Friday 55-A Veteran's Solace

*Today's 55 was first published 4 years ago but I'm posting it and the explanation again with a few edits.  Thank you to all who have served with honor.  It is my deepest desire that you all are at peace, that our leaders more carefully consider in which arenas you are engaged, and that those deployed may return to the arms of their family sooner rather than later.

FRIDAY 55

Haunted by the beaches of Normandy,

he seeks solace in the familiar woods.

The currents in his life flow unchangeably

as the footpath beckons another way.

The breeze whispers through the treetops

like a mother soothing her child after a nightmare.

Away from the world's wickedness,

no evil molests him.

Peace descends

with falling leaves.

My maternal grandfather was drafted near the end of World War II.  He was married and had two very young children at the time.  His service was ended when he was wounded in combat and he lost part of a foot.  At times he sought solace in the woods.  At other times he sought it in alcohol.

My grandparents owned a little vacation place "in the mountains" about an hour north of where I live now. That place was Grampop's refuge. He and Nana often took my brother and me there on weekends, giving my single mother some time to herself, especially in the immediate aftermath of my parents' divorce.

On the hikes we took together, my shattered little girl heart found peace as Grampop pointed out wildlife, geographical features, and spun tales of the Lenni Lenapes who once lived in the area. Nana and I often giggled along the paths lined by wild berry bushes as we filled our caps full of the ripe fruit. When Grampop's health deteriorated to the point that he could not walk more than a short distance he sat still as a statue on the back deck, hands extended and palms up in zenlike repose, as songbirds came to take seeds from his hand. He had taught me very young how to get a chipmunk to eat from my hand but only he could coax the wild birds.

I know he was broken by the things he experienced after being drafted for WW2. I know he searched for healing in a whiskey bottle and I know people he loved suffered as a result. I know he had a need to create and dream and he suffered when he was derided for spending time on pursuits no one saw as gainful. I know he found peace in the woods and he led me to it when he took me by the hand on long walks. I know he fed my soul when he encouraged me to create and dream whether it was gainful or not.

I am grateful that he performed his duty when asked.  My mother prevented me from seeing the worst ways he grasped for peace.  I am so glad she made room for me to be exposed to the healthy ways he searched for it. 

Again, thank you to those who have served honorably.  I wish you all peace in your daily lives.

The Dying of the Light

They say the stars are so old,
so far away
it takes so long for their light to reach us
that they've burnt out
before our feeble eyes
can see their glory reach us
and all we see is what once was.

There will be no doctors,
no antiseptic smells,
or drooping half smiles and weak handshakes.
You will play the guitar for me
as I twirl and clap.
You will pour over my sketchbooks,
guide my hands with yours.
We will walk in the mountains
as you repeat the legends
of those who were here before us.

There will be no nurses
carrying your bedpan
and insulting you with your first name,
no machines pumping air into your windpipe
so you can only mouth what you want to say.
You will stand straight and tall,
your quiet dignity will require the same
of those who approach.
Yet your smile will be sunlight after rain
and melt the winter snow.
Your words will carry weight
and no one will mistake your meaning.

There will be no sadness or tears,
and, dear God, there will not be that rope
with you dangling from it.
There will only be the mischievous twinkle in your eye.
There will be gardens of your produce,
your rice pudding,
you sharing a sandwich with the barn cat,
you fixing any mechanical thing that man ever made.
You will carry the offering plate to the altar,
and your baritone voice will echo on the hymns.

There will be no broken-hearted waiting
for a last breath
while your unfocused eyes stare at nothing.
Your laugh will bounce around the room
like a pinball.
Your crochet hook and knitting needles
will click and fly
as the blankets and clothes grow.
I will see your eyes peer through the curtains.
checking to see if we are home.
And your unexpected visit
will be the fresh breeze let in
after the windows are open the first day in Spring.

You are my stars
hung in the midnight sky.
Though you have flickered
like a candlewick about to give its last light
before the wisp of smoke rises
I still see your light,
your glory shines brightly
in the darkest night
and it guides my path.

Links to the Past

Back at Thanksgiving I mentioned how there has recently been a bit of resurgence of interest in family interest among my cousins. I have been fortunate enough to inherit the photo albums from both sets of my grandparents. Even so there have been family pictures I never saw before. One of my cousins shared a few she had with my mom who later scanned them to give me copies. One more reason to love technology when it works right. So today I thought I'd share a few of my favorite new findings either because of the picture itself or because of what I learned in the process.

First, allow me to introduce you to my great-great grandfather, Howard. I had never seen a picture of him before. He was a house painter and wall paper hanger. If you recall I have a tremendous aversion to wall paper and have even cursed its inventors. That said, I understand there was a time before latex paint was available when people wanted to be able to change or brighten their decor and wall paper permitted for that far better than oil based paints. Howard sure looks like a serious fellow but I know the family value regarding doing a job well or not doing it at all. I'm sure he was a darned fine paper hanger and painter.

Howard had three sons. I was aware the older two went to work after high school so their younger brother could attend university. What I didn't know was they went to work with their father and carried on the business of painting and paper hanging. The fellow on the left is my great grandfather, John Russel. I have to say this picture makes me grin ear to ear because of the real smiles on their faces. Although I was always taught to do whatever work I had to do as well as I possibly could the family always valued having a bit of fun in the process. I can just imagine these two brothers pranking each other during various jobs and I love the hints of impishness in their eyes. When I found out they had been painters I mentioned to my mom that some of the proud comments the older generation made to me when I spent a summer working as a painter made more sense to me now. I'd like to think great grandpa would be pleased that I know how to cut in a proper line (and take pride in doing so) when I paint a wall.

Here is my great grandmother about whom I have written before. Those memories were of her as an old woman though. It was special to see her as a girl and I really liked that she was smiling in a picture from an era where that was not usually the case. I just thought it made the picture especially charming and lovely. It gave a face to the stories from her own childhood I used to enjoy hearing her tell.

One of the other very few pictures of my great grandmother as a young woman was this one from her wedding day. I tend to remember her as a smiling woman with a good sense of humor but she looks rather serious in this photo. Her body language and the look in her eye seem rather unlike how I think of her as well but perhaps it's just the formality of the particular setting since this was a professional portrait for a momentous day.

The Irish Roots

My birthfather was a Greek immigrant. My birthmother was a Philadelphia Quaker. My mother's family is Pennsylvania German and English. My father's family is Pennsylvania German and Irish. Dad's Irish grandfather's family came to the US during one of the famines. That gives me exactly zero Irish pedigree. However, I will tell you I found out a few years ago that my maiden name has such a bawdy connotation in Irish slang that were I to be introduced in a pub in Ireland or Northern Ireland I'd be assured of getting a date quickly. Were I to assure potential suitors I live up to the family name a brawl may well break out. At the very least I'd likely never have to buy my own drinks. Aye, that'll be Jameson's please as I don't fancy Guinness. This bit of information comes directly from two different pals, one born and raised in Belfast, the other from County Kerry. What, you may ask, has this got to do with anything? Truthfully, not much, but it means you're going to get some meandering ruminations on the family history today.

I've got an extensive genealogy on my mother's side going all the way back to Germany in the 1600s. On my dad's side it's far more truncated. I've got a bit on his father's side that goes back to the founding of our home town but it contains some gaping holes. On his mother's side I have her maternal ancestry back to the Civil War. Her paternal ancestry is an abrupt beginning with her father, who as I mentioned, immigrated to the US during one of the famines. I have one earlier picture of him as a child in Ireland in one of his school classes with some rather stern looking priests flanking the students. It's extremely faded and hard to pick him out though so you're getting this shot of great grandfather Thomas on the train. I really know very little about him except that he was Irish Catholic, he worked for the railroad from a young age, his family disowned him when he married my German Protestant great grandmother. If that wasn't bad enough he then converted to seal his doom. Because of the family rift this caused my grandmother (Mom-mom) never knew her father's side of the family. She passed on to me a set of cut glass, which includes a butter dish which came from Ireland, and a sugar bowl & creamer which came from her mother's side of the family. She thought there was real irony in the matching items from feuding families.

I know Mom-mom adored her father. Like most little girls she was the apple of her dad's eye she told me. That's her holding her Daddy's hand with her older brother Jerry on the other side. She tells me they were close as children but as he grew he "was always getting in trouble which caused Daddy great difficulty." She never went into much detail as to the nature of the trouble. They lived in the Perth Amboy, New Jersey where her father "had a very good job on the railroad. He made good money." I'm told that as a teen Jerry promised to straighten up if the family moved to Pennsylvania so father gave up the good railroad job and moved the family. That's the extent of my knowledge of the situation but it's interesting to note the mood of the people in the pictures before and after the move. Jerry looks a bit satisfied and Mom-mom looks miserable. She informed me Jerry was not good to his word and very squarely placed the blame for the family's economic suffering on the shoulders of her brother.

Great grandfather is the one on the far left.

Eventually Jerry left the family and moved to California. I know my grandmother never saw her brother after he moved but there are pictures of him from his years on the west coast though none after the late 40's or early 50's. I have one sample of his handwriting from an autograph book and the script on the photos is not his nor is it my grandmother's. It's a curiosity to wonder who sent my grandmother the pictures. Jerry looks elated in nearly every single one of them. I'm only including the one where he doesn't look so happy because it was such a shock to see it the first time. My father doesn't look like either his mother or his father, in my opinion. When I saw this picture of Jerry it stopped me in my tracks because of how much my father resembles him. The hairline and curl, the squint, the posture. Plus, it looks like Jerry is just sort of tolerating having this picture taken....that would be my dad too.






Which brings us to dad, who has had issues with his own brother. They didn't speak for well over a decade, reconciled briefly after their parents both died (and I let them both know it was a crying shame neither one of them could give that gift to their parents while they lived), and now there is no hostility but no real relationship either. My stepmother likes to peg their grudge bearing ways (an my dad's ability to hold a phenomenal amount of alcohol seemingly without effect) on their Irish ancestry. My own brother and I had a period of 7 years when he wanted nothing to do with me (nor with a great many other relatives, all of which has long since resolved). Am I going to blame all this family contention on a particular ethnic heritage? No, but it sure is an odd thing to take note of and filling in some of the gaps in that particular line of ancestry is something I'd like to do.

I will say, if I ever have the chance to share a drink with any of you I'd be glad share a laugh over how a Greek girl wound up with a German name which would cause an uproar in an Irish pub. And I hope you'll entertain me with a bit of your own delightful madness because I do know that one of the delightful bits of Irish culture is sharing the joy in a good story.

Looking Back

I've always liked looking at old photo albums. Fortunately, my mother always kept them pretty organized. Pictures were in albums and labeled so we knew who was in them. She also went back and organized the photos belonging to her parents and in-laws. Paging through them was a favorite rainy day activity for me when I was a kid. I guess it still is. Since my brother doesn't really have interest in such things I've been fortunate enough to have them pass to me. I've been looking through some of them lately and thought I'd share a few. Pardon me if I ramble.

We can trace our genealogy back to the forefather who first came to the US in the 1700s and I believe to his parents in Germany but this set of brothers in the picture below represents those who are most closely related on my mom's side. From the left (and youngest to oldest) you see Linwood, Roy, and Russell. I am the first great-grandchild of Russell. I never met any of these men since they all died before I was ever born but this picture demonstrates a certain rowdy togetherness that still permeates my extended family. I also know Russell and Roy were responsible as older brothers to get jobs early in order to finance Linwood's higher education but with the expectation that Linwood's increased earning potential would benefit his brothers as well as himself. That was the way things were done in a family which could not afford to educate all its members.

It's interesting to see how that has affected the branches of the family descended from each of these men. Linwood's family is full of engineers, architects, and professors who have lived very comfortably for a long time. Roy had only daughters who were prepared to be housewives. Among Russell's children and grandchildren are a great many blue collar workers who, with each succeeding generation send a few more of its children on to higher education.




Here are the sisters Helen (top), Florence (left), and Bertha(right). When Helen married Russell the family of brothers at the top welcomed the families of these sisters. Florence died before I was born and I know very little about her. Helen and Russell had 5 children (my grandfather was their oldest) who Bertha and her husband doted on since they were never able to have children.

Bertha was the seamstress who taught my mother much of what she knows about sewing as well as how to tat. I've tried without any measurable success to learn tatting. I am thankful to my mom for encouraging me to sew. I know she is very grateful to her great aunt for teaching her. Our other aunts and cousins are glad too since they all go to my mom for whatever repairs and alterations they might need.

Helen was the cook and baker. It was her nature to feed people. She fried countless donuts to sell. She cooked Sunday dinner for all the children and grandchildren every week. During the Depression her house was a well known stop on the circuit for the hungry seeking a meal. Her recipes consist of "a handful of this and a bunch of that mixed until it looks just so." If you wonder about where my tendency to be inexact in my recipes comes from she could be part of that. She was the family storyteller too and wove her magic well. That's something I have consciously aspired to.

Finally, we have Helen and Russell on their anniversary. I'm told he was somewhat stern in some ways and a bit lacking in mercy in others but I know she always spoke lovingly of him. Even though I was 9 when she died I still remember the look she'd get in her eye when she spoke of him and when she told the story of his death. There are days when I wish she were still here so I could explore her lifetime of experience and ask her how to live and love as well as she did.

Quilts on Tuesday-Old and New

Let's start with another old quilt. This is another of the many quilts I recently acquired from my Dad's side of the family. My mom seems to think Dad's grandmother made this Sun Bonnet Sue baby quilt in hopes that a baby girl would use it. Since my dad only had a brother that has yet to occur. I am thinking if I ever have a granddaughter (though let me be very clear this is not something I am in a hurry to have!) she ought to get to use this.

Here's a close up so you can see some of the pretty calicoes used in the background. If you click you can get a better gander at the hand stitching done to applique Sue to her square. I find it interesting that the actual quilting on such an old quilt is machine stitched.

Although Sun Bonnet Sue is the main focus in this girl's quilt I find it really charming that the border fabric is in a cowboy print. Could there be some sweethearts trying to round up Sue?

In new quilt news, this is what 900 flannel quilt squares look like. I finished cutting them all this week so now I need to start assembling the 3 layer sandwiches that will make each block. I've had some good suggestions from other folks who have made flannel quilts in the past. I appreciate the words of wisdom from experienced quilters. One has advised me that the flannel will stretch around and pinning is important. That might seem obvious but I have to admit I tend to avoid pinning when I sew straight seams. My mom also suggested I do some test blocks with scraps to see whether or not I may need a walking foot for my machine since I am working with so many layers of fabric.

Finally, Mom suggested I give poor Betsy (my sewing machine) a tune up before I run her so hard. I am realizing I also need to clear a sufficient space on my sewing table to do all this sewing. Somehow that seems more daunting than actually sewing this quilt...

Quilts on Tuesday- Tradition

I mentioned that I have the first bed sized quilt my mom produced many decades ago. Before I get into the main part of the post I thought I'd show you a quick shot. It hangs over a banister in my foyer so it's one of the first things you see upon entering the front door. It's significant not only because it is her first but because it is patchwork. You'll find out why as you read on.




You've seen the quilt my mother made when I was four and the one she made when I was thirteen. You may be getting the idea that quilts mark milestones in my life. How perceptive of you. The next milestone in my life was high school graduation. Mom told me I could choose any style of quilt I wanted. When I made my choice I think she immediately regretted giving me the option. I wanted a patchwork quilt.

Now understand, as much as my mother loves quilting THAT is the part she loves. She likes the needle work, the rocking of a needle through many layers in order to make lovely patterns with the thread. She does not enjoy cutting bits of fabric into particular and precise shapes, nor does she enjoy sewing those pieces together in exact patterns. She actually dislikes that part and had not made a patchwork quilt in probably twenty years even as she cranked out all manner of applique (which she finds far more forgiving and much more fun than patchwork) and plain top quilts with much stitching.

Did I mention I picked a patchwork pattern with roughly a bazillion pieces to it? I wanted a log cabin quilt. As you can see below, each 10 inch quilt square was made of 17 pieces a fabric. Mom makes quilts big enough to extend down the sides of the bed until about 8 inches before the floor. When she started this quilt for me I only wanted it sized for a double bed. Before she finished making the individual squares for the top I upped it to a queen size because I had gotten engaged. So figure enough of those squares to make a quilt that big. You do the math, it makes my head hurt. It made my mom's head hurt too.

Why did I torment my mother so? Well, I always loved the variety in a patchwork quilt. I loved the idea behind using all sorts of scraps and how so many of them would each have their own story. In the two squares below there are fabrics from old kitchen curtains and from the outfit my mother sewed for me to wear on the day my adoption was finalized. I wanted a very traditional looking quilt where I could have all sorts of wild fabrics bumping up against each other.


In addition to the personal history and wild colors in the fabrics, I just loved the geometry of the thing. You can see each square is divided along a diagonal which separates a dark side from a light side. The varying ways in which the individual squares can be arranged gives a number of different optical effects. Each effect has its own pattern name. I chose the "Barn Raising" arrangement (concentric light and dark diamonds) as a nod to my Pennsylvania Dutch roots. I don't have any idea if the pattern comes from the PA Dutch or not but the name certainly is evocative of a community of Amish coming together to get a job done. The individual squares also vaguely reminded me of a Greek Key pattern so it was a nod to my birth heritage as well.


My mother would work on the quilt and then put it aside for another smaller project she could easily complete before coming back to my seemingly unending quilt. Those of you who are quilters might say she could have rotary cut the strips and sewed it together lickety split and you'd be right. However, neither of us knew of that technique when Mom made this. She cut each piece with scissors instead.

Much as mom loves the hand quilting, by the time she got the top together she was kind of sick of this quilt and I was soon to be married. It had already been 4 or 5 years since I had chosen this pattern. She asked with an air of desperation if I intended for her to hand quilt it or could she just tie it. I had also asked her to use a sheet blanket for the batting instead of the fluffy polyester batting which was a cinch to quilt through. She was not looking forward to trying to hand quilt through all the seams and a blanket. She breathed a great sigh of relief when I told her to just tie it with knots through the center square of each block.


We used the log cabin quilt hard for 15 years. I still think it's a beautiful work but the heavy use took its toll and it, more than any of the others I have, shows its wear. In spite of what I might ask for, Mom once again offered to replace it with a new quilt of my choosing, but in the interim I needed to use a commercial comforter (it did its job of keeping us warm but what a soulless thing it was). I think I may save showing you "the new quilt" until after I've shared some of the others I have lurking around my house.