Bra Man

When I was little, I had a fuzzy pink shirt that I loved. I wore it and wore it, until one day I tried to put it on and promptly got stuck. My arms were stuck over my head through the sleeves. The top of my head was sticking out through the neck hole.  I needed help. I am pretty happy that cellphone cameras were not around back in those days. It would have been hilarious…now, maybe.

But now, this kind of thing happens to me a lot. Not because of shirts that are too small, but because of old age, collateral damage to my shoulder, and having to wear a bra.

Getting older is a bugger.

I tell you what. Had I been more adventurous and more athletic, maybe I would have less aches and pains. Maybe more. No one really warns you of the consequences you face with your life choices.  They are different for everyone. Some people get off relatively easy, others are riding around on a Rascal before they reach their 60’s.

Me? I am living with the pain of someone who has worked on hard floors in bad shoes for years. Lotsa years. I have flat feet now, and a huge knot on my left Achilles tendon with bone chips in it. My ankles, twisted and sprained many times as a child trying to ice skate or roller skate or merely get off the monkey bars, are managing to hold me upright and keep me walking. For how long? Who knows?

I have fallen down stairs and out of trees and off horses with minds of their own. No problem. I fall on the sidewalk, no biggie, hit my knees and got up and kept walking. Big problem! My WHOLE LEG turned black and blue, and in a couple more months, got this really ugly nasty infection in the knee and exploded!

Sigh.

People are in more pain than I, yep, I do know this. Other people have harder things going on. That knowledge does not make me any better. I am going to whine some.

Getting back to the point: Wearing a bra is a non-negotiable to me. I am a baker, and I do a lot of frying. “Things” are already in the way, and these “things” do not need to be deep fried. I am sure you catch my drift. Besides, I was raised not to go without.

Up until recently, I was able to manage dressing myself on my own. I have had that ability for simply years! Then I did something to my shoulder, and it is working on becoming a frozen shoulder. Ouch. This means that putting a bra on has become a huge challenge.

It doesn’t matter if it is the old fashioned fasten in the back style, or the over the head sports bra  style, or the front closing style. Each one has a challenge attached. The range of motion on my right arm (it is ALWAYS the arm you use the most that becomes lame or useless, isn’t it?) is next to none.

Why can’t a bra be designed to be easier to put on, to not have droopy shoulder straps or straps that show if you wear a doggone T shirt, for goodness' sake, or has so many hooks and eyes that it takes a freaking hour to fasten the thing! I am a larger woman. Bras for women like me seem to require that it be similar to a piece of armor, a breastplate, if you will. And if you get the right size one way, the other parts don’t fit. Ladies, I am not the only one with this complaint, am I?

But I have a superhero in my life.

My husband, bless his heart, comes to my rescue. I call for Bra Man, and he shows up!  And helps me get my arms and head and boobs where they need to be.  I would be late for work if it weren’t for his help! I wouldn’t go out in public. I would be lost without him. I am working on getting more range of motion in that rotten arm of mine, but  my hubby isn’t too bothered by having to help me.

You just gotta look for the silver linings, and they are there.

Except, he seems to be having more fun that I am...

Pulling Threads

One of my favorite stories from growing up is the one about Mom pulling a thread.

It was when Mom and Dad were still dating. One night when they were out on a date, Mom noticed a thread hanging. She pulled it. And pulled it and pulled it and pulled it. It really must have bugged her for her to keep pulling it like that. She pulled and pulled and pulled and the thread kept coming and coming until finally, it was all out.

Dad went home and got in trouble with his mom, my grandma. Apparently, he came home without his drawers on, and she noticed when she was gathering up clothes for washing. Big trouble!

Now that I am an adult, I have to wonder if this is a true story, and why, if it is, Dad didn't stop her from pulling on the thread. I mean, he must have noticed! Wouldn't it have tickled?

Thread is a word that haunts me through life. It has many meanings and implications. Not the least the fact that I used to pronounce thread with an "f". I would say, "a thpool of fred". Now my brother tells me that Dad had a lisp. I never noticed! Dad was big and scary and, well, Dad! But I had a lisp too and went to Mrs. Morganroth for speech class in elementary school, where we played "Chutes and Ladders" and other games that allowed us kids to use the words that troubled us correctly, but in a  fun way.

That is why my handwriting is so bad. Penmanship was at the same time as speech. True story.

There are threads that show up through life. A memory here, a quote from a book there, a meeting of old friends and family gatherings. Threads weave, some come frayed. Sometimes they take me by surprise.

You know that movie, "UP", where the dogs keep saying "Squirrel!" and being distracted for a minute? I have those moments. But I could shout "thread!" and really make people wonder. My brain, like most people, keeps hold of many trivial things. Remembering seriously important things comes with a price. But things like old cigarette commercials and how many angels can dance on the head of a pin, those come free and frequently.

One thought ties to another, and soon, there is a whole tapestry woven from frayed thoughts and threads of ideas. It looks and feels like the back side of a needlepoint that someone who is not fastidious has done. The front is beautiful, the pattern is clear and fine. The back, not so much. Threads and knots and chaos!

So, based on the theme of threads, there will be more ramblings to follow.

I wonder how embarrassed Mom was when she heard what she had unraveled...

Memories Like Confetti

A scent in the air, a bit of music, a beloved old book, old postcards and photographs. These are bits of confetti that are our memories. At least, that is how my memories are kept, flashes of this, a glimpse of bright colorful fun there. Quite often the strands of confetti are tangled with others, almost woven together. Some strands are plain, faded paper. Some are oh, so very tarnished.

A book brought this all on. "Silver Boxes: The Gift of Encouragement" by Florence Littauer. It is full of ideas on how to encourage one another, and how it affects both the encourager and the encouraged. Wonderful book. Some of you might find it syrupy and fluffy, but I think that is because we aren't much given encouragement these days. Not nearly enough!

In my former life, when I was young, I was quite...obnoxious... in my faith and life view. I miss those days, when things were so positive and I felt the most grounded ever. But I kind of bulldozed people who stood in front of me with my... zeal. I was still human and prone to mistakes. Oh, I hurt some dear friends with my lack of maturity and understanding of actions and consequences! 

My faith was real. IS real. founded in the love and encouragement of people around me, the prayers of people I barely remember. When I was too little to know better, I knew about heaven and hell, good and bad. I just knew. While my Grandma Maginity was teaching me the twenty-third psalm, and I was getting prizes from the "quiet box" at church, I knew with great depth and certainty about these things. 

This was the time of life full of kittens and puppies and camping, family gatherings and laughter. This was also the time of the Vietnam "conflict" which was broadcast on the news nightly, with friends and family members and neighbors suffering losses and ungodly nightmares. As a child, I was terrified of sonic booms and jets flying over the house. 

As a child, there were secrets to be kept, things to keep hidden. Shame. I was always looking for someone to like me, to approve of me, as a child.

A memory of riding to church in the church van. John Deemer took it on himself to get kids to church

Because my big sister went, I wanted to go to. So I did. It was Adelle Deemer who heard me quietly singing to myself on the way to church one morning. She took me under her wing and coached me to sing a pretty little song, sing it as a special. "Jewels" it was called. I still know it by heart. I can still hear her voice, and how she played piano. She twinkled the piano-there is no other way to describe it. And I can still hear Leo Putney, his giant deep voice saying AMEN when he didn't look like such a voice would come from him.

When I became a teenager, my values changed. 

Oh, you can blame hormones for teenagers but there is still a brain attached to the person in question. It may be a mess inside, but still there! Church was something for old folks and children. I still went. Something to do outside of home, you know. But I had found a boy that I chased with single-minded determination. I don't know why. (At the same time, my now husband was chasing me, but I didn't quite see things the same way as he back then.) I ended up shanghaied to youth camp in 1977. I DID NOT want to go. But I am very, very glad I did.

My best friend after a bit, (she didn't like me at all at first!) introduced me to another author, Ann Keimel Anderson. I can hear her tiny voice on the cassette tapes we used to listen to, quietly singing "something beautiful, something good. All my confusion, He understood. All I had to offer Him was brokenness and strife...He's making something beautiful out of my life" Something Beautiful, Something Good by Bill Gaither  

From this year forward, I was growing up. Not without making a total mess of things along the way. 

Not all confetti is pretty. Sometimes it is overwhelming, obscuring the whole picture. You may have watched AFV, at the end when the winners are announced? Suddenly, CONFETTI!!!!!!!

This kind of confetti holds memories like these: The night of my Dad's open heart surgery, when I was on the phone all night with "that boy" because I was so SCARED! Going 800 miles away from home to start over, and ending up both times going with someone from Benzie County! Foiled! (By the way, it doesn't work. You can't leave who you are behind and start from scratch. You still are you.) My first wedding, getting married without planning ANYTHING. Like, where we were going to live, for instance. My daughter's birth. Nothing can compare to anything to do with my girl. She has been the most amazing life experience for me, and continues to fill me with joy as the adult she has become. The day my Dad died, thirteen years after the open heart surgery. The loss of my great uncle Ray by way of him being a good samaritan just at the wrong time. Family strife of all kinds over the years. The fading and then loss of my Mom. Marrying my old friend and neighbor who is such a good match to me. Coming home to the old house.

Mom and Dad on the left on their wedding day.

Sometimes the confetti gets into uncomfortable places. That's life, right? 

And in the light and darkness of things that were my life, God is there. Faith gives me reasons to open my eyes in the morning, to keep trying to live and work and be me. Hope give me reason not to go hide somewhere and keep the terrible news from coming in. Friends and family give me reason to believe in love and compassion and to hold on to the memories, both kinds. Light glitters off all the confetti of our lives. Maybe some of that light will catch someone who needs it and give them a reason to keep going for the day if not longer.

What makes up your confetti?

Chasing Nature

Muskrat, Upper Herring Lake inlet

I remember Grandma Maginity fearlessly chasing a badger out of her garden, armed with a broom and her voice. This is the same gear she used to chase the neighbor's cows away, too. But a badger! I didn't get to see it, just the activity to chase it. Grandma was fearless.

 A younger Grandma Effie than I knew

I remember when one of my brothers came running in, white-faced and terrified, from taking out the trash one night. He had heard a scream in the dark. A bobcat was near. (Since I posted this, my brother corrected me. The bobcat and  he came face to face at the garbage pit and looked each other in the eye!)

Our huge dining room window faces East, into the sunrise. Eating breakfast required squinting. There was a barn and an open field. One morning, my brother's dog Sarge brought home a friend. Or it brought him; never sure how this happened. The dog was a beagle, the friend was a fox. We watched, entranced, as they played tag with each other. One would crouch down and the other would run round and round, closing the circle, until they touched noses. Then they would trade spots.

It was wonderful.

The dam on the Betsie River was pretty near right behind our house, and we used to walk back to it quite often. There were orderly rows of pines, planted in the 1950's and not very tall back then. One day I was running through the pines just to run, and a doe apparently was doing the same thing. We stopped, frozen on a bed of moss, not five feet from each other. Frozen and holding our breath. How long we stood and stared at each other I do not know. Time stopped.

If I don't move, you can't see me, right?

Grandma Maginity taught me about birds. She fed them, and showed me the difference between male and female cardinals, what phoebes looked like. We laughed at the silly nuthatches and longed to see the summer Baltimore Orioles, humming birds, and of course, the robins. Dad took after his mother and fed birds too. We had Grosbeaks and even a brilliant Red-headed woodpecker!

That was then. This is now.

I had never seen a sand hill crane until about seven  years ago in a field up near Grawn. I saw a huge something, made Tom pull over to see what it was. A sand hill crane! Now I see them every year.

Juvenile eagle

There were never eagles when I was younger. The DDT and other horrible things nearly eliminated them. Now, there are families of eagles flourishing. Eagles, hawks, ospreys. I remember when the osprey family took over a light fixture at the old high school football field, which is now a baseball/soccer/frisbee golf/pick nick area. Ospreys!

We have a casting of this print

When we lived on Upper Herring Lake, we had bear. I saw a tall, long legged bobcat down by the water, playing like a kitten. One animal that crossed the path between home and water looked exactly like a wolverine, but of course it couldn't have been, could it?

Near Elberta, we saw a pair of beautiful coyotes chasing down a deer. They were reddish in coat lush looking. Another strolled through our yard one day. The chorus the provided at night was haunting and wild.

I had seen great blue herons, and not just on the Gwen Frostic Sign. I once watched one in the park near the Benzie Shores District Library eat a fish. It was a big fish, and eating it took some planning. The bird put the fish down, looked it over carefully, then picked it up again, trying to get it in position to swollow it.  Over and over again he tried. The fish was huge! Finally, after many attempts, he got the head aiming down his gullet and started to swallow it. Poor thing had a neck full of fish for some time. He must have been uncomfortable!

Head down, looking for dinner

Green herons I never knew about until the past ten years. One flew over the car on a drive once. Then, we had a nesting pair on Upper Herring Lake for the past three or four years. We named them "Gronk" after the wonderful sound they made.

These days, I listen to the convocation of rooks and ravens with the occasional crow. It is a funny lot of noise, sounds like neighbors shouting at each other. There are still deer that come wandering through the yard. Although there is a house where the barn used to be, and houses down the road and accross the street, the animals still come out. We have bear. Everyone seems to have bear this year. Getting into the bird feeders and the trash. So, we put our bird feeders away and keep the trash in the garage until trash day. Wildlife flourishes.

There are even cougars here. Who knows what else will show up?

The Estate Sale

I come from a long line of traders. My grandfather, Willard, worked his way up from rag man to cattle man. My Dad, Ward; one of his nicknames was Trader Horn. My Uncles Virgil and Ralph could wheel and deal with rest of them. This knack, or talent, or just plain old urge, runs deep in my blood. It is in my cousins as well. It has rubbed off on my husband, too. Although, his Dad was cut from the same cloth as mine. My sister-in-law and I have an annual sale and have sort of started competing with each other for "finds". (There is no competition. She rules.)

Dad, Uncle Virgil, and some of the cousins.. and little ole me.

Uncle Ralph and Aunt Ila taught me how to treasure hunt. That is what I called it. They called it picking junk. One of the first major scars I have gotten is from digging in the old dump behind my Grandma and Grandpa Johnson's house for bottles and accidently kneeling on a fat broken piece of whisky bottle. No stitches, but the scar is still quite bold some forty-five years later.

I have learned from the best of them. Wish I had paid a little more attention. Wish I could ask them advice.

And then I was asked to help with my aunt and uncle's estate. Apparently, I am a trustworthy individual. I did not volunteer, but I did accept the job.

This adventure began just about the same time I started a new job at nights. I had forgotten I am not as young as I once was when I signed up for the job. Used to be able to work double shifts and still do more.  So, I got the keys and went over to evaluate the situation. Wow. There had been a major shuffle done after my uncle went in the medical care facility. Things were piled up willy-nilly. The house was in pretty good shape but there was still food in the cupboards and stuff like that. It was hard to see the house that used to be my aunt and uncle's home change into a vacant property.

Burned a lot of cardboard. Bagged up trash. Started finding treasure. I think I found twenty heads worth of permanent curlers and papers. What we thought was a Barbie doll case was a wig head case. Did my aunt really read Robert Jordan and Stephen King? Found my grandma's bible. Found my uncle's army photos.  A porcelain top cabinet. Yoga mat. Video games. Baby stuff. Baby stuff????

Many people wanted to buy the truck. Many people wanted to pay two dollars for an antique railroad lamp. Many people stopped to talk about how they missed seeing my uncle sitting on the porch and exchanging waves. The gal who set up my aunt's lifeline came by. The fellow who found my uncle after he had fallen on the porch stopped by. They didn't know that both my aunt and uncle had passed and were sorry to hear it.

Before the sale, I was cleaning out the bathroom cupboard, pulling out towels and medical stuff. Towel, towel, ...twang. Twang? What goes twang in the bathroom?

Sold a bunch of paints to a little girl who will grow up to be a great artist someday. Shared stories. Saw old neighbors, met new.  Held hard on prices of certain items (the railroad lamp). Sold and sold and sold stuff. Someone wanted to know how much an old empty peanut butter jar was. A plastic one! I told him it was his lucky day, it was free. Next time I saw him, he had found another jar. Told him I had to double the price now that he had two! I was surprised that people wanted what I would have called junk (and I have an idea of the difference between junk and treasure, mind you!) and they paid for it!!! But the beautiful dishes and glassware sat admired but unpurchased.

I love this part. There were parts to this whole ordeal that I hated, but I love the people. Lots of these people love the treasure hunt just as much as I do. We were all from the same planet.
It was a successful sale, one of the most successful sales I have had the privilege to work. But I am just the niece and cousin. It wasn't my stuff. Still, I am pleased that my husband and I were able to help and happy with the way things went. Even though I had to quick buy a bank minutes before the opening of the sale and almost lost my first few customers. Even though we had some rain, even though for all the fun it was, it was hard dang work. Even though some guy got really mad that we wouldn't sell the railroad lamp for two dollars, and he accused me of lying and doing the old bait and switch and you can't trust anyone. Made his wife put down her stuff and left. He is not one of us. Feel bad for him.

The controversial Railroad lantern

Heavy Metal

Yep. I went to a heavy metal music concert.

I was pleasantly surprised tonight by the ability to breathe in a bar where rock bands were performing. The last time I was at a bar with live music was the Tanz Haus, and graphically recall that the smoke was thick enough to have texture. Add in Elmer's traditional cigar and there you have it!


But tonight I went to the old Skate World, with my daughter, specifically to hear Lacuna Coil. Once I got over the shock of the transformation there (yes I know it has been years, but sometimes I cling to the past and Skate World was awesome!) I attempted to levitate myself up onto the very tall stools they had there for seating.

My daughter's boyfriend was working sound for this extravaganza and had actually advised us to purchase earplugs. Alas, we didn't take his advise. There was a bit of me saying "Ear plugs! These kids these days! I never had earplugs at any concerts I went to! I danced in front of the speakers! Wimps!"

Of course, things have changed a bit these days. It was loud. Ear plugs would have been good.

It has been a huge blessing to me that my background in music covers a whole lot of different styles, from old country to new, opera, rock, pop, folk, bluegrass... there isn't much in music that I don't find good. Well, MacArthur Park, but then nobody finds good in that song.

I had listened to a bit of Lacuna Coil, and liked what I heard. The female vocalist drew me. She has a wonderfully strong voice with good tone. I also liked their gimmick, their costume choice. I had forgotten the fundamental difference between studio recordings and live performances. (LOUD)  But I really really enjoyed myself.

There were three bands to open for Lacuna Coil. One was from Gaylord, Becoming Human Nation,  and I really liked their style and energy.  I really enjoyed their music. "Buckle My Shoe" was awesome!  The other two were from California, polar opposites in style and presentation. Painted Wives, the first of the California groups, brought to mind (to me, anyway) the grunge look. Their lyrics are pretty deep, and I am not up on current groups enough to really express what their style is. Good, though! And then, the band that looked what I expected a metal band to look like with major energy, 9 Electric. Now, that group woke up my dancing bones!

Which, really, made me feel a lot younger. Until my feet started to hurt!

Lacuna Coil. I know, if I were young again, that this would be a group I would follow. Although live music seems always distorted, the sound these guys put out vocally was pretty amazing. My daughter has good taste in music! I found the costumes they wear (for want of a better description) interesting, reflecting on the insane asylum they took their name  from. But the fun, the energy and enjoyment they had in performing showed through the drama and dark style.

I know my phone camera stinks. Sorry about that!

This is an excerpt from their web page:
“We’ve fused dark and horror elements with real life situations and have created a metaphor – we are fighting for a kingdom and a crown that is not what it seems, it represents the moment of confusion we’re living in and the very fragile situations we face every day." 

And, yeah, I know some of you all who know me are a bit in shock that I went to this concert and had a blast. It was a good time with my daughter who I do not see near enough these days. We enjoy lots of the same kind of things.

And music, music is the thing that connects people universally. Different kinds of music speaks to different people. But if you listen, the music you don't normally spend your time with may have as much to speak to you as your favorite kind. Maybe even more.

I don't care for the f-bombs and some of the so-called glamor of this genre. But, we all had fun. It was a good night. And that, I will take and run with. 

Remember the Main

I asked Mom during her final stay a the hospital what the house she lived in down in Arkansas was like. Mom said, "Sure! I will never forget that house!" She said it was "L"shaped and had a porch, and she tried to draw it out for me on some paper. After many starts and stops, she was suddenly devastated. "I don't know how to draw it. I don't remember."

Mom had Lewy Body Dementia, which I wrote about in a previous blog.

I wish I had asked earlier.

Years ago, in the days of Friday Night at the Movies on TV, my best friend and I both fell in love with a movie about two women out west. The gals in the film were fierce and strong and determined. The only scene I can recall today is the one woman hiking up her dress and stepping on the plunger
on the detonator, I believe she blew up a train. We said we would never forget, we lived our lives to the theme music of that movie for the summer.

You know, I have never been able to find the title of that movie?

Some people live forward, not hanging on to the little memories. They live for tomorrow and don't grieve on the way for their losses. I am not one of these people. I remember and hang on desperately to memories that make up who I am. From our Siamese Missy chasing off the big dog by simply walking sideways towards it, to the morning Sarge, my brother's beagle, played with a fox in the sunrise. From the whole family crowding in the root cellar during a bad storm to riding my great uncle Ray's shoulders for my first home run ever.

The same way my Mom made her first home run, the same uncle.

I remember the sky on my birthday, the horrible redness of it as a neighbor's house burned down.

I can remember the voices of my aunts and uncles who have passed on, but I don't remember what Dad sounded like other than when he was trying to wake us kids up.

"EEEEYYYUUUUUUUUPPP!!!! Daylight in the swamp!"

Why can't I remember his voice?

Sometimes my memories don't match anyone else's who were there with me. I am the youngest of four siblings, and my point of view is sometimes drastically different from theirs.

Same thing with cousins, they all used to come to our house over the years. Might as well have made this place WemRu's Acres Campsite and Eats! (WemRu, by the way, stands for Ward E Maginity, Wem, and Ruth Maginity, Ru. Clever, right?) Both sides of the family, from Michigan, Chicago, Arkansas, and beyond. When we swap stories these days, I find that they all remember things WRONG. (It can't possibly be me who isn't remembering correctly!)

There have been times in my life where whole time periods are blocked, gone, not to be remembered. I hate that! It is like looking at a painting that has blotches of white canvas interrupting the flow. What happened? Why can't I remember? This is made even more terrifying by the threat of dementia. By the fact that I am not remembering things like I should be.

You would think that with all the digital pictures that are being taken these days, that memory keeping would be improving. Don't think so. Too many people are focused on selfies than on what is around them. It is kind of heartbreaking to see more campgrounds are getting wifi. Will people ever remember to live in the moment?

But I digress. I often do.

It is scary, watching someone go away from us while still alive. Someone remembering years ago with no connection to the here and now. It is scary, and then I start having mental blocks, brain fog, or whatever you call it. These aberrations look like dementia to me, and I have looked dementia int he face a time or two.

So, writing helps to press memories to pages so that they can be found later on. Like pressed flowers and dried corsages. Years past, memories were treated with more respect. Memories could be found between pages of the family bible, or in the big dictionaries. Score cards from past yahtzee games or card games held memories. A piece of petoskey stone. A song, a scent, a texture. Albums of old photos. Stories.

Word by word, I will hold on to the memories. I will remember.

Hoadley House

This is the house I grew up in. It used to be a white farm house with dark green trim. Then it was barn red with a matching log swing in the yard. The siding you see in this photo was done in the 80's, when I was away to college in Allentown, Pennsylvania. I think. That is a while ago. 

Things always changed, but things stayed the same.

The angled roof near the ladder is the dog house, the entry to the basement. It used to be literally shaped like a dog house, attached to the house. I remember the boys used to climb up on it to get to the roof. Or maybe even Dad climbed it. If I climbed on it, it was most likely with a sheet or umprella in hopes of flying like Mary Poppins.

Those big ole pines in the picture? They are about 60 years old. There are some trees missing from my childhood memories of the house: The big willow in the back yard. There are cottonwoods that line the driveway, but two were cut down that would have blocked the view to the house pretty completely.

Everywhere you look when spring comes, there seems to be daffodils and paperwhites. Violets roam the yard all over, remnants from Mom's and Grandmother Maginity's gardens. There is an ancient crabapple tree hidden behind the house that survived a garage burning down and taking the outhouse with it. There are lilac bushes that need to be cleaned up and given some good vitamins to come back to their glory. The big storm in March 2012 knocked trees down on the largest bushes. 

Over the years, the walls have been covered with may different wall papers. I remember the Ivy print best, but this was the paper when my family first moved in in the photo below. In the living room, there was an interesting space-modern print in brown, pink, and gold. We didn't do the harvest gold, burnt orange, and avacado green, but we covered the walls with a dark paneling, and put in dropped ceilings. Which I hate. This, and brand new wooden cabinets, was done just before my big sister's graduation.

The formica table in the picture was with our family for many years. I remember Mom hooking up the old meat grinder to the table to grind the roast beef into hash. I remember so many family gatherings around that table. My favorite memory has to be the suprised blue racer that came in during a family reunion. The ladies were on that table, doing the "creepy-thing-get-it-out-of-here" quick step.

The door in the above photo led to the front porch, which was covered but hasn't been for years. I guess the porch roof and pillars weren't all that stable. There was a side door just behind the chimney; that and the living room and bedroom window are covered up and gone now.

I love the sink and metal cabinets in this picture. Not to mention the linoleum. The phone was a party line for years and years. How my sister hated that! When the kitchen was remodeled, I was climbing on those old white metal cabinets and they fell on me, giving me a broken nose. How I cried! But it was my own fault.

The barn in all its glory. I don't ever remember the silo. All that was standing when I was growing up was the main barn part. Dad let let some neighbors keep their shetland ponies there for a bit. I have lasting memories of those little buggers in the shape of a scar on my rear end.

Over the years, my Dad used lots of the property as income. Any time he tried to have a business here, it would get closed down by the powers that used to be. So, Craig Stoops bought up the hill and back to the river. Grandpa Scobie bought the pines next door, the lot that cornered on Hoadley and the Dam Road. lot by lot, until only five and a half remain, with the house and root cellar, and the garage that Dad build out of reclaimed blocks. He also built up over the root cellar with those cinder blocks. These things have endured, damaged but still here.

All the memories endure even more. This house is where our relatives call "up north" and everyone would come and visit. Some would camp in the yard. Picnics and cook outs, both sides of the family mixed in so much that for years, I didn't know there was a difference.

And now, this is my house again.

And I am glad.

WemRu's Acres: An Introduction

As if having two blogs isn't enough, I have decided do begin a third blog. This one will be more introspective, more personal, than the other two. It is coming about because there are stories I want to share that don't fit in to Persiflage, which is about life, death, health, and inappropriate songs to sing at the workplace. Living in the Pinky is about local history, stories, and this area of Michigan that I love. (If you don't know where "this area" is, hold your left hand  up facing away from you. Then, find the pinky. There ya go.)

No, this blog will be about fixing up the house I grew up in, putting light were dark was, and my growth as a human being as well as a Christian. There will be fun things, mysterious things, a time to cry and a time to smile. I will share battles. Sometimes, I will share very trivial things. It is what it is.

I am connected to my past through touchstones, scents, dreams, memories, photos, lore, and by blood. My husband thinks I live too much in the past, that I let it hold me captive. But, I am a writer. We live in the details, the pages in our minds are full of  details. Important or not, they are all there.

I hope to share encouragement, too. The challenges that came after my old reliable types of jobs started disappearing. The new direction I tried to go in, the difference between failure and making failure into a tool, learning from it to continue to live.

I hope that some of you will find this entertaining at least, and encouraging at most.

Linette