for "Bonded"

for "Hooters"

for "Night Patrol"

for "On a Dare"

for "Best Journal (Overall)"

Daily Sights

our Honeymoon view

a tall mountain

a tall tower

a comic strip


powered by SignMyGuestbook.com

Want an email when I update?
email:
Powered by NotifyList.com

Newest
Older
Previous
Next
Random
Contact
Profile
Host

blizzard warnings - 13:52 , 03 October 2013

heelerless - 21:32 , 18 August 2013

Red Coat Inn in Fort McLeod - 11:38 , 23 June 2013

rushing into the waters - 09:53 , 21 June 2013

choosing a spot - 17:43 , 27 April 2013

26 December 2003 - 23:15

Dee

The call came first thing this morning.

We are all of us mortal. Our time in this universe is finite.

And ninety-seven years is a long life.

The first memory that came to my mind was the old school bell, hung beside the yard gate at the end of the drive that came from the old secondary highway to the east. The doorbell for unexpected visitors, audible from anywhere on the farm. The rope hanging down like an invitation to every niece and nephew, grandchild and great-grandchild that happened upon it. But not to be rung frivolously, because repeated rings would bring the men in from the fields around the one-story farm house.

I remember the house, since it stands still (I assume). Like most country homes, you entered through the kitchen door on the side, not the front door that opened to the porch. The closed-in mud room before the kitchen, its south and west windows serving as a greenhouse for everything that could not survive the elements in the Black Forest. I remember the old aerial photo of the farmstead, in black and white, framed on the wall. Never thought about it before, but I wonder now if that is a relic of the old barnstorming days of aviation.

The giant beanbag floor pillow in the shape of a toad, complete with eyes, that we kids used to lay our heads on and watch the one or two channels of television available out here, while the adults visited. On a television with rabbit ears that had to be set just so. (But didn't they all?)

I remember chasing young piglets around the house in the fenced yard, their squeals when grabbed, and their great ability to escape by wriggling through the lilac bushes that we had to go around.

I remember the lush herb and flower garden along the north fence, almost always occupied by some large toad. And the potato cellar just beyond, a mound perfect for King of the Hill.

I remember her anger upon one of our visits, having found her hard-grown vegetables splattered over the walls of that cellar shortly after our previous visit. And our unbelieved cries of innocence, that seemed to taint our reception for many years to come.

And we were innocent. One of our cousins, her grandson, who lived just down the road was guilty of the crime. I suspect she died without believing the truth.

I remember walking up that road with her and our mother, to the stand of small trees where the highway used to bend to the east around the creek. And picking our first chokecherries. Learning how that fruit got its name, and the wisdom of leaving the red and orange ones alone.

I remember at least one walk out into the field with her. Going west from the house, past the barn and outbuildings, across the narrow creek with marshy hummocks, and then up into the tall grass and wildflowers on the facing slope.

In our later visits, I remember speaking loud because she was hard of hearing. The telephone so deafening it rattled your bones when it rang, and the huge number pad on it. Her asking to have a letter read to her, because her eyes could no longer see the handwriting.

I remember her trunk of family history. Letters and photos, a genealogist's treasure. Guarded ferociously by its owner, until in later years when she could not share the information and documents enough. I remember her husband's denial that members of his family rode with the James Gang, and her assertion that they did.

I remember her many hutches and cabinets filled with salt fingerbowls. Some collect thimbles, others collect spoons, or salt-and-pepper shakers. She collected salt bowls. Little individualized shallow cups that sat at each place setting in another century, filled with salt for dipping.

Nothing like taking one bite out of a radish, then dipping the remainder in a tray of salt for the final bite.

Hundreds of pairs, china and glass, cut crystal and silver. Probably some gold ones in there, or at least gold glazed. Somewhere in our house two crystal salt bowls are waiting. A gift from one of our last visits, before she had to move into the city and a Seniors' home. She broke up two matched pairs to give us those two, one for each son.

Perhaps she had forgiven us for the vegetable episode at last.

Goodbye, Aunt Dee.

( 3 comments on this entry )
previous entry || next entry
member of the official Diaryland diaryring: next - prev - random - list - home - Diaryland
the trekfans diaryring: next - prev - random - list - home
the goldmembers diaryring: next - prev - random - list - home
the onlymylife diaryring: next - prev - random - list - home
the unquoted diaryring: next - prev - random - list - home
the quoted diaryring: next - prev - random - list - home
the redheads diaryring: next - prev - random - list - home