Finding joy in the deepest part of Autumn...

 

We are deep into the beauty of Autumn…out my windows, on my walks, on my drives. The colors are a gift just waiting for photos or scuffling our feet through the leaves. I finally just must admit that October is my favorite month, perhaps for always.

My October calendar is so full that I cannot even see the dates any longer. Plans and meetings for An Evening with Poe or the Cemetery Tour combine with my own shows and, of course, Clue rehearsals. The rehearsals came to a standstill this week as Trine has fall break, and as much as I wish the students would stay (we have so much work to do), of course, they go home. I appreciate the break, and I even need it. I did not travel or go anywhere at all. I have just stayed home in my purple house to witness the first freeze of the season, and to bake bread and Halloween cookies

That first freeze is monumental. All of our summer’s work…gardens, flowers…gone in just a few hours as is meant to be. I try to keep track of the first freeze every year and it seems as if it came a couple of weeks early. My morning glories were glorious this year. I really don’t know the secret, it just happened. The college girls who moved in next door thanked me for the beautiful gardens. “You’re welcome,” I replied as they scurried into their house. I love having these girls next door. It is refreshing for our neighborhood.

On Saturday night, the night of the big freeze, I sat outdoors as usual. My neighbor, Rhon, had a campfire. I didn’t have one that night, but the scent of his took me back so far that I just sat there thinking about so many stories from long ago. The sky was inky black with the waxing gibbous moon just floating above.

I talk a lot about my family, community, events, poetry. I talk about the seasons and the joy of life. I love talking about all of that. You know me pretty well by now. Joy is not automatic. I am no different than you. I watch the news. I weep at news stories about children or the destruction of our environment. I have compassion for so many events and it doesn’t seem to end. But I know that I cannot have that as my steady diet. Some do, but I am trying hard to find this joy through the fog.

When I moved here many years ago there were no stoplights in this town. The land north of town was all in apple trees. One night my dad was sitting on the porch swing at our farmhouse. He said to me, “Listen.” I sat next to him and I listened. I told him I didn’t hear anything. I guess I meant I didn’t hear noise or traffic and that was true. What was I missing? Quietness. The chirp of the Autumn crickets trying to get into the kitchen. The rustling of leaves as the Autumn winds were taking them down one at a time. “Take the time to always notice,” he said. My dad has been gone for many years now, but his voice still resonates with me.

I have not forgotten, and even though I live in town, the quietness of my neighborhood is so lovely.

As I sat outside on Saturday night, alone, listening to the night sounds, smelling the scent of Rhon’s campfire, watching the moon slide across the sky, I knew that joy is still there through all the trauma the world seems to be sending us.

Take the time to do this, my friends. Find the joy. Be gracious to our environment and work to preserve the beauty that we call home. I know I am doing that, and in the middle of my joy comes the poetry and the events, the scuffling of leaves and photos of trees.  We can play music, plant gardens, adore and protect children. We can keep our jackets by the back door for our nightly jaunts out into the cool evenings to find the joy that just waits for us. Don’t miss it, my friends.

“Perhaps this is its way of fighting back, that sometimes

Something happens better than all the riches in the world.

It could be anything, but very likely you noticed it

When love began.

Choose joy. It is not made to be a crumb.”

Mary Oliver

Friday Night Lights Coming to an End...

 Graham and Rachel after a home game win!

Most Friday nights you can find me, and several hundred folks, cheering on our local high school football team. This is one of my favorite events. I don’t write about sports very often as you know. I tend to lean towards the arts and humanities with poetry and theatre. But, there is that other side of me that loves local sports with local kids.

Unfortunately, it didn’t come from my own personal experience. Often, I wonder, would I have been good at sports? Would that have been my life as opposed to the arts. Then I actually laugh out loud. Probably not. Then again, there really were not that many sports, high school sports, available to girls growing up decades ago. Oh sure, we had gym class where we had to wear those awful bloomers that snapped up. Anyone else remember those? I guess that was as sporty as I could ever get unless one could count roller skating (not roller blading), or hopscotch or walking on stilts! (Now that one did take some skill, did it not?) I loved ice skating though, and I was really good. As good as I could be without lessons or a team…just that pure joy of skating under the stars.

My boys loved sports. My boys needed sports. Even though there was a farm to ramble on day after day, sports were great for them. I learned a lot dealing with all those sports and washing all those uniforms. I never missed a game…home or away. That’s what moms do. We cook for the teams, cheer them on, wash uniforms, drive them to practice week after week. Dads too.

I love watching Jonah skate. He is still a whiz on the ice, but this year the focus is on Graham. The first time I met Graham, he hopped into the front seat of my Jeep and said, “Hi, Nannie.” He was just a little guy and too small for the front seat. He has played sports all his school life…football and baseball. I have tried to get to most of the home games and this year, his senior year, is no exception. Friday nights finds our family and friends locked into the third row of the bleachers. I go early to the games. I like to go early. I like to see all the folks attending, listen to the band warm up, watch the players take those last few laps on the field before the game.

The home games are, of course, the best. The crowds are large and everyone is happy to be there with anticipation of a good game and maybe even a win! This has been a terrific year for Angola which makes it even more fun.

There are other joys in the football game. The weather is cooler. The sky starts out azure blue and by the time the game is over, we have donned sweatshirts under an inky black sky. Not only is there football to watch with our local kids, but the cheerleaders and the band call for our attention also. The cheerleaders are happy and work their magic with the crowd. They are as much a part of the evening as the boys. The other magical component is watching the marching band perform during halftime. As halftime approaches, the band is lining up ready to show us all their talents. I really cannot imagine playing an instrument and marching in all directions and in formation. Angola’s marching band is an absolute joy this year. They are basing it on fireflies. There is artwork lined up on the field which has a Van Gogh quality. I am really drawn to this year’s theme…maybe it is the fireflies or the sparkly dresses of the girls or maybe it is the beautiful flute solo by Elise Hickman that fills the stadium with pure sweetness. How do they mic that sound?  I also heard Angola’s band received a gold in competition on Saturday. Congratulations to all of them and their hard work.

There is only one more home game left for the Hornets this year. It is on Friday night. It is serendipitous for me. I have watched two generations of my kids play for Angola. Graham is the last. When the lights go out, another generation will take over.

If you have been wanting to attend a game, this is your chance. I’ll even save you a seat. I will be the one with the cowbell. See you there.

Today is the best literary day!!

 

Photo by Hope Wilson

The wind picks up. A red leaf falls and suddenly the windows are shut, the furnace begins to chug and October has begun. I always say every month is my favorite, but we all know that some favorites rise to the top. For me, it is October. Everything is beautiful, fresh, and full of adventure in October.

Every month is a literary month for me as the seasons often lend themselves to poets of the past and their interesting lives. I love talking about Percy Shelley or John Keats or Shakespeare, of course. However, October belongs to Edgar Allan Poe, and James Whitecomb Riley. That is quite a combination. One poet is known as a poet and a writer of the macabre and the other, our Indiana poet, is known as the Hoosier poet focusing on the beauty of early Indiana through his work.

What I find most fascinating about these two men is that on the moment of Poe’s death October 7, 1849, Riley was born. The universe exchanged poets on that day…at that moment, and of course, it was in October. How strange you ask? Yes, me too. It is strange but fascinating. I have long admired both poets and have spend numerous times in their places of residence.

One year I attended a birthday party for Poe in Richmond, Virginia. At midnight there was a huge birthday cake. Following the party, I hopped on a train to Baltimore to celebrate his life where he lies in the First Presbyterian Church Burying Ground. He was buried there at his death in a small grave. There were only three people at his small funeral. Later, after folks began to appreciate his work and realize his greatness as a poet, he was moved to a larger grave on the grounds. He was buried with his wife, Virginia, and her mother.

The gravesite is fenced in so I often wonder how the Poe Toaster got to the gravesite. For 80 years the Poe Toaster, dressed in black as a Gothic shadow, slipped past everyone to place a half bottle of cognac and three roses on the grave. This was all done quietly. Friends of Poe gathered each year in the basement of the church reading his work and waiting for the toaster, but alas, alas. The toaster slipped through the shadows onto the grave. After 80 years this stopped. Who started this and who stopped it? Well, again, another mystery for Poe.

The mystery of his death will confuse historians til the end of time. He was found in the gutter penniless and wearing different clothing on October 4, 1849. He was taken to the hospital and died on the 7^th day of October. What was the cause of his death? There are many possibilities to that one, but none that reveals the true cause. Ah, the mystery of Poe continues.

James Whitcomb Riley was not exactly a good student in school but had a great sense of humor. He loved audiences at a young age and that is what eventually brought him to poetry. He worked as a sign painter in Indianapolis and then moved on as a reporter making ten dollars a day. He began to write poetry but published it anonymously. His editor thought he could never make a living as a poet, so Riley wrote and published a poem under Poe’s name. Of course, everyone loved that. Once the hoax got out, people began to notice his work. Unfortunately (or fortunately) he was fired from his job, but that just gave him more time to write and write he did. Indiana nicknamed him the Hoosier poet and fell in love with Little Orphant Annie, The Raggedy Man, The Swimming Hole. Not everyone loved his work, in fact Ambrose Bierce once wrote, “Mr. Riley is one of an ignoramus crew of malinguists, cacophonologists…” Bierce felt his work was too joyful and innocent to be a real poet. I do believe time has told a different story. Riley left us a picture of Indiana in his words, and we all love Annie.

As I have done for the last 15 years, there will be an Evening with Poe at the Cline Museum on October 29 at seven bells. There is no cost for the evening but come early to get a seat. Actors from across our area will regale you with poems and stories about Poe.

What is more fun for the Halloween season than an evening with Poe?

Autumnal Equinox

 

Pokagon State Park 

Photo by Lou Ann

Today is the Autumnal Equinox or simply known as the first day of Autumn. This is a splendid day as we put the heat of summer behind us and welcome in the freshness of Autumn. Looking around I do not see a lot of Autumn yet in the trees or even in the fields. It is as if Autumn is holding all the color in her hands and will fling it when she is good and ready. I do hope she is ready soon.

As much as the heat and I do not get along, it seems as if this summer really flew by. Maybe because the kids all went back to school so early or maybe because I want each moment, each day to last a little longer. However, I love Autumn. I love the colors, the smells, the fresh air through open windows. I do love Halloween and all the events that come with it. (More on that next week.)

I think Autumn, though, takes me through times gone by more than any other season. Even though I do not remember dancing in the hayfields on this day, I know my grandmother’s kitchen was full of garden scents. Canning jars lined her counters with tomatoes and peppers, and everything else in the garden. I helped grandpa dig those potatoes that we planted on St. Patrick’s Day. By now they were large and ready to dig. I was always careful not to stab a potato, but if that happened, grandma just tossed those into the soup as they could not be stored. After a full day of putting the garden to rest, dinner was full of all the treasures which did not make it into canning jars or the root cellar.

Maybe my love of gardening and preserving came from my grandmother. Although, when we first started our farm and I was picking green beans by the trash bags, my grandmother would write to me. She would say things like, “What are you thinking, child? All that work! Not necessary anymore!”  Seriously she did. It was so much work, and I really knew nothing.

Except from learning skills from her, I read dozens of books about canning and preserving and building chicken coops and shearing sheep. I couldn’t get enough of it. We were all young on the farm and learned these skills together. The boys knew the garden was a mainstay for us.

The outhouse was on the other side of the garden, so I always teased the boys to take a different row to weed on their way out and back. I did the same thing. Of course, nighttime was a bit tricky!

We planted, we canned, we built a root cellar, we covered carrots with straw. If you remember, all that canning was done on a wood cook stove. And not just gardening, we cut firewood, gathered hickory nuts and walnuts for the boys to clean. I made mittens and scarves out of our sheep’s wool. As I look back at those farm years, sometimes I wonder how did that all get done and teach at the same time? I guess because we were young, ambitious, determined and happy. It was new for this suburbia girl to learn how to live off the land. I never knew those things.

Today is different. My canning consists of a few jars of strawberry jam for gifts and a five-pound bucket of potatoes and one bucket for onions. The rest of the food comes from the farmer’s market. I gather squash and pumpkins for my own cellar. With no family to feed, I can get by on a few garden items.

This week is the Autumn Equinox, and it is also the Harvest Moon on Friday night. Friday night is football night in our county. I know it will be beautiful sitting in the stands watching the moon rise up across from the bleachers. Where will you be when the moon rises up over our fields and homes?

Please take time to notice the shift this week. Everything shifts at the equinox. Nights come more quickly, jackets now hang by the back door, and soup is bubbling on the stove.

Of course, there is poetry. There is always poetry to welcome in the harvest and the harvest moon.

“Thou comest, Autumn, heralded by the rain.

Blessing the farms through the vast domain,

Thy shield is the red harvest moon,

suspended in the heaven’s o’er hanging eaves.”

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

 

Driving through the Countryside...

 

In 1934 George Gershwin wrote the hit song, “Summertime,” for the Broadway musical, Porgy and Bess. The first lines (and you know them!) go like this, “Summertime, and the living is easy. Fish are jumpin’ and the cotton is high.” Whereas, we don’t have cotton we do have corn and a drive through the countryside proves that to be true. The corn is high and, according to my fishing son, the fish are biting.

This past weekend I took a drive through the countryside. Actually, more than one so that I can soak in the beauty of Indiana’s landscape. With my windows rolled down, I can smell August. Some months have such strong scents like April or October, but August smells like heat and then the blessings of the rain add to that. The sounds of August are different now too. In the spring the peepers give us a glimpse of spring, but now crickets are showcasing the August nights. Sitting out late on my porch, the crickets serenade my neighborhood providing a cacophony of night sounds.

As I mentioned last week, it is also the Perseid Meteor Showers. By Wednesday evening, you can expect 50-100 beautiful shooting stars an hour. If you see one, please make a wish on a falling star! You do not even need a telescope for this event, It is best to find a dark location and it takes at least 20 minutes for your eyes to adjust to the darkness. That is not the only celestial event for this week. In the early morning hours, (yes, coffee on the stoop) you can witness the aligning of these planets: Mercury, Jupiter, Mars, Saturn, Uranus, and Neptune. The best time to view is an hour before sunrise. A total solar eclipse is also due on August 12. Unfortunately for us, the best viewing is in Spain. (You might be able to still get a flight, if you hurry!) As for those of us in the states, we might catch a small glimpse of it on Wednesday.

With all these beautiful events of August this week, I have thought a lot about the beauty of where we live. Sometimes Indiana gets shoved aside for beauty. I met a woman once on a ferry who asked where I was from. She was a lovely New Yorker with the strongest accent, and when I told her Indiana, she about fell of her ferry seat. She immediately called for her husband to meet me. They said they had never met anyone from Indiana or been to Indiana. It was all I could do to not say, “We even have running water and electricity!” I did think it, but I didn’t say it out loud. I see the beauty of my home state.

I also pay close attention to artists as they paint or describe Indiana. For the Bicentennial year, I was asked to develop a story on T.C. Steele (1847-1926.) He was one of the first, and probably most celebrated American Impressionist painters from Brown County. He studied plein air painting in Munich and brought it back to Indiana. By the 1890’s his work was exhibited from New York to San Francisco. His work still hangs in Indianapolis in the Indianapolis Museum of Art and in the Indiana State Museum. Fifty of his paintings still hang in his studio at “The House of the Singing Wind.”

At the same time James Whitcomb Riley (1849-1916), known for his Indiana poems and prose was putting rural Indiana front and center. We all know his most famous poem, “Little Orphant Annie.” You can access all of his work online at the Project Gutenberg. There is also a collection of his work, including manuscripts, personal letters in the Indianapolis University Library.

We owe both of these men a big thank you for recording our early history in art and in poetry. It makes a wonderful field trip to travel to Indianapolis to see the works of these men and then go on down to Brown County to tour Steele’s studio.

Even if you don’t get to Indy, it is that time of year when a Sunday drive is at its very best. Put on your best tie and overcoat, or your prettiest dress and take a drive. Keep the windows down and let your hand catch the wind. The August air is intoxicating. You could even pack a picnic lunch!

 And if your travel brings you home at dusk, the crickets will greet you.

My tribute to 9/11.

 

This is my story. It was a normal morning. I got up at 5:30, made my bed, made coffee, neatened up the house and then headed off to school. School on this day was Hamilton Community Schools. On this day, there was an in-service at the Special Ed Co-op in Kendallville and I was required to go. In-service days are usually a fun day and a nice day out of the classroom with thoughts of learning some new trends. There were always  coffee and doughnuts, and that is the best part!

I carpooled to Kendallville chatting as we went, chatting as I always do. When we arrived, I was right, there were more doughnuts and coffee. Everything was set out in the conference room for us including pencils and new pads of paper. The in-service began. I really cannot remember a thing about it, maybe we didn’t get too far into it when someone came in pulling in a television on a cart. We froze. I could tell by the look on her face that something awful was happening. She plugged in the television, and  we watched in absolute horror the planes going into the World Trade Center. It didn’t look real. It was like watching a movie, except it wasn’t. By this time United Flight 93 went down in a field in Pennsylvania. I had a personal panic attack.

My three boys, Adam, Aaron, and Abe had all just graduated from college. Yes, they were all in school at the same time. Following graduation, the twins drove to St. Pete, Florida to spread their wings. Abe went the other direction to Santa Barbara, California. None of them had good jobs yet. They were young, ambitious and curious about the world around them. I was happy for them to try new things, explore new areas all the while, I missed them terribly. Adam came home that weekend and had a flight from Indy to St. Pete early on that Tuesday morning. There was a quick layover in Pittsburgh. I knew all of that. I did not know which airline or the flight number.

I panicked. I knew his layover was in Pittsburgh. The newscaster didn’t know details, well, no one knew details, except the aircraft went down in a field in Pennsylvania. We didn’t know then that it was headed for Washington, D.C. and the aircraft was just 20 minutes from Washington.

Adam was on an American flight oblivious to any of this. The flight attendants and the flight crew said nothing. His first sense of something weird was going on was when the aircraft landed in Tampa from the North. Those runways are reserved for flying out and not in. The tarmac in Tampa was quiet too. As the aircraft landed, they were told to get their belongings and head straight into the airport to get their bags. Once he walked in, it was eerily quiet. No people. The monitors were still up and running, but everything had the word “canceled” next to the flight. The lights were dim and folks were leaving quickly…actually running to their cars. Later he found out they were one of the last flights to make it to their destination. One television was on with the news. He also watched in horror. Finding a pay phone, he made a few calls, one was to Hamilton Schools to tell me he was okay. They called over to the office to tell me. I wept.

We packed up and left; I picked up my car and went home.

What to do…what to do? No one knew. All I thought about was how can I get to my boys? No flights. No trains. No buses. Nothing. Nothing but quietness, and that is what I remember most in the following days. Everything was quiet. No planes in the sky to leave white smokey trails, no train horns blaring down at crossings.

What else do I remember? We were all in this together. We hung out our flags. We chatted with our neighbors. We baked cookies and shared. We slept with the lights on because of the darkness. We wept over the bravery of the men and women on Flight 93 who ended their lives to save hundreds. We wept over the lives lost and the brave firefighters.

 As Americans we were strong together, and we would get through this. We were united as a country.

On this day, the 25^th anniversary, we remember our stories together, as Americans.

 

Arriving home...

Arriving home from Charleston in the middle of the afternoon gave me a chance to check out my garden. It is the first thing I do after dragging in my suitcase. The neighbor boy watered for me so I knew everything would still be alive. (Those zinnias take a lot of water!) While in Charleston, I watered and spent some time in Abe’s gardens. Learning to garden in different climates takes a lot of work. When Abe lived in Phoenix, gardening was so different with the heat, and now in Charleston there is heat and humidity. The temperature was in the high 90’s every day, which is too hot for this Indiana girl. The kids were fine though. They came home from school, had a snack and then went out to play! 

Arriving home to blue skies, cool temperatures were amazing. I left my windows open, so my house was full of fresh air. I even added an extra quilt on the bed last night! In the cool of the morning, I had a chance to really visit my garden. I will be honest here. I start out so excited and plant everything. I don’t know what exactly happens between June 1st and the end of August, but lots of things are not how they were intended.

I planted a vegetable garden…like always. I called it my Victory Garden. Of course, I had no idea that my own lettuce and raspberries would be more valuable than gold, but here we are. I planted everything in that Victory Garden. However (yes, there is a however), the pumpkins, which I did not plant, decided to take over completely. It was out of my control. Seriously. I guess the seeds sprouted from tossing last year’s pumpkins into the garden. I do tend to toss all vegetation matter into that garden at the end of the season. It is great for composting, and that soil is very rich. All my garden soil is rich by just using my Mother’s Day compost from Aaron. I do not use any other fertilizer and nothing for weed control which is obvious.

I thought I had the garden under control, but I was wrong. Where is everything I planted? Underneath all the pumpkins? Will they come up next year? Will I forever have pumpkins? Don’t get me wrong, I love pumpkins. Years ago, when I had a garden space in the community gardens by Circle Hill Cemetery, I planted pumpkins for Jonah and Graham. It was so prolific that Kathy and I sat out there one night by candlelight waiting for the great pumpkin. An officer came by with his torch (flashlight) and said someone called in about the light in the gardens. As soon as he got closer to us, he said, “Is that you, Lou Ann?” Of course, I answered, “Oh, yes.” He asked me what we were doing. I thought it looked obvious! I replied, “Waiting for the great pumpkin to rise.”  With that he nodded, turned and walked away. 

One year, however, the deer ate all the pumpkins so what was I do to? Easy. I went to the farmers market and filled Lola with pumpkins. Kathy and I drove them up to my pumpkin patch and rolled them out. That night Jonah and Graham came up to get their Halloween pumpkins. I thought it was such a smart idea until Aaron found one with a price written in marker. “Nice try, Mom.” Hey, I thought it was clever.

I do not know exactly how many pumpkins I have under all of those leaves, but something fun is brewing underneath with all those vines sprawling all over my yard. 

In all reality, I love a runaway garden. I love it when my morning glories come up in places I did not plant them or those lovely lilies that just pop up wherever they please. 

Take a stroll outside this week. The weather is just lovely, and there might be surprises in your yard as are in mine. August was perfectly lovely this year. I didn’t even use my air conditioner, my windows are open, my gardens are green even if they are a bit in disarray. Sit out under the August skies and watch Orion journey toward the winter Solstice, and, above all, be grateful. 

“Only a few more days of August were to run, and September seemed already to have claimed the gardens, the fields, and the skies.” Jeannie Gwynne Bettany Kernahan, 1906.