A House Reborn...

The homes in our family have not remained in our family. Over the years, the homes which were my grandparents' were sold. The house which my parents built and I grew up in and even the place where my children were reared, went to new owners. In some ways, this saddens me. It's not so much the houses that I loved, but the history in them that I want to preserve. But then, it is all written on the walls of my heart and those histories will forever be within my thoughts.

Another home, one belonging to my younger brother, will soon become the home of someone else. When he passed away, the property and house had to be sold in order to settle the estate. Though there were some of us who had hoped to keep the acreage and house, the attorney said it would not be possible, and so it was sold. The developer/contractor who bought it wanted only the land, and we feared that the little house my brother had built in the mid-'80s would be torn down. Fortunately that didn't happen, and the man donated the place to Habitat for Humanity.

With my camera, I documented the events following the man's gift. I watched as the house was jacked up and taken off it's foundation. I sadly noted the pile of debris that once was a wooden deck, a front porch, a brick chimney, and the block foundation. I snapped my shutter as the little house was loaded onto the huge truck that would transport the house down the rural road to the two lane highway, to the new location ten miles away.

Over the next year I made frequent visits to the house to watch and to photograph it's progress.
I watched as it was placed on its new foundation and when it was stripped of the vinyl siding and the original wood clapboard siding. When the wooden windows were removed, they were replaced with vinyl ones. The front porch was rebuilt, and trimmed with columns and railing. The rear deck was replaced. Where the sliding doors were is now a single french door to the deck. The inside remained much the same, but for a small wall which was removed between the dining room and kitchen in order to provide a counter space and more light. The oak floors were sanded and refinished, and the bathrooms were redone. The walls were painted a light tan and new ceiling fixtures were installed. Small gardens were placed in front, two trees were planted.
A cement driveway was laid and a sidewalk leads to the bright new front door. The house is ready. I think it would please my brother to see this and to know that his home will be loved and lived in by someone who might otherwise not have ever owned a home of her own.

Next Sunday the little house will be dedicated and presented by Habitat for Humanity to the new owner. I hear that she is very excited and can't stop smiling. I will be there, at the ceremonies. I want to present her with another gift, one I've been working on for nearly as long as they've been preparing her new home. It is a scrapbook filled with pages documenting the history of the house in pictures and in words. It is my hope that she will enjoy knowing of how her home was built and how it housed a little family before her.

As she builds her own memories and lives what will become her own history in the little home, I wish her many years of happiness.

Night's Fantasies, Morning's Realties

This morning I awoke with a million thoughts. I'd spent those moments before waking in a lovely dream of many relatives who are now moved on to the next life. In the dream, I was surrounded by mountains of photographs of the times we spent during our lives. There were pictures of me as an infant and growing up that I'd never seen before. There was a photo which was a number of good sized stones, placed in the formation of a heart with an arrow running through it. I was told by my aunt, in my dream, that it was my father who had placed the rocks, as a romantic gesture for my mother.

Awaking, I realized that I'd never seen any of the photos in my dream because they didn't exist in reality. Even the story of my father's creative endeavor wasn't true. But my mind was set in motion, and I began to think of the things my father had done to show his love for his wife and others.

I don't honestly remember Daddy being much of a romantic, though it was a fact that he was a loving husband, father and man. We all take it for granted that a man will work to provide for his family, but is that not a true act of love? We expect it, of course, but the man has a will of his own to reject that responsibility. My father did not do that. He worked full time, came home for supper, and then went out to work a part-time job as well. There was not necessarily a need for him to work more than his 40 hour a week job, but he and my mother were not living in the moment. They looked ahead and planned for it. Because Dad had provided the way he did, and because they were good stewards of what they had, they were able to build a small house which would provide a rental income. One thing built on another, and over the years, they owned a few small houses which made the nest egg grow. When my father passed away at the early age of 61 years old, my mother had no financial worries. They'd lived simply and never beyond their means. There was no debt, but there remained a steady income.

I think it is a wonderful thing when a man shows his love in such a way that is often over-looked. I enjoy it,too, when those little romantic gestures that we so often don't expect, come along. One of my favorite remembrances is a Christmas when Dad presented Mom with a simple but very special gift. It was a small, wooden 'puff' heart which he had whittled from a bit of wood in his basement shop. She proudly wears it quite often, and I'm always so pleased to see it. I think of him with his tools, standing at his workbench, forming a symbol of his love for my mother. What makes it even more special is that the first one he was making was somehow lost, and he had to work faster to get the second effort finished by Christmas! I covet that heart, and am certain it will be mine one day, but for now, I am happy to see it lying close to my mother's own heart.

There was many a heart-shaped box, covered with lace and bows or flowers, for my mother on Valentine's Day. There were love letters when my parents were apart for a short time due to a job decision. There were beautiful garments given as birthday and Christmas gifts. But, what I've come to know in all these years I've experienced, it isn't anything material that matters. It is truly the thought behind the giving. Anyone can give a gift out of obligation, but it is the giving of self that is the real show of love. Daddy did that, every single day that I knew him, and even beyond that. My mother, at the age of 83, still lives a simple, yet comfortable life, with want of nothing, because of his fore-thought and his love. There's nothing better than that.

Chicken Heart

Ok, I'll admit it. I'm a yellow-bellied chicken heart. Well, not always, but most of the time when I see the lightening and hear the thunder booming, I cringe and want to hide under the bed.

Last night I was out at a friend's house a few miles from here. We were sitting in a cement block building on their farm where a group of bluegrass pickers meets every Thursday night. Suddenly, the music was being drowned out by the sound of thunder and a light show accompanied the drum rolls in the sky. Every now and then we'd hear static in the microphones. I thought it might be wise to turn off the electrical equipment, but I didn't say a word. The guys just went on playing, while I shuddered every time Nature showed the musicians some competition.

The small crowd began to leave, one by one, around nine o'clock....three hours earlier than most nights. Word came by cell phone that a bad string of thunderstorms was heading our way. I didn't know whether to stick it out or to drive myself home, directly into the path of the storm.
Finally I decided to make my way across the six or seven miles to my house. I turned the radio on full blast and sang loudly, praying at the same time, while the skies opened up in torrents.

I don't know what it is that scares me so much about the noise and lightening. I try to comfort myself with fantasy stories, such as those that we used with the children when they were little. "The angels are bowling" or " the furniture's being rearranged in Heaven." I'm too old for that scam to work! I speak rationally, telling myself it's just the collision of hot air and cold air that makes all that racket and there's nothing to be afraid of. I count between the lightening and the thunder claps so that I can convince myself that there are many miles between me and the storm, even though it might appear to be right over my head. I pray. Nothing seems to work to alleviate my worries.

Some of this fear might be because at one time, while on vacation in New Hampshire, I was nearly struck by lightening while walking up the road from a river. With no warning, I felt the hair on the back of my neck and on my arms stand up, and then I heard the distinct sound of electricity shooting through the air. As it hit the telephone pole very near where I was walking,
I hit the ground and covered my head. I'm sure I looked stupid, but fortunately, the only one who saw me was my husband, and he was amazed by the streak of lightening that threaded it's way directly to the top of that pole.

I do have a healthy respect for the power God holds in His hand, and for the workings of Nature.
Thus far I have survived it, and all things considered, I probably will continue to. I will also continue to try to talk myself out of the fear that grips me when those storms arrive, but, please, don't even mention a tornado sighting! You'll find me cowering in the bathroom, praying fiercely for mercy and protection. My husband says he wants to build a bunker...similar to the old underground things some built in the 1950's and 60's to protect themselves from nuclear radiation. I guess he has his own fears.

There are actually times when I feel very brave, realizing that there's really not one thing I can do if Nature's out to get me. I feel a peace in that thought at this moment....but of course that is very easy to do today, while the sun is shining and the birds are singing. For this moment, I'll feel courageous, and if a storm arises, I'll attempt to put that bravery into action. But, like Scarlett O'Hara, I won't think about that today. I'll think about that tomorrow.

Front Porch

When one of my girls was a teenager, she and a friend's daughter would tease my friend and me about the days when we were their ages. Their favorite comment was that she and I spent our time sitting on the porch, sipping lemonade. None of that was true, but what they were saying, without saying it, was that we were old and old-fashioned. My family didn't have a porch on our house. My friend's family did, but I don't think we spent even one moment sitting on it.

Now, we have a lovely front porch. We enjoy sitting out there with our morning coffee. Beneath the roof that shelters us from the sun, we might be found wiling the hours away in conversation. We watch the weather, we remark at the skies, we listen to the thunder, and we enjoy the sound of the rain. In the evenings, we relish the cool breeze and the viewing of the twinkling stars. While the neighbors come and go, we stay put, and we wave to the strangers who drive down our street, circling at the cul de sac where we're located. One of our neighbors is said to have bought the house two doors away because we waved when they came to view the home!

When we first moved here and the subdivision was new, neighbors would stop by and sit with us on the front porch, each of us learning about each other. That has slowed down a bit these days, as everyone knows everyone else now, and we're all sort of settled in. We do have visitors often, however, and we spend time on the porch, talking with each guest about world and local events, church, or whatever topic happens to come up. There is a group of men who will often gather at our porch when Mike goes out with his coffee. I've nicknamed them 'the Man Clan'. Sometimes they stay a short time, sometimes a good while, sharing the military stories or the latest political happening.

There is little to say except positive things about a front porch. However, if the weather is muggy, the gnats and flies appear. That is an unpleasantry, for certain. One other thing that some might consider a detriment is the gathering of folks who stay a bit too long, keeping us from accomplishing one of those items on the 'honey do list.' On the other hand, we think it's wonderful that people come to share our day with us and that they are as comfortable on our porch as we are. Unless we have an appointment that must be met, we don't worry much about how long they stay. We enjoy their visits.

It may have been an old-fashioned idea to my daughter once, to sit on a porch and chat with a friend over a cool glass of lemonade or iced tea, but I've noticed that she has grown up to appreciate the porch as much as we do. There is hope that our younger generations will come to know the pleasures of such wonderful old-time things!

Names..

It seems to me that names must be very important to people. Expectant parents spend many hours, sometimes months, pouring over lists of names and their meanings, in hopes of finding the perfect name for their child. Of course, when the child has been born, and the name is given, the meaning has no importance to anyone, outside of the person who chose the moniker for the babe. In Biblical times, parents gave names according to personality traits they wanted for their child to develop or to honor the Lord, in some way. Hannah, who wanted a son, named her baby, Samuel, which means 'asked of God'. The name of the first man, "Adam", means 'man'.

Sometimes I've wondered if these little people grow to 'live up to' the meanings of their names. When I look at the way my children have developed, the definitions given to their names seem to have become a part of their lives. For example, my youngest was given the name Megan Beth.

Megan comes from the Welsh, meaning 'strong' and Beth is Hebrew, meaning 'house of'....so Meg's full name means 'house of strength.' Not that I put any store in astrology, but she is also born under the sign of the bull, a Taurus. Megan was a strong-willed child, and as a head-strong teen, was a bit of a challenge for me. As an adult, she is a strong woman, intelligent and
tackles her life head-on, with little diversion from her task. She is, indeed, a house of strength.


Amy, means 'beloved'. She is that, to most who meet her. She is well loved in the family, and seems to make friends easily and be accepted. She is thought of well by her employers and looked upon as friendly and outgoing. She is a giver, governed by her heart, so I'd say that she is beloved and loving too.


My grand-daughter has an unusual name, Selah. The word is a musical term meaning 'pause' or 'meditate on this'. This not -quite-six year old was an infant who seemed to be gazing into unseen worlds, examining everything she saw, and still is a very serious child. She mulls over everything and must have a valid reason for all things. She contemplates every word, and if it doesn't make sense to her, she must question it. Her father says she will be a lawyer.


These examples are just three of many, many instances I've seen where babies seem to grow into the meaning of their names, given before they have a chance to determine what behaviors and personality traits they will adopt. I would want to say to every parent, 'choose wisely the name you bestow upon your child'. It is unclear whether a name really can help or hinder a child to develop good ways of living, but personally, I wouldn't want to take a chance!

Hope Chest

Who remembers the term "hope chest" these days? We of the middle age and older generations do, but somewhere along the passing of time, I believe the idea has gone by way of the dowery.

When I was a teenager in the 1960's, my mother and aunts began giving me household items for my 'hope chest.' I didn't really have a chest, per se. in which to store these things, though I'm sure some girls did. The contents of a hope chest were to prepare the young woman for an eventual home of her own. Gifts would come for my 'despair barrel' as one of my aunts deemed it, and would be stored in my closet for the 'someday' when I'd need it.

I like the custom, though, I'm not sure I did at the time. I always had the idea that I'd be a wife and eventually a mother, but at the age of fifteen and sixteen, I thought I had plenty of time, and household items were not particularly exciting. However, when at the (too young) age of nineteen, I married a high school boyfriend, those towels and dishes, sheets, etc. came in handy.

When my daughters were teenagers, I gave each of them a cedar chest. There were gifts, here and there, of articles that they could save for their future homes, but things had changed by that time. Kids were more interested in 'registering' for the specific small appliances or dishware or linens. Registering is common practice today, but it irks me. When a gal gets engaged and sets a date, she runs to her favorite department store and picks out everything she'd like to receive, and then lets all the gift buyers know where they can choose one of those items to bestow upon her and her intended. I suppose, for some, this makes it convenient because one doesn't have to think much about what the gift will be. They need only to decide what they want to spend and pick something from the list which lines up with their budget. It also is insurance that the bride will like and use your gift, since she's picked it herself.

I've never been ''registered'' for gifts, nor have I purchased anything from a registry list. I like the challenge of shopping for useful gifts that I think would suit the one receiving it. I might sneak a peek at a list, just to see what a bride's china pattern is, or to get an idea of her color preferences, but the gift is all my own idea.

Some of the old ways still charm me more than today's practices. I think I'm getting old, and I know I'm old-fashioned. I can think of a hope chest full of ancient traditions that I'd trade for methods of this day and age. Life moves on, times change, but sometimes I wish things could be a little more like they were in the days when I was young.

MEMORIAL DAY WEEKEND

Memorial Day weekend is here again. It hardly seems possible! In East Hampton, it signals the start of the summer season, but these days, the tourists and second home owners come earlier and stay later. No longer is it a three-month season in the sea-side resort town.

When I think back on the holiday weekend from earlier years, I do, indeed, find many of them memorable. When I was a youngster, early in the morning on Memorial Day, I would hear the 21 gun salutes at the near-by cemetary. I donned my Girl Scout uniform and headed for the flagpole near the library and Town Pond. I'd join my troop for the long, often warm, trek to the windmill on the north end of the Village. It was something I looked forward to and was proud to do.

In later years, as a parent, I watched my young ones march the same route, wearing their various assortment of uniforms...Brownies, Girl Scouts, Cub and Boy Scouts, Civil Air Patrol, EHHS marching band, Little League. Whatever the uniform, Mom was there to deliver the kids and to stand proudly, beaming at the children. We always stood, afterward, at Hook Mill for the ceremonies honoring our men lost in wars. We listened to our local public officials, and we applauded the students who were presented with scholarship awards. It was all a part of the day, as was the annual cook-out our family attended at one or another home.

Two Memorial Day events stand out in my mind. One was when I was a young mother, expecting my second child. The phone rang in our kitchen that morning, and my own mother's voice said, " I have bad news." (I recognized that phrase as my mother's coming announcement that someone had passed away.) She continued to say that my Grandmother had died that morning.

Years later, another family died on Memorial Day. In fact, he died in a way that would probably have been chosen by him, had he had a choice. Uncle Bob was a veteran of the US Navy and an active member of the Navy Reserves. Having reached the rank of Chief Petty Officer, his uniform bore an arm-full of stripes and his chest was decorated with many colorful ribbons. He'd served in five wars. He loved his uniform and was proud to wear it in patriotic service for his country. That May morning, Uncle Bob carefully put on each item of clothing, being sure to line up his shirt buttons with his belt buckle, as is the military way. He 'reported for duty' for the last time, to the flagpole. He began marching in step with the drumbeat, accompanied by other men and women of the Veterans of Foreign Wars. He marched almost half the way to the Mill, when the flag he carried began to droop toward the ground. Someone stepped up to take the flag as Uncle Bob collapsed to the ground. He'd served his country well, and finished his earthly work wearing his Navy uniform.

A Memorial Day indeed.