Sunday, July 30, 2017
I Remember When...
(Reposted from the BWL Canadian Historical Brides blog)
photo © Janice Lang |
Memories can be tricky little devils. Some are so
crystal clear that no manner of dispute by people who were there can derail our
version of that particular truth, even if it might be a tad faulty. They can be
faded sepia by time like an old photograph, or replayed in the mind like a
scratchy copy of an 8mm home movie. Others are dim recollections, fragments
here and there, disconnected one from another, some even running together to
form one imperfect memory. And then there are other those that remain intact
throughout our lives, complete with enough sensory imagery to recall every
detail.
I retain a number of such memories, some from
earliest childhood…like when I was two or three and I made my first snowman (a
tiny one, about the size of a baby doll) outside our apartment in the Bronx. I
didn’t want to part with it, even as my mother insisted it was time for a nap.
Eventually she acceded to my demands and let me take it upstairs, where we put
it in the bath tub for safekeeping. Not understanding the properties of snow at
the time, I woke from my nap and eagerly made a beeline to the bathroom, only
to find a puddle, my red woolen scarf, and a couple of pieces of coal where my
masterpiece had been. A lesson in disappointment.
My all-time favorite memory from childhood is quite
the opposite. After over 60 years, it remains as vivid as yesterday.
I was six years old on Christmas Eve in 1956, when
my dad took me to the gas station to have snow tires put on my mom’s car. I don’t
remember why I went along with him to Frank’s Amoco, but there I was in the
office, standing face-to-face with a glossy little stub-tailed black mutt.
Sitting by the door to the bays on an oil-stained spot, he reacted with a
joyful countenance as soon as he saw me enter. We struck up a conversation
(mostly one way). But he had an expressive face and cocked his ears in a most
appealing way, tilting his head when I spoke, as if he understood everything I
said.
Time soon came for the car to get moved into the
shop, so we all filed back out onto the blacktop. The day was chilly and
blustery (I’d been wearing mittens, which I’d taken off inside). Just as we
stepped out the door, a mighty blast of wind took one of my mittens and blew it
across the lot. I watched in a dull sort of stupor as the mitten flew on a
swirling gust and then kicked around at the curb. Before I could take a step
toward it, the dog tore off, picked it up, trotted back to me, and dropped the
mitten at my feet. And there was that look he gave me as he sat gazing up so
expectantly, wagging his little tail….
I thought he had to be the smartest dog in the
world (on a par with Lassie and Rin-Tin-Tin), and I told him so. Together we
climbed into the back seat of my mother’s 1955 Rambler and went up on the lift
while the mechanic changed the tires. All the while we talked about what it
would be like if he could come home and live with me. I told him about my two
sisters and our mom, our house and yard, and “the pit,” which was the greatest
place on earth for us kids to play. Like the world’s biggest playground
surrounded by acres and acres of trees, and slopes to sled down in winter,
picking blueberries and blackberries in summer….
The whole time we were up there on the lift, Frank
and my dad had been involved in what looked to be a conspiratorial
conversation, and when the dog and I got out of the car, my father was smiling
from ear to ear.
“Do you want that dog?” Frank asked with a wink at
my dad.
Shadow and me, circa 1964 |
I guess Frank was
relieved that the stray mutt had found a place to live and be loved. He
explained that the dog had shown up at the gas station a few days before and
hung around day and night following the mechanics as they went about their
business—a kind of a nuisance—but they fed him scraps from their lunchboxes and
he slept in the shop and earned his keep watching over the place. They called
him Shadow, and that was to be his forever name.
My mom wasn’t thrilled—not one bit—and it took all
we had to convince her that I would walk him, feed and clean up after him.
Finally, she gave in, albeit reluctantly. After all, he was smelly and grungy
with grease and dirt. So we gave him a bath in the tub. With all that filthy,
soapy water gurgling down the drain, I fully expected him to turn white.
For the first few weeks, Shadow would manage to get
out of the house and disappear from morning until supper time. We soon
discovered that he spent that time hanging out at his old place of employment
(a goodly trek, I might add)…until he discovered Paul the mailman. For a couple
of years he even got picked up and dropped off at our house on the days Paul’s
route was scheduled through our neighborhood. He became the most famous dog in
our part of Massapequa. Wherever we went (he followed me on my bicycle), kids
would always shout,“Hey, isn’t that the mailman’s dog?”
Shadow retired from the US Postal Service when Paul
was replaced (I learned from my mother later in life that he was a bit of a
Lothario).
For the remainder of his life Shadow’s only job was
as friend, protector, clown and trickster. He also had a lot of Scrappy-Doo in
him, often getting into fights with much larger dogs and paying the price. But
he survived the follies of his youth to remain with us for 14 years before
crossing over the Rainbow Bridge a week shy of Christmas Eve, 1970. By that
time we had shared countless adventures and had lots of fun together. And I had
a trove of stories to tell my kids as they grew up. Maybe one day I’ll write
them down.
~*~
Kathy Fischer Brown is a BWL author of historical
novels, Winter Fire, "The Serpent’s Tooth" trilogy: Lord
Esterleigh’s Daughter, Courting the Devil, The Partisan’s
Wife, and The Return of Tachlanad, an epic fantasy adventure
for young adult and adult readers. Check out her Books We Love
Author page or visit her website. All of Kathy’s books are
available in e-book and in paperback from Amazon, Kobo, and other online
retailers.
Saturday, July 29, 2017
The Loaf Mass
Catherine Schuyler burning the wheat before General Burgoyne can feed it to the invading British army
http://amzn.to/1YQziX0 A Master Passion, The story of Alexander & Elizabeth Hamilton ISBN: 1771456744
We’re about to celebrate the first of the old harvest festivals--Lamas, or The Loaf Mass. Living in an area that still has a great deal of agriculture,
I’m keenly aware of the seasons, though I’m also darn glad I don’t farm for a
living. Mother Nature isn't always kind to the farmers who feed the rest of us. This year She started spring with a
long stretch of uncharacteristic cold and rain, delaying planting.
Then just
about the time corn and other temperature sensitive crops begin to grow, She''ll sometimes send a “a flash drought.” Not this year, though! This was generally a good year, and though things were late, there was plenty of water. When those waving green vistas turned gold, the harvest began well.
Now, in wide swatches to the east of us, where the six mule teams still pull threshers and barefoot women hoe kitchen gardens and hang clothes on lines, the corn stands high and tasseling. If we can just get a few more inches of rain into the ground, this year should provide a spectacular harvest of maize too.
Now, in wide swatches to the east of us, where the six mule teams still pull threshers and barefoot women hoe kitchen gardens and hang clothes on lines, the corn stands high and tasseling. If we can just get a few more inches of rain into the ground, this year should provide a spectacular harvest of maize too.
When I lived in England long ago, I was thrilled to
enter my neighboring square stone Saxon church and see great loaves of bread, three and four feet high. Some had been baked in special lidded pans, but many others were carefully fashioned by hand. A stiff hard to hand-mix dough is necessary, with a nice egg wash at the end to make them shine. (It's more about keeping its shape and less about being good to eat.) Some of those loaves were shaped like sheaves of
wheat and others like men. They were leaned against the altar rail among the more usual floral offerings.
When I asked
who the men were, I was told that they were “John Barleycorn, the life of the
fields.” This was in a pub where I sat decorously drinking a Baby Cham besides my glamorous mother--so perhaps that particular informant was thinking of the hearty, earthy local ales that were being drunk all around us. (I'd hear the phrase again, some years later, back in the States, sitting in an art house in Cambridge, MA, while watching an extremely disturbing British movie called The Wicker Man.)
Another gentlemen, of a more scholarly bent, protested. He said that these loaves were a living link to the past, to the powerful Celtic sun and smith god, Lugh. Yet another man, this one in a green tweed jacket, disagreed. He claimed the loaves represented an even more ancient Celtic divinity, a god of vegetation, one who was born, died, and resurrected again every spring, on and on, for more than a thousand years all across the British countryside. That divinity's name--since the genocide of the Roman occupation--had been forgotten.
Another gentlemen, of a more scholarly bent, protested. He said that these loaves were a living link to the past, to the powerful Celtic sun and smith god, Lugh. Yet another man, this one in a green tweed jacket, disagreed. He claimed the loaves represented an even more ancient Celtic divinity, a god of vegetation, one who was born, died, and resurrected again every spring, on and on, for more than a thousand years all across the British countryside. That divinity's name--since the genocide of the Roman occupation--had been forgotten.
Years later, and now baking my own bread, an Uncle who owned many, many farms presented me with a bucket of wheat that had
come straight from his harvester. Cleaning out the residual dust and chaff and
then grinding it into flour took time, but the bread I made from this had an extra
dimension of taste, a nutty sweetness that apparently gets lost even from the
finest brands of commercial flour.
The impulse remains to say thank-you to the earth and the living gifts she bestows which sustain us. August always begins in my house with the baking of a few celebratory loaves, no matter how goll-durn hot it is outside.
~~Juliet Waldron
http://www.julietwaldron.com
See all my historical
novels @
https://www.facebook.com/jwhistfic/?ref=aymt_homepage_panel
Also available at Smashwords, Kobo, B&N...
Labels:
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#Lammas,
A Master Passion,
bread magic,
CatherineSchuyler,
harvest festivals,
Loaf Mass,
Lugh,
TheWickerMan
I am in the grandma zone, a long time writer and poet, posting at Crone Henge and BWL these days just because. Wish I could travel, and last year I was lucky enough to get back to the UK, specifically to Avebury to reconnect with the ancient temple. Hiking, camping, lover of solitude, cats, moons and gardens.
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