The Autodidact

Sometimes things are too close to your heart to be able to speak of them. They can be pondered, but when it comes to words on paper, nothing seems to be able to describe how you feel. One day, recently, I discovered a Cardinal's nest right under my kitchen window. The babies had just hatched, and were fuzzy lumps with mouths opening wide whenever they thought food was near. They were so helpless and tiny, but mom and dad were always nearby to feed and protect, ready to die, if necessary, for their babies. The kids and I took such joy in watching them! Every morning we would check their progress, and day by day, they grew bigger and stronger and more feathers. It seemed they would be little forever. We thought we would have more time with them. But one morning, the 8 year old breathlessly came running to me to announce that one of the babies was out of the nest. It's too soon, I thought. Maybe it fell out, and we should put it back in, I thought. But no, mom a...

We may have had our last dinner together as a family. At least, as a family that still all lives under one roof. The 21 year old begins moving out this weekend and will be officially out of the house in a few days. It was a simple meal. Nothing special. Just some soup. The younger kids and I had been eating for a few minutes when my husband and the 20 year old came home. Then the 21 year old arrived a few minutes later. People came and went and shuffled places around the table. There were a few squabbles and I had to send the 5 year old away from the table for a bad attitude. She later decided to eat her dinner and returned. I think the 16 year old left the table in tears and then came back. Someone threw a balled-up napkin across the room. The conversation started with discussing a tragic death of a police officer from a hit and run, to politics, then on to abortion. The younger ones drifted into the adjoining living room while the 4 older kids and my husband and I talked. The 13 ...

Today was the last time we walked to our library. For 13 years, I have walked with the kids to our lovely neighborhood library. Sure, we could drive, and we do, but many walks were taken there, as well. We would talk about the birds we could hear and see, the flowers blooming in spring or the changing leaves in the fall or we would have deep conversations about this or that. But today was the last day. We would check out our materials, but usually spent time greeting the fish, visiting the fountain or their favorite bust. We would wander into the children's area, marvel at the wooden doors,  and wonder what lurked behind the black door... For years, I had at least one or two kids convinced it was the door to the dungeon where misbehaved children were sent.  The wrought iron fence elicited the imaginations of some... And some pretended to be princes and queens wandering their castle. It was a magical place...

I pull the little cast iron skillet out of my cupboard several times a week. It's often left on the stove by one of the kids for me to clean or nestled inside the other larger skillets in the cupboard. With such a big family, you would think I never use it, it's so little. But it gets a lot of attention. And every time I see it and handle it, stir fry something in it, clean it and oil it, I am reminded. Reminded of a time long ago, before children, a husband, Christ. A time of singleness and loneliness and struggle. I was out of college and working long hours in a low-paying job, barely making ends meet and always hungry. Reminded of a time in high school, and of my French teacher. Mme H was a truly lovely, classy lady. She was always dressed in flowing, ethereal clothes and wore funky, unique jewelry. She was genuine and down to earth, kind and intelligent. I loved having her as a teacher and as an advisor. I have forgotten about many of my teachers, but she is one I will ...

The passage of time has always been a bit mysterious to me. We measure time with the revolution of the earth around the sun, with calendars and with watches, and before and after Christ was born. But time passes whether we measure it or not. It passes around us and through us and in spite of us. And I never quite feel that I am a part of it. My body surely feels the ravages of time, but my essence does not. 30 years have gone by since I graduated from high school. 30. These years have been full of heartache and joy, laughter and tears, busyness and boredom. But I cannot comprehend what 30 years really is. And I got to thinking, as I am known to do. Why is time so hard to comprehend? Why does it seem to crawl and race and yet at the same time, not pass at all? Why do I look at the calendar to mark the passage of time or to see what I have planned that week, but still feel like I am not really a part of time? It's 10:30 in the morning, and I am writing, yet I don't fit into tim...

I took the crib down the other day, as I have done over the past several years. And every time I do there are one or two little children around to "help" and I tell them about all the babies who used that crib. You see, not only have all 7 of my babies slept in the crib, but so did their daddy and all his brothers and his sister. And each time I tell this story, their eyes get wide and they remark how incredibly old  the crib must be! Every time I have taken down that crib, I am sad, but always hopeful for another baby to put in it. But, let's face it, I am getting on in years, at least pretty old to be having babies, anyway. So this time was a little different. I thought about it for a couple of weeks or more, toying with the idea. I could use more space in the little kids' room, and the baby is old enough to sleep in a real bed, I reasoned. I know that the crib is really just wood and metal, but it is so dear to me. So I held off, enjoying putting my little one down...

My husband and I spent the first ten years or so of our marriage in an old duplex he bought back in the late 80's. It's approaching the century mark and has all the quirks and class and charm of a house that age. Recently, we had a rare break between tenants; enough time to clean thoroughly and make repairs, and reminisce. Whenever I get to indulge in cleaning my old house, I think back to birthdays and holidays, fun times and sad times, all the work and play that went on when we lived there. But I also like to imagine what that house was like when it was new, and all the memories stored up in a two-family house that's almost a hundred years old. What kinds of books were on these shelves? How many people have warmed themselves in front of the fireplace? Did the radiators sing and whistle when they were new? And look at all the chutes: coal, milk and laundry. (The Donley Brothers Company,apparently the  authority on coal burning appliances in the 1920's,...

I'm sitting in my apple tree, a place of peace and respite. It's warm, and I see the blue sky through the leaves as I recline on my favorite branch. I hear the neighbors playing outside, the birds singing, bees buzzing: country sounds. It's a lazy day, as if nothing in particular is going to happen. Cutting through the quiet, a car is coming, but it's too loud and going too fast and there is loud music, and I jump out of my tree. Something tells me to run, I feel an urgency, but don't know why. And then I'm running across the grass and over the ditch and into the neighbor's yard and I hear something like an explosion. I'm running toward the street with the other kids and the car is there at the end of the driveway, where it landed, crumpled in the front and the windshield is cracked. And we all stop and time seems to stop with us. There are two young men in the front seat and they seem to be sleeping, which doesn't make sense; how can you sleep and d...

Someone once told me that the best time to plant a tree is 10 years ago (or maybe it was 20). And today, I realized how true this is. A little over 10 years ago, we moved into our present house. We had three little children and one on the way. But there were no suitable climbing trees in the yard. So, one of the first things I had Jay do was plant a maple tree in the front yard, and one in the back. The one in the back yard has not done as well as the one in the front, although we did have birds nesting in it for the first time last spring. But the one in the front yard has flourished, and is now big enough for that little baby I was pregnant with years ago to climb it! Today he's climbing a tree, but in the blink of an eye, he'll be climbing to reach his dreams. 10 years ago was the perfect time for us to plant a tree, and I am so glad we did. This brings me much joy!

     One day, a young boy visited an apple farm with some friends. It was a sunny, fall day, full of promise. The boy, 9, was excited to be with his friends, and one in particular, a 10 year old boy. The two boys roamed freely, taking in the sights of apple and pear trees, full of fruit, the tractor taking kids on hay rides, and a sea of pumpkins for sale. But soon, they were looking for something a bit more exciting and they ventured into a trail on the edge of the farm. The marked trail went into the woods a bit, woods that seemed to stretch forever, full of evergreens and  trees full of color. The forest was so enticing, so welcoming, that the two boys decided to follow the markers to the end and then turn back, but they unintentionally left the trail. They went a little bit into the woods, and tried to keep the trail in sight, but as boys are wont to do, they went a little farther and a little farther; they were explorers, after all! But the trail kept getting fu...

     I have a vague memory of my dad's mother; I can see her sitting in her rocking chair while I am playing on the floor. That's all I can remember.  Her rocking chair (hers because she sat in it when she came to visit) sits in my living room now, but she left something else of herself behind, something that makes me think of her and wonder what she was like. She was a quilter in her day, patiently cutting out scraps of cloth from old clothes and saving them for her quilts. Then, when she had enough, she would sew them together by hand. My dad's old pajamas, his sisters' gingham dresses, his mom's aprons, his brother's shirts, his dad's worn out work clothes: anything could end up in one of her quilts. I wonder what she thought about while cutting and sewing. Did she reminisce about those old clothes and who wore them? Was a quilt intended for someone in particular? Did she know that one day, a granddaughter would be enjoying her art work? Could she have gu...

     I'm losing two old friends today. Their deaths will not appear in the obituaries, nor will there be any calling hours or a funeral. There will be a hole in the ground where they once stood. No, they are not people, but dear old friends nonetheless. They are my very old Maple trees that stand guard at our rental house. It is a house where we spent the first ten years of our marriage. Lots of changes happened there, but those two trees remained unchanging. I spent many years under their branches, basking in their shade.      Once I found my little boy, daddy's hatchet in hand, trying to cut down one of those trees. Another time, I discovered that same little boy, garden hose in hand, water turned up full blast, pretending to put out a tree on fire! On the corner of the lot, one of the Maples dwarfed several other smaller trees, creating a "grove." To my little children, it seemed a forest, and they would hide and wander through the trees. I would lie o...

     Walking along the side of the country road on a clear summer day, I was returning home after playing at a friend's house. There was no sidewalk, of course, so I had to carefully make my way between the road on one side and the deep ditch on the other. I was about 9 and reveling in the freedom of being old enough to walk home by myself.  It was not a heavily traveled road, so when I heard a car coming, I took notice. It was a large, white car driven by a middle aged woman. She slowed down as she approached me, and then stopped to talk to me. She asked where I was going, and I told her I was headed home. She asked me if I wanted a ride, and I declined. But she insisted that she could give me a ride home and opened the passenger door to convince me to get in.  I don't ever remember my parents drilling me in "stranger danger" but something didn't seem right to me, so I declined again. I began walking again, and she let her car creep along beside me asking again...