The Great Bundini

I have a love/hate relationship with grass. The verdant spikes are such a welcome sight in the spring, after a long, gray, white, brown winter.



And then, almost overnight it becomes The Plague of Mythic Proportions. As we sleep, the fertilizer fairy tiptoes over field and plain and pours magical growing potion over every blade. I know this to be a fact because ordinary grass just doesn't grow that fast.



I crank up the mower and after a good 1 1/2-2 hours the main portion of the lawn is done. We used to have highly trained professional grazers who systematically rotated over most of the lawn, laying down their own brand of, ahem, fertilizer as they grazed (we had goats.)



But alas, or rather, hurray!, they are now all gone on to another farmer's field where they can frolic, fertilize, and feed to their heart's content (as well as test every boundary in sight!) My Dear Professor has always claimed that life began when the dog died. In our case, it was a little more complicated than that, with no animals being harmed in the process. Misty the freecycle wonder dog is still here, along with a few ducks and geese, and The Great Bundini, the rabbit hypnotist extraordinaire.

Where was I? Oh yes, the lawn. I actually enjoy that almost 2 hours on the lawn tractor (surely you didn't think I did it with a hand powered reel mower.) I love the scent of vanillin in the new mown grass, and the feeling of accomplishment once it is done.



What I don't understand is that I would much rather spend the 2 hours outside, listening to the hum of the mower's Briggs and Stratton engine than stand inside and wash the dirty dishes in my kitchen sink, which takes much less time.

Perhaps I should consult the Great Bundini?

Empty Nest Syndrome

I wonder if animals have empty nest syndrome. Mr. and Mrs. Robin have seen their fledglings safely out of the nest and into the big world. Did Mrs. R have a verklempt moment or two when the wee ones took flight?

I never did. Well, ok, I did have a brief teary episode when we left our Principessa at a big college in another state. But she was our little girl. The boys were another thing. Little boys start distancing themselves from Mommy around puberty.

I have chronicled the Robin family from egg to hatch this year. I was hoping to catch a glimpse of the fledglings on their first flight. I think I came close. You saw them all stuffed together in the nest.



A few days later, as I approached, the babies flew away in a burst of feathers and fluttering. That is, all but one. He looked like he was settled in for a bit. He was enjoying being able to spread out in the nest.



That little robin reminded me of our Son #2, The Baby. He is still living at home, looking for a job. Remember him? The Joker?


That last baby Robin did finally take flight. But it took the scare of my violating his personal space with a camera.



That first flight landed him at the base of the tree that housed his nest. His siblings had gone longer distances.



Do you suppose being awakened by your mother holding a camera in your face would help The Baby make his move?

I'll keep you posted.

Ya Gotta Have Friends

Is it just me, or do you hear Bette Midler singing her rousing rendition of "Friends" in the background?

Music is part of my dna. My mother was fond of telling me the story of how, before birth, I would kick in rhythm to the organ as it played in church. I think my love of music came from her. Mom had a beautiful voice and an impressive collection of 78 albums of classical music as well as movie soundtracks. (My personal favorite was the Captain from Castille soundtrack by Max Steiner.)

My parents did not have the extra funds to pay for the piano lessons I would have liked to have had, so I set out on my own course through a succession of plastic and cardboard toy guitars until I received a real one for my 16th birthday. I applied the basic knowledge of music theory I had received in elementary school and the ear for melody I had inherited from Mom to teach myself guitar chording. I even wrote a song or two.

My first attempt at songwriting at the age of 11 produced what I thought to be a decent lyric--

There's a place for us, so near yet far
A place where dreams come true, with the aid of a star.

only to be shocked a year or two later in hearing a song on tv that had stolen my idea (well, sort of, the opening words and music are suspiciously similar in "Somewhere" from West Side Story.) I must have been channeling Bernstein's creative muse.

I was introduced to string instruments (the ukelele) in Girl Scouts. You just can't sing around a campfire without proper accompaniment. Or good songs. Remember this one?

If all of the raindrops were lemon drops and gumdrops
Oh, what a rain it would be.
I'd sit outside with my mouth open wide
Ah, ah, ah, ah, ah, ah, ah, ah, ah, ah
If all of the raindrops were lemon drops and gumdrops
Oh, what a rain it would be.

You don't? What about this teenage angst ridden song,

The Seine, the Seine,
when will I again
meet him there
greet him there
on the moonlit banks of the Seine

Sigh. Many a chilly night around the Girl Scout campfire was spent singing these songs. And being left a mile from our lodge without clothing. I always insisted on showering and there were some pranksters in the group that took advantage of that. Do you have any idea what it's like to make your way back to a lodge alone in the dark, with only a towel(my modesty welcomed that gift!) and a flashlight?

My faithful musical friend for the last 30something years has been a Yamaha classical guitar, a gift from a dear friend who thought I would get more use out of it than she would. Throughout my 5 year "career" as a musician, I had the privilege of playing a few really great guitars provided by other friends--a Gibson dreadnought, a Glen Campbell model Ovation, and a 12 string Martin. But I always found myself returning to my faithful Yamaha. (I learned early on that classical strings were not as hard on the fingertips as steel strings.)



The Yamaha has clocked many a mile. It's been all over the US, to Germany with the US Army (a tour arranged through an Army Chaplain), Switzerland, France, and Israel.

Travel tip #1--the 70s(and probably even more so today!) were not a good time to be traveling to Israel with a guitar case and on a different flight from the rest of your tour. I received many a suspicious look from many a suspicious airport security guard. It made me regret not taking up the harmonica!

My guitar case is patched up with duct tape. Travel tip #2--there is nothing a little duct tape can't fix. (Including taping alligator's mouths shut while transporting them in Australia.) But I think it has a few more good years in it.



And so does the guitar. Not long ago, on the rare occasion of all three of our grown children being back home together, I sat down with the Yamaha and sang some songs with and for the kids. It was a memorable event.



In some ways, almost as memorable as that dark, lonely, towel clad trip back to the lodge.

(play us off, keyboard cat.)

Life Comes Full Circle

Did I ever tell you about the time life came full circle for me in the 70's? I didn't? Well, here we go.

It began, as most things do, in childhood. The prevailing celebrities then were two singing cowboys, Gene Autry and Roy Rogers. Both had beautiful horses (Champ and Trigger.) For my monopoly money, Trigger was the best one. I mean, what is more wonderful than a shiny palomino with bling?

I loved Trigger so much as a child, that when we were going through Daddy's things a couple of years ago, I saved his handpainted Trigger tie.



Both cowboys were also known to pick up a guitar now and then. Gene was associated with "Rudolph the Rednosed Reindeer" and a certain California baseball team. Roy was, well, Roy was Trigger's owner, Dale's husband, and an all around nice guy.

So there you have it, a surefire combination--the old West, music, and a horse. Life just doesn't get much better than that until you are old enough to have grandchildren and watch their delight in singing cowboys! (Hi, Boo! Mommo loves you!)

Here I am with my first guitar and cowboy hat and stylin' in the flannel pjs Mom would lovingly sew for us. This was back in the day, before Waly Mart.



And this is rodeo time, with Roy Rogers. We went all out to get properly gussied up for rodeo. Notice my younger sister iPodite with her nonchalant "I'm here, world, deal with me" look. iPodite has always known her power! I, on the other hand, had snapped to my left, scanning for the appearance of my idol. (nice fringe jacket, huh?)



On my sixteenth birthday I received my second best gift ever (I'll tell you about the first some other time), a brand new $30 guitar, which I promptly named Christina (after the heroine of some foolish romantic novel I had read. Sixteen seems to be the year of foolish romantic novel reading. I put back most of Betty Cavanna's books in one summer. Anyone remember Betty Cavanna? Anyone?)

My repertoire consisted mostly of folk music, which was the happening music of the 60s. The tunes of Peter, Paul and Mary, the Kingston Trio, and later Joni Mitchell and Judy Collins all suffered under my picking and grinning. But I persevered, teaching myself chords in the dark of night.

In the 70s it all came together and I fell into a Christian singing group. It was the birth of what we know now as contemporary Christian music. Our group had some minor success singing for youth groups and at Christian coffeehouses, and were invited to tour full time with a young evangelist. We saw a lot of the US in our travels, and made two vanity albums of our own songs.

Then we hit the "big time". I sold one song to Zondervan publishers and Wanda Jackson (a country western singer who once dated, would you believe, Elvis) used one of my songs as the title for one of her albums.

That's when I knew I had come full circle. From singing cowgirl to a singing cowgirl singing one of my songs.

Wanna know the kicker?



The title of the song was "Make Me Like a Child Again"!

Minty

I want to share something with you. Bring your face close to the monitor and take a deep breath. Do you smell it? Try another breath.



It's peppermint. The mint family is one of the few plants that can survive my neglect. (My name is JAS and I have a black thumb.) But the true reason I grow mint is because I love the scent.

Mints come in all sorts of flavors. Peppermint is the most pungent. This is some spearmint growing in my garden. Spearmint is a nice addition to a tall glass of ice tea in the summer time.



Apple mint has fuzzy leaves and a very mild apple scent.



The first mint planted at Iron Acres was pineapple mint. This mint is a cultivar from the apple mint variety and boasts variegated leaves and a very mild, fruity scent.



All the mints have boundary issues, they are best planted in containers that inhibit their runners from taking over your garden.

Mint is wonderful after a rain. It is one of the things that makes me smile.

Another thing that makes me smile is thinking of our little girl Sprittle, Bee, who always asks if I have any "minty" in my purse. "Minty" is her word for breath fresheners, and Bee loves them.

Can you guess which grandmother has bought stock in Tic Tacs?

The Birds

The birds are back. A long winter silence has been replaced with bursts of spring song every morning.

They're congregating at the Amish farm Purple Martin Condos.



They're at my window in yellow, red, brown and gray flashes, fighting over the bird feeder.


(No, there aren't really flamingos at my feeders. I needed an extra pic to round out the set.)

They're in the old apple tree,



and the old lilac bush, hatching out their babies and protesting loudly each time I try to take a peek.


(Mama Robin, I count 4 beaks. It's a tad crowded there. Time for flying lessons?)

And they are patrolling the pasture with their young, teaching them nutrition, how to stay together, what dangers to avoid, soberly parenting this generation.


(Papa Goose--"And by all means, stay away from the lady with the camera!")

Yes, the birds are back.

And life at Iron Acres is better for it.

Outstanding in Their Field

It was a typical day in western PA. The children were in school.



The men were either in the field plowing,



or at the auction looking to sell or buy cows and pigs.





The women were doing the wash



and working in the garden.



And the cows were out standing in their field.







Hehehe. Get it? Outstanding---out standing? Oh, never mind.

Dear Mom,

(My Mother with her first baby--me! Aren't I an adorable chub, I mean, cherub?)

I think of you every time I see this picture of a gardenia from my baby sister's garden. You must be very proud of all that she has accomplished. I know I am.



I remember Dad giving you a gardenia corsage to wear on special Sundays. They are beautiful and delicate flowers, with a strong a sweet fragrance. I think they were your favorite because they were so much like you.

I miss you very much. You weren't only my Mom, you were my best friend, too. I have experienced something of that with my own daughter. I just wish we lived closer together so we could get into more trouble!

You haven't met her yet, but we have a second daughter now. She is the Beautiful Mommy of our precious Sprittles. And she is as sweet as she is beautiful. She helps your first grandchild remember his sense of humor.

Yes, you have three wonderful great grandchildren. Dad must have shown the pictures to you when he got to Heaven.



Of course, that would have been after he explained the whole girlfriend thing to you. I have a feeling that after you left this life you really didn't mind that he found a good friend to help him cope with the loneliness.

Oh dear. I feel like I'm having a celluloid flashback to "Broadway Melody of 1938."
I'd better close now before I start singing "Dear Mr Gable" in my best Judy Garland impersonation. You did love the movies.

Happy Mother's Day, Mom. I love you.

Cornbread, Snuff, and Bananas

My maternal grandmother was the only grandparent I really knew. Grandfather was a struggling Georgia accountant when he moved his family to Texas to start up a new soft drink franchise called Seven-Up. I've written about a few of my memories of Grandfather here.

When I was old enough, I would spend weekends with Grandmother. We would visit Grandfather's grave, listen to her soaps on the radio, eat Bob's peppermint sticks and drink Coca Cola in bed while watching tv. I think she was the inspiration for the phrase "young at heart." She loved her grandchildren and great grandchildren. And babies. She loved babies.

Grandmother was an excellent no frills southern cook. Her cornbread was outstanding. If she were alive today, she could give Paula Deen a run for her money. Grandmother's secret seasoning was bacon grease. She never met a vegetable that didn't require the addition of the nectar of the pigs.

(Grandmother attributed her somber expression here to the fact that this penny photograph was taken without permission from her parents.)

She was born 30 years after the close of the Civil War in a small Georgia town. Her father was the town sheriff. I have visited the genealogy archives there and seen his signature on a copy of the census records.

Grandmother was a proper southern lady with only one vice of which I was aware--dipping Levi Garrett snuff. She claimed the addiction developed during her first pregnancy and she had never tried to kick the habit. A spit can was always by her rocker, and she would rock and spit and crochet and knit to beat the band. Of course, when the Preacher came to visit, the snuff can disappeared.

Grandmother had a wonderful sense of humor and loved bananas. But after eating them one day, she became deathly ill. Her prayer for healing was answered and she kept her promise to the Lord to never eat bananas again for the rest of her 94 years.

After she died, I would tear up every time I found myself near a short, sprightly, elderly lady. Her faith made a tremendous impression on me. I can see her now, up in Heaven with Grandfather, smiling down on me...

...and eating a banana!

The Fox, The Snake, and the Water Hose

My knowledge of my paternal grandmother is associated with three items: the fox(or dead animal of indeterminate class), the snake (outhouse story chronicled here), and the water hose.

Grandmother G died just a few minutes before my Dad, a recently discharged WWII sailor boy walked into the house. I never knew her. But there are stories....

(Grandfather and Grandmother G on their wedding day)

The daughter of early Texas settlers married the son of recent French immigrants in a small northern Texas town. Grandfather G provided for his wife and two sons by hauling goods (most often cotton to and from the local gin) with a wagon and team of mules. He died while Dad was in high school.

Being the widowed mother of two sons was not an easy job. Money was scarce, work was hard, but faith was her anchor.

And humor.


(Grandmother G in midlife)

It is hard to tell from this picture, but my Grandmother G had a wonderful sense of humor. Both of her sons inherited it. I always enjoyed hearing my Uncle and my Dad swap stories. My favorite was the one about the snake and the outhouse. Another was about Grandmother G turning a water hose on my Uncle's very proper future mother-in-law. Evidently none of parties involved took offense because the wedding wasn't canceled.


(Grandmother G and her two boys)


I would like to have known her, this small woman who raised two tall sons and weathered widowhood, poverty and WWII with a great heart and a good sense of humor.

And the woman from whom I inherited spunk and some serious eyebrows.

To Bee or not to Bee

There were honeybees at Iron Acres for a few years. Harvesting the honey was a messy, sticky business, but pulling a newly capped frame of honey from the hive was an incredibly satisfying experience. I've actually been thinking of trying again, now that the honeybees are in need of friends.

Last Sunday was a sunny day that had followed some spring rains. The apple blossoms were glorious. Prime time for swarming. We were gone most of the day. That night I discovered a honeybee buzzing around in our den. I gently escorted him out into the night, and wondered how he had gotten into the house.

The next morning I opened the blinds and discovered the carnage. There were a few survivors, still buzzing. They were tenderly gathered up and deposited outside under the apple tree.



I was heartsick. They must have swarmed on Sunday and landed temporarily near the window. Some adventurous souls found a crack that led into the den. Son 2 and I searched high (in the chimney) and low (in the coal room under the den), but found no evidence of a swarm inside. They must have moved on.

Perhaps I need to dust off my beekeeping equipment and settle in a hive or two.



"I told you we took the wrong turn at Albuquerque."

The Glory That Was

Every morning for the past two weeks they have been there. Waiting. Wondering if this day would be their last. Each new sunrise gives them hope. And so they stand, facing the inevitability of their death with courage and beauty.

And I, I have been chosen to be the instrument of their death. How can I describe the wringing of hands, the guilt, the sorrow, the procrastination...

The time we have both dreaded has come.

I solemnly raise the garage door, disconnect the charger, turn on the mower.

I will spare you the gory details. Let's instead think of happier times. Of the glory that was. . . the front lawn.











We will miss you. You will not be forgotten.