It’s “Hey Rene J” Today!

Growing up we had access to loads of fruit trees and berry bushes. Our yard alone had cherry and pear trees, currant, elderberry, and mulberry bushes (so messy!) and a token walnut tree. Picking up the pears which fell from the loaded trees was not a favorite activity but necessary for the sake of the dog. He would get tipsy from the rotting fruit.

My grandfather would take all of the walnuts we harvested and shuck and crack them for us, returning them for our consumption. Dad made wine with the berries, although we occasionally grabbed a snack from those bushes. The cherry trees were mine. I picked, pitted, and made pies from them. As a matter of fact, the first day I was out of school as a senior in high school, that was my activity for the day. Seniors were graduated a week before the rest of the students were released. Really? I couldn’t think of anything better to do with my freedom?

The cherries on my little wimpy trees in my current backyard have netted me zero pies since I planted them. That is because I let the birds feast – my timing with picking the fruit has never been good. I figure someone is enjoying them. My pear trees are ornamental only, yielding nothing but blossoms of beauty. No rotting fruit to worry about.

It’s that type of weather today – the “I’m itching to plant and grow food” type. Grand thoughts of raised beds with weedless vistas of produce and a small orchard of fruit trees dance in my head. Either that or I enjoy the “fruits” of my friends’ labors. Hm. I’ll ponder that thought until the next snowstorm.

Saturdays were often spent in my dad’s garage, the radio tuned to a sports event while my dad tinkered around doing something. It was a comforting feeling to hear that chatter patter of a game, particularly the fall college football games.

When I make the trek back to the homeland I often listen to the AM stations, just to hear the farm market reports, the very local commercials for the hardware guy and seed corn people, and to have that running dialogue to the backdrop of my childhood. Remember calling in to a station to request a song for a guy you liked? It makes me smile to think of those battle-weary DJs who fielded our teenage dedications, and the parents hosting the slumber parties where we giggling gaggles squealed with delight hearing our names on the radio.

Saturdays and the radio. Maybe I’ll head to the garage and finish that project I started two weeks ago? We have a radio in there!

The days lengthening and summer’s pull strengthening.

Sometimes I forget to look at the mountains from the porch side of the house. And then there are breathtaking times when we remember that beauty before us. The sky, an ocean of color. The mountains still capped in white.

It was no surprise that this psalm came to mind as I wrote this. However, it was a surprise to find that it is the psalm for the reading today. Psalm 8:2-4. No coincidences!

“What is man that you should be mindful of him,
or the son of man that you should care for him?”

My spouse had our two-year old helping with the pasta carbonara. She’s great at cracking eggs and whipping them, as well as taste-testing the cheese and ham we use. My husband really encourages and helps her to participate in the meal. I was giving him numerous accolades when he admitted to a truth. He can’t hold a baby as long as I can.

My head cocked, I looked at him sideways, and I freely admitted, “You’re right.”

We each have our endurances and strengths. It’s a good team for the Wednesday Three Women-to-be. Thankfully he is a great cook and enjoys teaching that.

I’ll catch them on the baking end – with frosting and sprinkles. Glittery sprinkles.

This absolutely had me laughing aloud as I sipped my morning joe yesterday. No reason other than a really good one. Enjoy your Wednesday – and may the wind, which could be at your back, actually die down today and allow a nice, warmer walk. (Old Irish Blessing)

How rewarding to see small puddles on the deck, the neighbor’s lawn greening, and the pear trees considering their buds. In another micro-clime ten houses away the daffodils are blooming. Such a hope-filled season, at least until we get the next round of winter weather.

Years ago I implemented a program here called, “Daffodils in the Ditch.” I planted about 100 bulbs each year for a few years in my ditch. It was a simple idea and really pretty. Unfortunately, the poor soil, weather factors, and lack of a proper way to always hydrate them probably caused their slow fade out of existence. That’s what I miss when these April showers come around – the cheerfulness of color.

Thus, I’ll have to keep the floral purchases coming until I see my little tulips bloom and the cherry trees blossom. Flower power!

My spouse has gleaned something from my upbringing. We had an interesting guest list this Easter of those who were regulars and those who were alone. He invited friends who had recently lost wives and the friend who received the great news from his CT Scans. We celebrated with neighbors, who are the family. I’m humbled to have hosted this gathering. I just feel so blessed.

That’s it.

Tomorrow is Easter Monday. Used to be a holiday…it is. Xoxoxoxo

One of the loveliest lines of poetry from Gerard Manley Hopkins and a fitful sonnet for our Good Friday thoughts. It speaks to finding our purpose and living it, and finding that we are to be Christ to others.

As kingfishers catch fire, dragonflies dráw fláme;
As tumbled over rim in roundy wells
Stones ring; like each tucked string tells, each hung bell’s
Bow swung finds tongue to fling out broad its name;
Each mortal thing does one thing and the same:
Deals out that being indoors each one dwells;
Selves—goes itself; myself it speaks and spells,
Crying Whát I do is me: for that I came.

I say more: the just man justices;
Keeps grace: thát keeps all his goings graces;
Acts in God’s eye what in God’s eye he is—
Christ—For Christ plays in ten thousand places,
Lovely in limbs, and lovely in eyes not his
To the Father through the features of men’s faces.”

My childhood did not contain plastic candy-filled Easter eggs. Mom would dye a dozen hard-boiled eggs and hide them in the house, because never was there an Easter Sunday where your pretty dress could be seen underneath the winter coat you had to wear. Thus, no eggs were hidden outside by The Bunny.

One year we couldn’t find an egg. My mother had four children, so exhaustion had to play a role in forgetting the hiding spots. We even had a dog who could have sniffed it out, but no such luck. It was months before it was found on the floor behind a curtain, leaving us to consider it was a dud egg since it never even emitted an odor.

These are the fond childhood memories of Easter I retain: the bowl hat, the dud egg, and cold weather.

Thankfully, maturity brought me to the true understanding of Easter and the joy of being able to sing, “Alleluia,” again. I still dye eggs and wear my winter gear most years. Alleluia!