Abundance

I am learning that when you buy a foreclosed, abandoned property, you never really know what you are going to get. We officially moved into our new home last Saturday and I am beginning to discover what we got.
Abundance.
We made our offer on the land in February when snow covered the ground and the earth held its treasures in stillness. We waited and watched. First to be revealed was the abundance of things no one else wanted. Rusted metals, trash, and the remains of old buildings began to surface as the snow melted.
We began to clean up and waited more.
With spring came the abundance of things planted in the past. Peonies, bleeding hearts, lilies and other flowers showed their faces and burst open in radiant color through the season.
Summer grasses began to grow in abundance, warranting a search for a new lawn mower.
Underneath a section of those grasses was a garden plot, long abandoned. A weekend’s worth of tilling brought the garden back to life. With a large garden space, we planted seeds to our hearts content and now we are experiencing another kind of abundance. We have an abundant supply of deer who love to nibble at the contents of our garden. Our fence isn’t high enough yet; the mother and her Bamby are not detered. While the mother savors the bean plants, her youngster is content to ravage my newly planted hostas.
While rummaging through the remains of an out building, I found an abundance of honey bees who have apparently made a hive in a stack of old window screens. Maybe we will have an abundance of honey?
Behind the ramshackle buildings that serve as a garage, we found an arbor of grapes. In the winter, it looked like a tangle of brown vines clinging to old posts. Now, summer has brought us a lush green arbor with an abundance of maturing grape clusters. They are green right now, but when ripe will be a deep purple delight.
The back pasture brought forth delicious wild strawberries and along the hillside behind the grape arbor, raspberries give us a fun evening treat.
To my amazement, four trees in the back yard along the creek bed have brought forth ripe, bright red cherries. The trees are tall and I picked as much as I could from the ground, then resorted to a ladder. To reach the majority of the harvest, I’m going to have to put the ladder in the back of the pick-up truck.
Last night, I was contemplating the abundance of our new home while enjoying the tranquility of dusk in our back yard. I heard a rustling sound in the cherry trees and saw several crows flying away. The rustling continued and I approached with caution. I have heard bears like to climb cherry trees and bend the branches down. I know we have a bear in the area because we found a den dug into the earth in the back of the pasture.
The branches weren’t shaking enough to warrant a bear, unless it was a cub. I sneaked closer and listened. I heard a rustling on the ground near the creek and stopped. Was it the mother bear? Nothing attacked, so I continued.
I was almost under the tree when I spotted the culprit. Clinging to a high branch, hiding behind leaves, was the masked face of a small raccoon. The raccoon held still and I heard the gentle trill of the its mother coming from behind the old out building.
There are enough cherries in our trees to share with the raccoons, who can climb to the highest branches better than I can. I assured the raccoon I was not there to harm it and gave it my blessing before going into the house for the night.
Abundance. It comes in many forms and is all around us when we take time to be still and feel it.

Two Sisters Design Team

It started as Two Sisters Landscaping. My sister Linda, who lives in Iowa, came up to visit this past week. I was in the process of transplanting my perennials to our new house and Linda joined in. We dug up hostas and columbines, and a seriously entrenched false indigo, put them in boxes and loaded up the back of the Gator for the three-mile trip.
At the new house, we chose the perfect spots for each plant and lovingly nestled them into their new home. When we were finished landscaping, we went into the house. She hadn’t seen my new house yet and I was eager to hear her ideas for renovations. We began to measure rooms and windows. Two Sisters Landscaping turned into Two Sisters Design Team.
When renovating an old house, Linda is a good person to have on your design team. She has an artist’s eye and years of experience renovating her own homes. She recently purchased an old house in Iowa and did the gut out and rebuildroutine. My talents are confined to pounding in a nail now and then and slapping on a coat of paint. Linda knows her way around the workshop.
My limited measuring talents mean I can’t be trusted to cut a piece of wood to size. Linda can measure to a sixteenth of an inch and use a compound sliding mitresaw to make the cut in one try.
Where I would try to pound a nail into sheetrock and expect it to hold 100 pounds, my sister knows how to find a stud and has the smarts to know when reinforcement is needed. Linda can lay tile, put up drywall, add texture to walls, and install curtain rods that are level. While I thought I was doing good by being able to tear out the old, soiled carpeting, my sister can tear out complete walls and use a sander to refinish wood floors.
I had previously purchased a closet organizer from Menards, only to find out it was designed for sheetrock walls in closets that are square. I have neither, so with measurements in hand;we headed to Menards in Superior. Another talent my sister has is knowing how to navigate in Menards. Whether it was sink stoppers or curtain rod hardware, I pushed the cart while she led the way. We found the perfect drapes for the bedroom, rods for installation, and a carpet remnant the exact size to finish two bedrooms.
Back at the house, I was the ‘here hold this’ and ‘go get me a (fill in the blank tool)’ while Linda was on the ladder installing and on the ground making perfectly measured cuts in the carpet roll.
However, even with my sister at hand, the Two Sisters Design Team got Tom Sawyer-edby my husband.
We were contemplating how to install the perfect curved shower curtain rod on bathroom walls of questionable origin when my husband Paul came in. He looked at the walls, tapped with his fingers and had the look of consternation on his face only a seasoned carpenter can muster.
“This is going to be a tough job,” he said. “Trying to find something behind these walls to attach to is going to be very difficult. We may need to re-inforce behind the wall.”
It sounded like a job that would challenge even my sister. Paul had just finished installing shelves in a kitchen closet and was about to begin painting the interior of the closet.
“I’ll try to find a way to hang this rod if you want to paint the inside of that closet,” he offered.
Seeing hours of work to hang the rod in front of me, I grabbed the chance to spend the time with a paint brush instead. The closet was a tight space, and I didn’t have my painting clothes on, but it sounded much more doable than the enormous job my husband seemed to think the rod was going to be.
I got the painting supplies and had about one wall done when I heard my husband say, “Oh, this wall seems to be some kind of wood. Looks like I can put these screws into it anywhere I want.”
Within five minutes, he had the rod installed and was off on his next adventure.
By the time I finished painting the inside of the closet (picture a space just big enough to barely turn around in with about an inch of head room), I had paint in my hair and on my shoes.
The good news is that while I was ensconced in the paint job no one else wanted, my sister had been busy washing my windows.
After spending the day with my sister, the one-woman contractor, I spent some time watching her fix the cover for the box of her truck. Then I spent the evening helping her weave handles on the Raku pottery she had made and fired in her own kiln.
I know there may be many of you reading this who will want to borrow my multi-talented sister, but she’s mine and you can’t have her. I sent her home with extra perennials, two bags of horse manure, and some nice rocks to put in her garden. And I offered to babysit her aged dog for a week in August. It’s a small price to pay, and hopefully enough incentive to bring her back for another visit, soon.

Drop and roll

I lie in the tall grass, wondering how I got there. Oh, that’s right, I fell off a horse.
If you are going to ride horses, you are going to eventually fall off. It is a rule of the horse world. Even the most highly trained, docile mount can spook at an unusual object. Even the most balanced rider can get distracted at an inopportune moment. It will happen.
My goal in life is to be riding a horse when I am 90 years old, so falling off needs to be a less traumatic event for me. To this aim, I decided to study Aikido, a non-violent martial art that also teaches balance and how to fall without getting hurt. I’ve been going to Tim Doyle’s dojo in Cornucopia on Thursday nights for several months now. One of the first things I learned in the class was how to roll.
As a child, rolling was easy. I was more limber then, less afraid of injury and closer to the ground. In Aikido, we start with rolling from a kneeling position, slowly and on a mat. We graduate to rolling from a standing position, then rolling backwards. My forward rolls were clumsy at first, but with practice, I can now roll forward effectively.
Backwards rolling took more time. I found I could roll backwards to one side nicely, but the other side was a mess. An image of flopping jellyfish comes to mind. I learned to roll forwards, then immediately backwards in the same direction to develop the muscle memory, instead of trying to think my way through it.
A few weeks ago, our class was visited by two young men just out of high school. Though it seemed to be their first class, they were natural rollers. Forward, backward, sideways, all in fluid movements. I commented about the age difference to my instructor. He told us a bit of ancient wisdom about Aikido. You don’t get really good at it until you reach age 60. Why? As with many things, it’s not the years you put into the art, it is the art you put into those years. Because Aikido is a non-aggressive form of martial arts, to do it well, you need to conserve your movements and do more with less. It requires concentration and wide-spatial awareness all at the same time. These are abilities that become refined with age. As we get older, we become more interested in conserving our energy, doing things to avoid conflict and knowing how to deal with conflict without getting hurt.
Concentration and spatial awareness, avoiding conflict and dealing with conflict without anger or injury are all traits needed in life with horses. So, back to the fall.
I was riding Eddie bareback. It was the kind of ride not meant to go anywhere, only to spend quality time together. I was mostly a passenger, letting Eddie choose our destination and which patches of grass were the finest for his treat. My job was to flow with his movements, refining my balance and working on patience with non-demanding riding. We had already explored the winter pasture, the driveway and done a couple laps around the arena. Eddie was doing well, and enjoying the outing with me.
We decided to venture into a pasture that hadn’t been used this year. The grass was waist high in places. From on top of Eddie, it reached to my heels. Eddie was sure-footed, traversing ditches and avoiding gopher holes hidden under the verdant pasture bed. Blue sky was beginning to return after a day of cold and rain. The air had the smell of freshness only spring rain and growing grass can produce.
We walked farther into the pasture, nearing the spot where my husband has stacks of wood covered with old metal sheets to keep it dry. While Eddie dipped his head into the grass, I looked ahead and spotted a piece of metal lying partially hidden ahead of us. I remember thinking it would not be a good thing for Eddie to walk on unexpectedly. Just as I had that thought, Eddie looked at the metal, and instantly stepped sideways, as if reading my mind.
They say that when you are about to die, your life flashes before your eyes. It’s about that way with falling off a horse. It only takes about two seconds to fall off, but those two seconds are separated into many minute milliseconds.
I remember the moment when I felt Eddie shift. I remember the moment when I thought I could still save my balance, then the split-second later when I realized I was going to fall.
The good thing was, while I was falling I was thinking, “I have to remember to roll.”
Even though I don’t consider myself very good at Aikido yet, those hours of practice in the dojo paid off. Had I been falling head first, I could have done a forward or backward roll. However, I was falling straight sideways. I hadn’t practiced that one yet. So, I did the next thing we learn in Aikido; I let my body become soft and landed in a balanced way.
The not-so-good thing was, Eddie had stopped spooking and was standing still. I fell so close to him that I hit my side on one of his legs. Ouch. Eddie must not have like it either. He decided to walk back to the barn.
As I lay in the grass, breathing away the pain in my side, I had the most insightful, enlightened thought cross my mind, the kind of thought yogis spend years in meditation trying to achieve.
“I’m really going to get a lot of ticks lying here.”
So, I got up, retrieved my horse, and walked him back to the scary metal. He did circles around me while I stomped on the metal, making scary metal noises. After a few figure eights, Eddie decided to stop and sniff the metal calmly. I got back on and we headed home to the barn.
Other than a bit of stiffness in my side, I am unscathed, thanks to Tim Doyle, Morihei Ueshiba (the founder of Aikido), and Eddie. I ended my horse session by doing some Reiki on my mare’s swollen eye, during which she stepped on my foot.
I think I need to go back to the dojo.

Trash or treasure, sifting out photos

Our new home is officially ours and the cleaning and packing has begun. There are still repairs needed before we can move in, but while I work on painting, cleaning and organizing, my motto is “don’t drive to the new house without bringing something with.”
Because we won’t be officially moving until at least July, I am packing things that do not get used very often. I’ve already taken over several garbage bags of my yarn stash, but don’t worry, if I get an emergency knitting attack I still have plenty to choose from.
The other area I’m working on is photos. I’ve been taking photos since I was a child. My first introduction to the art of taking pictures was my grandmother using her Kodak Brownie camera. The Brownie was introduced in 1900, cost only $1 and was easy to use. It was the start of our love affair with all things pictured, leading up to the current day when photos of anything can be found on the internet.
I started taking photos with my own Brownie back in grade school. My favorite is a photo of my dog Buck standing with his front paws on the picnic table. I’ve taken photos of trips, pretty scenery, all my pets, family and friends.
Oh, the days of black and white and negatives. In the days before digital, each subject was taken several times to make sure at least one shot was not blurry and the subject’s eyes weren’t closed. Film came in rolls of 12, 24, and 36 shots and it was nearly sacrilege to get a roll developed without using all the shots available. It was also nearly sacrilege to throw away any of them.
As I began to pack the limitless supply of photos in my home, I decided it was time to break that rule. My husband and I sat in the livingroom with a garbage can and began to sort. There were rules to this sorting. Each of us had a stack of photo envelopes. All negatives went in the trash. All photos of scenery that were unidentifiable went in the trash. Photos of people we barely know, in situations we couldn’t remember, went in the trash. Duplicate photos went in the trash. Unfocused photos and red eye photos went in the trash. If we were unsure about a photo, we could consult each other, but only if it looked really important.
We also had rules for photos to keep. Anything that made us say, “Ohh, look at this,” was kept. At least five photos of each deceased pet were kept. Several shots of special occasions, weddings, birthdays, family gatherings, were kept. One or two blackmail photos were kept. (Blackmail photos include really unflattering photos of a relative, or a relative or friend doing something foolish).
These were just the loose photos. Last night, I began to go through the photo albums with the same rules. It felt a bit more invasive to throw away a photo I had put in an album, but it was needed.
I felt good about this cleaning project done. Then I began to go through a storage cabinet and found all my cameras. I have a large case with my deceased father-in-law’s old 35 mm film camera along with extra lenses, tri-pod devices, filters and more. I haven’t used this camera in years, but I couldn’t bring myself to part with it. There was also my old compact 35mm film camera with the optional flash attachment and my first digital camera.
An old camera is like an old friend. We had been through adventures together, and shared memories. In this fast-paced world, my old cameras let me stop time and save that fraction of a second for the future. And even though I had just thrown away many of those moments in time, the device that saved them didn’t go in the trash.
I now use a digital camera for nearly everything and I rarely get the photos printed. I have some saved on my computer but I’ve learned that when you allow time to pass and look back on the photos in your camera, they don’t seem as important as they did in the moment you took them.
I still have some archives of photos my grandmother took which I haven’t gotten the nerve to throw away yet. Her photos seem like history; mine are just memories. There’s a difference.
Perhaps it’s a sign of the times. In a constantly changing world, I’ve learned about the importance of the present moment, and the dangers of living in the past. Perhaps that is what enabled me to throw out the unneeded photos. I know all my experiences of the past have led me to who I am in the present. The memories remain, but we can’t go back.
I’m glad my grandmother kept the family photos, and I’m also glad I didn’t inherit her throw-aways. Perhaps when I have lived my life fully and gone, someone will say the same about what I leave behind.

Ballet recital revisited

Some of you will remember a previous column where I described my granddaughter Wren’s first ballet recital. Remember the distracting feather? Last weekend, I attended her second recital. Just as before the first recital, her mother insisted this was her last performance. Dance lessons were too expensive and took too much time. She was not going to be enrolled in dance next season.
Wren is four years old. The recital was held at the Viterbo Fine Arts Center in La Crosse and it was a full house. The recital began at 7 p.m. and ended at 10 p.m. Wren’s part in the event lasted about three minutes.
As I sat in the audience, watching other people’s children perform their segments, part of me was bored. Each dance looked like the previous one, with different costumes. If you’ve ever been to a ballet recital, you know it is not exactly fine art. Polina Semionova or Fernando Bujones were not featured. However, the better side of me realized that each dancer on the stage was someone else’s Wren. Each dancer had a mother or father, grandparents and friends sitting on the edge of their seat in anticipation of their child’s moment in the spotlight, just as I was.
When I remembered this, I began to see the performances in a new light.
One dance I will always remember was called Daddies and Daughters. About 20 fathers entered the stage wearing black pants, white shirts and black ties. They were from nearly every walk of life, some tall, some short, some wide, some narrow, some balding, others young. From stage left emerged daughters from grade school to seniors to meet their daddies and dance. The easy choreography was set to a country song about a daughter growing up.
Some daughters were young and needed daddy’s help with the steps. Others were older and helped their father make it through. The look of pride the fathers held for their daughters, and the daughters held for their daddies, brought tears to my eyes. And I wasn’t the only one in the audience drying my eyes.
Finally, the moment came and Wren’s group stepped onto the stage wearing pink ballerina costumes and holding matching teddy bears. My eyes were glued to Wren, who tried very hard to remember her steps. I heard the rest of the audience laughing and looked down the line of ballerinas to see what was the cause. At the end of the line was one boy dancer, in a battle with the girl next to him over a teddy bear. The battle began to escalate and a teacher came on stage. She lifted the boy under the arms and placed him between two other dancers, distancing him from the girl whose teddy bear he coveted. The teacher exited stage left and the dance continued.
It’s always something, but at least this time it wasn’t a feather.
Though Wren didn’t do all of her dance steps, her time was to come at the finale. During the finale, all of the dancers come back on stage for a group dance. The smallest dancers were in front, and Wren was front and center, right behind the teacher. This was enough incentive for Wren to dance up a storm, still holding her teddy bear. When she noticed her father and grandpa in the fourth row of the audience, Wren tried to run off stage to greet them, but was captured by a teacher and returned to the chorus line.
When you are four years old, it doesn’t matter what kind of performance you gave, you still get roses like any star ballerina.
In the car on the way home, we reviewed the performance. I mentioned my favorite dance was the Daddy and Daughter dance. I said I imagined Wren and her daddy up there with the rest of the dancers.
“I know,” said Wren’s mother. “Wren said she wanted to do it next time. Now, I have to keep her in dance class so she can do that dance with her dad.”
To be continued ... next year.

Generations of change remain the same

My grandmother was born in 1900 and passed away in 1998. I’ve often thought about those 98 years of my grandmother’s life and the many things she went through. She was born into a time of women’s suffrage, survived two world wars, various other wars, the great depression, the invention of nuclear weapons and energy, the telephone, radio and television, and the dawning of the computer age.
I was born in 1957. I remember racial riots, women’s liberation, putting men on the moon, Vietnam, economic booms and busts, global warming and constant inflation, walls crumbling and the first black president of the United States. And that’s only been the first 54 years.
My grandmother didn’t have a Facebook page and she never sent a tweet. She walked to the post office every day to get her mail and the latest news. She corresponded in writing with friends and relatives across the country and in Norway.
I have a Facebook page, a blog and email. I rarely send written letters, but I get email from friends in Europe and Japan.
My grandmother attended community events where she heard local people playing the music of the time. She had an old record player and a radio to listen to music and she visited the library for books and magazines.
I have two mp3 players, a Kindle and three computers. I have access to music from around the world and 3,500 books that I can carry with me wherever I go.
My grandmother started with horse drawn transportation. I have a photo she took on the farm of her horse Big King. She never had a drivers license and I don’t think she ever set foot in an airplane.
My horses are for recreation. I drive a car nearly every day, and am comfortable being lifted into the sky by a metal box and transported to another country. I won’t be surprised if transporter beams out of Star Trek are invented in my lifetime.
You can say that my life is very different from my grandmothers. And yet, I see similarities. So far, we’ve both lived through ages of transition and technological advances, wars, and economic ups and downs. And there are simple things that remain constant.
Living with horses, reading books, listening to music, visiting with friends, are all things my grandmother’s life and mine have in common.
My grandmother liked to do handwork, sewing and embroidery. I like to knit, sew, spin and weave. My grandmother liked to bake coffee cakes and cookies. I like to bake banana bread and chocolate chip cookies. My grandmother enjoyed tending to the flowers around her house and maintained a garden. I like to plant a garden and watch the hollyhocks bloom alongside the house.
My grandmother carried a basket wherever she went. I still have two of grandma’s baskets. In my house baskets hold my knitting, yarn, books, CDs, and kitchen utensils. I carry a basket to work with me containing my purse, my lunch, and whatever other things I need that day.
Hopefully I’ll have another 40 or 50 years to experience this life. I plan to be riding a horse when I’m 90. And no matter how much technology changes, I plan to remember those simple things I have in common with my grandmother. The smell of fresh mowed grass, the feel of sunshine on my face, creating beauty, good music and a good book, and the love of a good horse.

Mining the secrets among the debris

Buying land mid-winter can be tricky. You never know what will reveal itself when the snow melts. Sometimes it is great beauty, sometimes not so great. This time, our new land has quite a few of the not-so-great items revealing themselves.
Old farmland is notorious for having areas that could gently be referred to as ‘antique collections,’ These collections may be in a pile, or left randomly over the land. Ours is both. At our soon to be new home, the antique collections were scattered and left in piles in ravines. Even after the snow is melted, some of these treasures will still be hidden under the years of grasses grown among the remnants of someone else’s life.
Engines, old farm machinery, vintage snowmobiles, parts, tires, and more were discarded over the years.
One unique feature of this land is the burned-out mobile home vacated by the previous owners. It has been a somewhat surreal experience cleaning up this part of the collection of history.
As I stood in what was left of the bathroom, discarding the burned contents of the medicine cabinet, I started to think about the family who lived there before the fire. I realized I was not just throwing away old trash as much as I was removing the story of a family’s loss.
The abandoned combs and brushes, toothpaste, and various hair clips told me it was likely a family rather than a single person. In what is left of the living-room, I could tell they liked country music and had quite a collection of CDs, now melted into their packaging. A bookshelf of charred video cassettes remained, their titles now unreadable. The only book I found is a small copy of “Little House on the Prairie.”
They had a fully-stocked larder of canned goods at the time of the fire, including several cans of Dinty Moore beef stew. The rest of the cans are rusted beyond recognition, their labels charred. Their dishes were a mismatched collection of china and plastic. Though the trailer is now a mess of insulation-covered debris, the remains of a vacumn cleaner and the usual cleaning products under the kitchen sink tell me they tried to keep an orderly household. From the back bedroom, I ascertained that they wore jeans and sweatshirts and liked down pillows. And at least one member of the household did not adhere to the orderly scenario.
A half-full container of cat litter and a bottle of dog shampoo tells me they had pets. A circular saw hints that an occupant liked to work with tools.
From the burn pattern, I can tell the fire started in the livingroom, probably in the wall or near the small woodstove left behind. At least one of the two couches in the livingroom appears to have been a hide-a-bed. Perhaps the family had frequent visitors.
What is not left tells as much as what is. There are no crystal chandeliers, no piano, no crib or baby bottles, and no computer. We found several destroyed television sets and the remains of video game accessories. This was a family who lived on a moderate income, yet could afford food and a few extras.
Why was the mobile home left and not removed by the family? I’ll probably never know, but the expense of bringing in a dumpster and finding ways to dispose of the appliances and possible hazardous waste buried under the pile was a factor in what we offered for the property. Maybe it was a factor for the family, too. Perhaps they didn’t have insurance or the physical ability to remove the trash.
Perhaps after suffering this loss, they didn’t have the emotional capacity to look the fire in the eye. As I toss out what is left, piece by piece, I pray the family was not physically harmed by the fire and that Fido and Mouser were saved. It’s hard to imagine that having your home destroyed would not leave some emotional harm, and I hope the family has been able to rebuild their life in the years since this tragedy happened.
For my husband and I, buying this home is a challenge of recovery. We will renovate the existing house and wonder what happy celebrations occurred in the spacious kitchen, and what were they thinking when they painted the bedroom purple? I’ll look at the face of the unidentified soldier in the photo I found in a closet and hope he made it back from his experience in the military to enjoy home-cooked meals on the wheat-designed dishes gently packed away in a box in the upstairs bedroom.
We will wade through the ‘antique collections’ and other debris and find the spirit and beauty of the land once more. And I’ll gaze out my new kitchen window at the expanse of fields between us and the Penokee Mountain range and remember the ancestors who came to this land, built homes and farms, and have now moved on.