Column Clippings

GEORGIA’S WEEKLY COLUMN – As seen in the Defiance Crescent-News and other publications, Georgia’s writing is laidback and homey – an ongoing commentary about life on Heritage Heart Farm, often with a little . . . well, okay, sometimes a lot of humor thrown in. Frequently her work is referred to as Erma Bombeck - Down on the Farm and each week one of Georgia’s vintage newspaper columns will be featured here.

THIS WEEK'S CLIPPING

SUMMER MORNING

7-25-05

     I’ve always been a morning person. On a summer morning I often take my coffee to the screened porch and start my day with a tranquil nature watch.

     I am never completely alone on the porch. The dogs, Dill and Applejack, always follow. After a brief tussle over a tuggy toy, they usually settle in a pool of sunshine and nap. The cats tag along, but the porch is their window on the world, so tails and whiskers twitch as they keep vigilant watch over land and sky.

     We have an old ice cream chair on the porch, its antique seat quite untrustworthy. I used to set plants on it, but this didn’t deter the cats from using the tall chair as a look-out tower. This meant only pain and suffering for the plants, so I gave up and sewed a soft cushion for the seat. Now the cats budge each other off for napping and observation rights.

     Cats are notorious for squeezing into tiny spaces. I placed on old wooden bucket on the porch with intentions of setting a plant inside. Before I got around to it, Murphy, our long-haired gray cat, discovered and immediately laid claim to it. We call it Murphy’s Thinking Bucket. Always one to gild the lily, I thought it would be more comfortable with a cushion. From the moment I put a pillow in the bucket, the cats ignored the previously coveted spot.

     When my sister was visiting, I pointed this out. After giving me a long look, she quietly said, “Then take it out,” got up from the porch swing and removed the cushion from the thinking bucket. Before 30 seconds passed, one of the striped cats strolled over and neatly arranged himself inside. He stared at me with half-closed eyes as if to say: “If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.”

     One morning last week, I took the time to note the activity observed from my favorite rocker. It was so quiet, I heard a fly landed then lifted off the screen with a little “poing.”  For a few minutes it was less quiet when the fly landed on a wind chime and Murphy dove for it. Jangling, barking and general mayhem ensued for a few moments, but eventually everything settled down again. Murphy hopped up on the porch swing and after a few false turns among the plump blue and yellow pillows, ended up straddling the quilt on the back and quickly settled in for a good doze.

     It was one of the first mornings that we finally had enough rain to make a difference to the growing things. Corn plants whose leaves had curled into spikes to conserve moisture, had gradually unfurled. Mist hung over the bean field across the road. A wood thrush chose a spot close to the house to sing, the notes of its silvery song falling like liquid music. Further back in the woods, an Eastern Wood Pewee called as described in the Sibley Guide to Birds: “plaintive, slurred, high, clear whistles.” A bluebird sang nearby, and like the Pewee and the thrush, it was unseen. I’ve seen little of them this year, but if I take the time to listen, I often hear bluebirds. The same holds true for a variety of warblers who usually stay confined to the taller trees in the woods.

Two members of the catbird family that have kept happy housekeeping in the maples by the drive, flitted around the branches of the huge old lilac bush in front of the porch. A brown thrasher lit in the lawn before flashing off.

     More gregarious birds made themselves known, too. A blue jay complained while an immature nuthatch, “yank-yanked” its way up and down the catalpa tree trunk. Butterflies, including skippers and a mourning cloak, kept constant company with bumbling bees among red and bright pink geraniums and Victoria Blue salvia planted in tubs, pails and crocks by the front steps. One evening while visiting with friends on the porch, a hummingbird whizzed over and took a deep drink from the dark indigo hummingbird salvia. I gave up on hummingbird feeders last year because of the difficulty of keeping them clean and insect free and have increased my efforts to plant flowers that attract the tiny birds.

     Any day that begins on the porch with a fresh, hot cup of coffee, savoring a breeze so slight it doesn’t stir the wind chimes, the animals’ antics, and nature in her full summer display, is a good one.

---

 

SUMMER READS

6/16/03

     Articles in magazines and newspapers expound the virtues of summer reading. Accompanying photos and illustrations feature slender women wearing scanty swimsuits and sunglasses gracefully draped in lounge chairs poolside or on the beach. Within their reach rest a variety of tall, cool glasses of tea or something adorned with paper umbrellas. I must not be living right, because I don’t have any more time to read when weather is pleasant than when it’s miserable. When I do get a chance to enjoy a novel, it tends to be a paperback I’ve remembered to cram in my bag as I fly out the door to this appointment or that meeting. I consider myself lucky if I’m able to leaf all the way through a December 2000 Good Housekeeping magazine while waiting on one of the girls at the dentist office. As for draping myself anywhere, the minute my body is prone, I fall asleep. If it happened in the sun, I would wake up two hours later resembling a human lobster, the exception being a white imprint in the shape of an open book on my face.

     Somehow, even though lacking the time to slump into a comfortable chair and completely lose myself in a great novel, I’ve managed to either read things the old-fashioned way or listen to recorded books while flying around thither and yon delivering children to activities.

     My reading is usually time-delayed, so true devotees to Oprah’s club or other suggested reading lists are far ahead. It’s difficult for me to read a book simply because it’s supposed to be good. I have to read the blurb on the flyleaf and scan a few pages to get a feel for the style and the story. If a book centers around a cheating husband and wife newly discovering her inner self, it gets shoved back on the shelf. If it relates the extreme cruelties and abuses that a child has to endure, back it goes. This doesn’t mean I only read fluff. On the contrary, I don’t care for what my younger sister and I call “heaving bosom” books. Change the glamorous amorous couple on the cover and it’s the same plot over and over.

     One summer BC (Before Children) when I could easily dispatch two or three novels in a week) I challenged myself to read James Fenimore Cooper’s Leatherstocking Tales – The Deerslayer, The Last of the Mohicans, The Pathfinder, The Pioneers and The Prairie. I’m not sure Natty Bumpo bagged his first deer before I gave up. I still carry this defeat and have sworn to some day pick up the American literary gauntlet again and forge my way through.

     Of late, and by this I mean the last couple years, it's an eclectic mix of books that have created an impression. Although Tim enjoys mysteries more than I do, we both like the adventures of Anna Pigeon, by author Nevada Barr. Anna is a 40-something park ranger who always manages to stumble onto a murder in every National Park she travels to. One of Tim’s Father’s Day gifts was the first Anna Pigeon book, Track of the Cat. Barbara Kingsolver’s book, The Poisonwood Bible, is not only a good read with striking characters, it offers an accurate insight to the history of the strife-torn Congo . Also by Kingsolver is Prodigal Summer. The beginning reads like a collection of stories about people who have no connection to each other, but as the book goes on, all strings are knit into one tale.

     On the much lighter side, lately the entire family has been snickering, chortling and guffawing at the works of Bill Bryson. So far we’ve had the pleasure of devouring A Walk in the Woods, The Lost Continent and I’m a Stranger Here Myself. Bryson peppers his work with odd facts and interesting statistics and has a way of poking fun at Americans; including himself, that leaves me weak. Recently, while on a road trip with our oldest daughter, she read aloud from I’m a Stranger Here Myself – a collection of his columns. I laughed so hard while careening around the mountains of North Carolina ; I almost had to pull off to the roadside.

 

---

 

FAMILY REUNION 

7-12-05

     It’s time once again for that favorite of all summer activities: the family reunion. The gathering of cousins, aunts and uncles was the pinnacle of my childhood summer. Titled the George Reunion, for my maternal grandmother’s surname, by the time I came along, or at least can remember, most who had been born Georges had gone on to the final reunion. It was confusing that my namesake, my maternal grandfather, had the first name of George. That data, added to the fact the great event often fell on my birthday, fed into my egocentric child-brain, resulted in the assumption that the George Reunion was held in celebration of ME! The final proof was the birthday cake my mom took great pains to create and carry along on the trip. She is not a patient woman, I thought. She wouldn’t do that for just anybody. Now I realize she would have done it for any of us and other folks, too – non-relatives even.

      The greatly anticipated day began early on a July Sunday. My two older sisters and I, clad in our freshly ironed and starched best shorts outfits, loaded into the back seat, where I was assigned to sit on the “hump,” theoretically because my legs were the shortest. My next older sister sat on my right, where she immediately began turning green – a trait that had earned her the permanent passenger-side window seat. I don’t remember anyone ever challenging her for it, either. My oldest sister sat on my other side so that she could assume her royal persona (mere mortal clods like me were forbidden to touch her royal hide) but mainly because it was furthest away from the carsick sister. My youngest sister, the family darling, sat in the front between my parents. From there, with military precision, she launched a campaign to send my mother sailing off the precipice of sanity, where she’d been teetering since travel preparations commenced at dawn.

     Until we were actually in motion, there was a short reign of terror to be endured.

     Like transition during childbirth, Mom was crabbiest during the time period right before we left on a trip. Before we were safely “on the road,” as my father frequently and lovingly referred to it, my mother briefly slipped her skin of rationality, grew fangs and began barking orders at anyone foolish enough to stumble into her path. As my younger sister puts it today, “I usually found a place to be very small and stayed there until departure.”

     The starch in my drawers was only a fond memory by the time we arrived at the far reaches of Cleveland, Columbus or even “down home” in Tuscarawrus County . I was fortunate if they were facing front and my legs were still in the proper openings since I’d wiggled and squiggled with anticipation and babbled and squabbled across the great state of Ohio.

     But it was worth it if only for the food at the reunion, that wonderful 1960’s who-the-heck-ever-heard-of-cholesterol food: crusty, bacon-y baked beans, scalloped potatoes, meatloaf and fried chicken, J-E-L-L-O in more flavors and configurations than branches on the family tree, cakes and pies – Aunt Dot’s pies to be specific – cherry pie, sweet and tart at the same time, with a lofty, crisp, sugared crust so good thinking about it almost makes me cry.

     The reunion was even more exciting sometimes, as it became a point of departure for a weeklong visit with my cousin Debbie. Or, be still my happy, trembling heart, it took place at my Mecca , my Nirvana – my Aunt Ruth and Uncle Dave’s – land of rabbits and cats and guinea pigs and a big old hairy collie. In the back yard were towering willows, a real in-ground swimming pool and a slate-bottomed creek with a fallen log bridge.

     Those days are gone, only a few faded slides and yellowed photos, and of course the memories, remain. We still have the reunion, still take pictures – now they’re digital, but the flavor has changed. The George Reunion has never been the same since Mom died. She died in July, right at the time the reunion is normally held. That year, Mom’s funeral was the family reunion. I was in my teens.

     Now my sisters, cousins and I are the grownups. We went to school, created careers, moved away, moved back, married, divorced, married again, had kids, some of those kids had kids, mourned parents and children . . . Like people do, we’re living our lives. But summer still holds memories of those George Family Reunions.

 

---

 

BIRD TALES

6-2-07

 

     My sister Becky called and said that she’d had a close encounter with a hummingbird. A male ruby-throated hummingbird accidentally flew into their glass patio door and knocked himself unconscious. Before she could go to its rescue, Palmer, a big, loveable English setter, pounced on it. He is, after all, a bird dog. Becky managed to get the tiny creature away from him and the outlook was pretty grim. The bird, a male, identifiable by his signature red throat feathers, lay crumpled and appeared to be mortally wounded. However, soon after it regained consciousness and tried to fly. Like the Wright brothers, his first attempts resulted in crash landings. Gently using leaves so as not to hurt him, Becky helped the little bird right himself and try again.

      “One time his beak literally stuck in the ground like a terrible cartoon,” Becky said.

     Each time the bird gained a little more altitude and eventually he zoomed off. Later in the evening, Becky observed a couple of male hummingbirds hovering around the feeder. She fervently hoped that the injured bird was one of them.

     Birds are very much a part of our lives, especially in the spring and early summer months, if we choose to notice. At once delicate and resilient, they add color and music from woods and fields to the tiniest backyard.

     Even common species like the robin, oriole and catbird bring beautiful song into our everyday. I believe the songbird with the most melodic call is the wood thrush, described in the Sibley Guide to Birds as “rich, fluting and varied.” I haven’t heard one this year, which is a little unnerving as I haven’t heard a house wren or seen a bluebird, either. Is this a naturally-occurring ebb and flow of populations, or are they, like so much flora and fauna, experiencing a decline because of loss of habitat or other human-related causes?

     Bird watching tends to be a lifetime occupation. Beulah Weller, of rural Oakwood, and her husband Ernest have been feeding and watching birds for well over 40 years and are still amazed and amused by them. They began by placing corn from their feeder cattle supply down on the walk for mourning doves. She reported spending $50 over the course of last winter to keep their feathered friends happy.

     Mrs. Weller reported that this year they had their own “nature’s tree house.” A trimming a couple of years ago left a tree in their yard bereft of many limbs. Knobs, then holes formed where the limbs had attached to the tree. Before the trees leafed out this year, they were surprised to see many small birds had taken up residency in the tree, gaining access to the interior of the trunk by making their way through the small holes. 

     “The birds are so pretty and humble,” she said. “Nature is the cheapest and most entertaining thing.”

     The life force of birds, whether wild or domestic, never ceases to amaze me. Over the past week things have been hopping down in the barn and not because of the rabbits. Last Monday, a black hen, who had hidden her nest in the loft, surprised us with five little black peeps. They must have followed Mom, dropping the long distance from the loft to the barn floor, because four babies were with mom, yet one was still in the loft, crying for its mother.

     Over the course of the past week, Caramel, the matriarch of our little banty duck flock, hatched out six ducklings. Her nest box was located next to that of a banty hen that I placed on some guinea fowl eggs. All was well until the first guinea egg hatched and the chick imprinted on the mama duck, only Caramel didn’t want a thing to do with that skinny, pale thing with unwebbed feet! The little chick pined outside the duckling box for so long, it became badly chilled and for a while appeared as if it wouldn’t survive. We quickly returned it to the warmth and protection of the hen, assuming the worst. But to our surprise, the next time we checked, the tiny thing had rallied and was once again all about hanging out with the ducks.  

     The banty hen box and the banty duck nest boxes were separated into different pens, the keet – as guinea chicks are called – finally settled down and decided that the mother that hatched it would do. During all this emotional uproar and relocation, two more keets picked their way out into the world. 

---

SHIRT STUFF 

3-17-02

 

     Every civilization has its schools of philosophers, its thinkers and theorists. I just discovered that I’ve been searching for truth in the wrong places. Like Dorothy and her ruby slippers, the solutions to life’s little riddles have been right here under my nose. Perhaps not from the dawn of time, but ever since bulk mail distributors got their tentacles on my postal address, they’ve been here. Hidden within the pages of humble gift catalogues that are crammed into the mailbox are golden nuggets of wisdom - the answers to all the philosophical mysteries that have plagued mankind. Should Confucius, Aesop and Aristotle be alive today, perhaps they would strive to publish their scholarly observations on the pages of L.L. Bean, Spiegel and Miles Kimball.

    How did our ancestors, heck, how did our parents manage to struggle through life with only Uncle Sam Wants You posters and the occasional Killroy was here scribbled on the wall? The adages were out there – Don’t count your chickens before they’ve hatched; A stitch in time saves nine; A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush – it’s just that Great-Grandma didn’t feel compelled to plaster them, word for word, across her bustle. Eventually bumpers of the automotive kind became an avenue for personal expression, extolling the virtues of a variety of political figures, Cedar Point and Luray Caverns, Virginia. 

Now, however, every surface, from t-shirts to toilet seat covers, sports amusing literary ditties. A couple of my personal favorites are anything bearing the words: I’m with stupid and the timeless classic: We don’t swim in your toilet so please don’t pee in our pool.

     Every walk of life, practically every situation is addressed by simply picking up and leafing through a random catalogue. Here are a few samples:

     On a plaque for the garden: Love makes a garden grow.  So that’s it! We’ve been wasting all this time weeding, watering and adding compost. This year we’ll just lavish affection on the seeds and they’ll jump right out of the packets, into the ground and bury themselves.

     From a jaunty nautical wall plaque: If you are lucky enough to have a house by the water, you’re lucky enough. If it pertains to a basement with a stream of water running across the floor for such a large portion of the year that blind cave fish have taken up residence, maybe we should order one of those.

     Here’s the gift item I really, really want to unwrap come Mother’s Day: a needlepoint pillow that says M.O.M – Manager of Messes. Right. Let’s just go out and advertise. Bring me more messes, I always say! Mama can’t ever have enough messes. Mom’ll clean it up – she’s the only one qualified – see, it says so right on this pillow in red and white. So, get busy and track in some more mud and spill a little more grape juice down the front of that shirt. Order the coordinating heart-shaped Moms Make Memories pillow, too. Might as well throw in the I am woman . . . I am invincible . . . I am tired . . . doormat and wear that!

Unfortunately, I belong to the I am woman, hear me roar" school of thought and I fear my children’s dominant “Mom” memory will be of me shrieking up the stairs about underwear and wet towels on the bathroom floor.

     This one is downright frightening: Dance as if no one were watching. Sing as if no one were listening. Live every day as if it were your last. While the last part is the mantra upon which credit card companies depend, I think the other two lines are a little edgier. Notice the quote directs the reader to dance and sing, not when unobserved, but to dance and sing as if no one is watching. Not to nit pick, but I fear there is a very big definition difference there. I’m not talking about singing along with the car radio when Bridge Over Troubled Waters plays on the oldies station or even the times the girls look up from their homework in time to catch me doing a quick dance demo of the Pony, Jerk or Swim on my way to the laundry room. I do know, however, if I performed any of those activities in public, it wouldn’t be long until I was issued my very own shirt printed with: I live in my own little world, but it’s okay, they know me here.

THE TRACTOR FACTOR

5-23-05

 

     I don’t suppose it’s really all that strange of an anniversary gift for a couple who chose Mammoth Cave , Kentucky as their honeymoon destination. Other just-marrieds perused menus the size of the Magna Carta while cruising warm Caribbean waters or frolicked about in bubble-filled heart-shaped bathtub in the romantic Poconos.

     We shared our first morning together as a couple along with the entire stockcar racing population of the eastern United States. Hordes of enthusiasts had descended upon that corner of Kentucky and they were not ones to loll about in bed all morning.

     Instead of waking to murmured endearments, the sun had barely cleared the horizon when we were jolted out of bed by the roar of revved engines and someone hollering, “Hey, Earl! Tho’ me wun uh them beers!”

     Unfortunately that was not the first event on our honeymoon that would prove to be prophetic of our married life together. We had only been on the road for about 40 minutes when we spotted something lying in the middle of the Interstate. At first we thought it was a deer, but as we rapidly approached, the animal weakly raised its head. It was a dog.

     “Stop! Stop!” I screamed. “We have to stop!”

     Tim pulled the car over and I dodged between streaming cars and scooped up the injured dog just as a semi shot by.

     We were driving my dad’s car. My dad’s cars have always been his pride. The dog was bleeding. Tim ripped the protective cover off my wedding gown – not to worry – the simple muslin dress cost all of $35 – and spread it out on the back seat. Luckily we were only a mile from a veterinarian. It turned out the dog had a head injury, but would probably recover. We could pick her up on our way back, if she lived. $100 please.

     Tim ruefully pulled out the crisp century note his father had given him for a wedding gift and reluctantly handed it over. It didn’t leave much for our trip, but at least the dog wouldn’t die a horrible death under an 18-wheeler. We named her Honeymoon, of course.

     That’s pretty much been it the past 28 years: noise, panic, animals and a steady outflow of cash.

     As our anniversary approached this year, Tim suggested I visit my favorite jewelry store and update my “want” list. So I did – and a fine time was had. When I left, the proprietor had to polish the glass case where I deposited greasy fingerprints. I might have drooled a little, too. An anniversary that involves dinner out and coming home with a little sparkly – or “bling,” as the girls call it – is definitely at the top of my “A” list.

     Then Tim saw her. How could I expect to compete with his first love? His adoration began long before I came on the scene. I mean, how many times do old high school sweethearts hook up again decades later? His affection stretched much farther back than that.

     All the signs were there. First, he started coming home a few minutes late. Then he’d slow way down when we drove past her house. And sigh.

     I just couldn’t take it anymore.

     “Why don’t we stop?” I asked him one Saturday as he crept past the place yet again.

     “Really?” The hope in his voice would have panged the steeliest of hearts.

     “Yes, really.”

     Tim whipped the truck around and pulled into the drive where she lived. He slowly got out and shyly shuffled over to her. I thought she looked pretty good considering her age.

     Apparently he did, too, because as a man walked up, Tim said, “How much are you asking for her?”

     She was one of the few things that Tim had ever wanted: a little old tractor. This was the one. It was little. It was old – well, older than us, at any rate.

     Kenny Chesney sings a popular country song She Thinks My Tractor’s Sexy. Now I could write its counterpart: He Thinks His Tractor’s Sexier than Me.

     A tractor is a nice anniversary gift. We’ll putt-putt-putt off into the sunset on a cloud of exhaust. Watching someone I love fulfill a lifelong dream is worth far more than anything that can be measured by weight, volume or even carats. Besides, he says he’ll let me drive his little Ford 8-N. I’m confident that once I’m in that seat, it won’t be long before he’s chasing me again. Of course this time he’ll be hollering “Let out the clutch!” and “Watch where you’re going!” or something equally charming.