the woman who lost her life when she was pushed from the train and she too would roam the tracks after dark and you could hear her crying and sobbing; her haunting cry echoing down the track.
Those tales around the campfire were what drove my little brother to explore the tracks. I saw him as he slowly crept out of the yard and up the bank. I probably should have followed him sooner but I didn’t want him to know I was watching. Not following him closely, that was my first mistake.
I did follow him, and I watched him creep along the tracks – walking on the rails as if they were a tightrope. Pretending to be a skilled tightrope walker with his arms spread out, side to side, balancing. Then he heard the train whistle and he slipped. The train sounded its warning as it approached town, two long bleeds. It was still a few miles away but getting closer and then I heard him call my name, he saw me. I saw him lying there along the tracks- he screamed – “I’m stuck!” I ran towards him and I could see his foot trapped under the rail, in his tiny shoe.
The train is rumbling down the track. The horn blares twice more growing louder as I quickly try to untie the laces of his shoe. My hands tremble, I feel the vibration of the track. My hands will not cooperate. The horn of the train continues, so I know they see us on the track. I hear the wheels on the train hiss, screech, hiss, screech. The train is trying to stop. My second mistake, I’m unable to loosen his foot from his shoe, I wrap my arms around him and pull and pull. I hear the ripping sound, I lose my balance as the train rushes by. I fall backwards landing on my back, the weight of my brother’s body, or the weight of most of my brother’s body rests on top of me.
Dead weight, but he is screaming. I’m on my back clinging to him. I see the chunks of red being thrown by the train and I hear the thumps bouncing off the tracks, to the train, to the tracks. My heart thumps louder than the pieces beating against the train. I hear the sounds of flesh and bone whacking the train and bouncing off the rails again and again. My ears ring from my brothers screams. I finally manage to stand up holding him in my arms. The train comes to its screeching halt just beyond the point where my brother lost his footing.
I see shredded and scattered on the tracks the red chunks of my brothers foot mashed and spongy with traces of his favorite shoes. He cries because he has lost a shoe, still too numb to know he has lost a foot. I didn’t know then but my third mistake would be when I handed his bloody, limp body to the man from the train. I watched as he carried my brother aboard the caboose. I see their shadowy figures in the door as the train pulls away. I chase the train. Defeated I jump from the rail bridge into the icy river. I never set eyes on him again. Still to this day, on an October evening I return to the river. It is no longer icy. Then I hear the night train… I hear wailing as it spills from the caboose. It is my brother screaming. His pain floats with me down the river, and he always calls my name.
After the funeral, nourishing plates of condolences brought by friends and neighbors are sitting on the table. Nothing looks good but the cornbread does offer a certain familiarity.
One bite, the memories gather, connect, conspire and fling me back in time. Not lost in thought but transported- body, mind and spirit. For a split second I am terrified. I have crashed at my grandmother’s feet in the middle of her kitchen. My Grandmother, on seeing her face and her hands I feel comforted.
Standing in her kitchen, butter beans on the stove, her cornbread still in the iron skillet. It’s been more than forty years since I would have eaten cornbread that she baked. If you had asked, I couldn’t have said if I had ever eaten cornbread that she’d made. I would have said-‘well of course I’m sure she made cornbread but I just don’t remember it.’
Now, nearly trembling, I offer it to my sister. “This is Grandmother’s cornbread, it tastes terrible.” Puzzled, she tastes it and nods, “It’s the bacon grease, it’s rancid.”
Bacon grease, that is the connecting memory. Sometimes saved too long and often used in baking cornbread. Someone is still baking their cornbread that way and offered it on a plate of condolence.
Memories, long forgotten, triggered by a taste. In an instant I had been picked up and plopped down in that other time; a little scary, but at the same time, a hug from the past. Enough emotion to quickly take my breath away and make my head tingle. For a split second , I am actually there. My heart is overwhelmed. I know I’ll be longing for her on my return, so I take her sweet smile back with me and now I carry it in my heart.
