Stories and Shoes

Have you ever traveled over a road so many times that eventually it seems ingrained in your
mind? For the first twelve years of my life I rode with my family back and forth on Hwy 11
from Roseau to International Falls more times than could be counted . . . with many stops in
between. Our cousins lived between Roseau and Warroad . We drove to Roosevelt to visit grandparents. Our school was in Williams. The post office was in Graceton and our church was
there as well. We shopped in Baudette, and stopped at Clementson to see those falls on our way
to visit friends in Loman and International Falls.

Another way to remember a road in a special way is to listen to a book on cd while traveling. 
One summer we drove on Hwy 56 on the western edge of Montana listening to A Wrinkle in Time
or one of its sequels by Madeleine L'Engle. I can still see the mountains, trees and the river winding beside the road.

The most recent adventure was traveling on Hwy 17 from Sault Sainte Marie to Espanola, Ontario, Canada. It was dark. It was raining. Sometimes the rain was coming fast and furious and we couldn't see the road. Of all the stretches of road to drive at night in the pouring rain and at the same time listen to A Series of Unfortunate Events by Daniel Handler, better known by his pen name, Lemony Snicket, this road seemed made for the occasion. Some day I would like to drive on it when the sun shines and go a tad slower.

When we got to Espanola we found a motel that was open and had vacancies. After we hauled in the luggage and got comfortable I asked Krysta to take a picture of our shoes. She thought it was a weird thing to do, but she took the picture with rumblings about, "You really need to get your own camera."

It seemed even more strange to Krysta to move that picture to my blog at 11:30 Saturday night. We weren't really going to post it, just get it ready for a blog post at a later date.

That's the mystery. I thought I simply saved the picture. Instead I touched the button to publish it. Sorry to keep you in suspense.

Help! I Can't Hear Anymore

The other day I had a chance to experience deafness. This isn't the first time of course.
How many times have people mumbled so I couldn't hear them? I thought they said
something completely different then I replied with a totally irrelevant answer and felt
knee high to an ant afterwards. Countless times!

But getting back to the other day - Krysta asked me to listen to a song on YouTube -
"Give Me Your Eyes" written by Jason Ingram. We listened to the song and watched
the video that went with it. I noticed immediately that I could not understand all the words.
Krysta said she would print off the lyrics for me when were done listening.
(There is just something about holding paper in my hands and reading the words while
people sing that helps my hearing a great deal.)

So I am listening to the song. The video is filmed in an airport. There is a picture of a man
dressed in a black suit and a red tie. I heard these words, "Lassoed with a bright red tie."
I started to giggle. It struck my funny bone. Krysta looked puzzled but I didn't explain right
away because we wanted to get the message of the song.

At last the song was over. Krysta showed me the words. My eyes scanned down the page
searching for the words about the red tie. Here they are:
"There is a man just to her right  Black suit and a bright red tie"
I pointed to this line and commented to Krysta,
"These words aren't the same as they sang on the video/"

"I think they are," she said. "What do you see that's different?"

"I didn't hear them say black suit."

"What did you hear them say then?" Krysta asked.

"They said, 'Lassoed with a bright red tie,' I said, emphatically.

We will here draw a curtain over the next scene that involves Krysta laughing hysterically
at her elderly, deaf mother. 

This episode reminded me of a huge eye ball we saw in a park in Chicago one year.
I think we were told that a high pitched sound was being played near this area to keep
young people from loitering. A sound that older people can no longer hear, but is very
annoying for young ears. Don't quote me on this. I am still checking with others who were
there to find out if my memory is failing me and this is just a figment of my imagination.

                         ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

And now I am losing things as well. We needed passports for our trip to Canada.
I called Jorgan to make sure he has his passport because it wasn't in the safe with ours.
"And by the way - do you have your birth certificate?" I asked.

He had his passport but after looking through his stuff he called to say he can't find the
birth certificate. He remembers that I was carrying it in my purse for awhile when he got
his license updated when he turned 21 or something like that . . .

I looked and looked. Then I thought I might as well just go to the court house and get him
another one. The price has doubled  since 20 years ago when we got his official birth cert so
we could get his passport so we could go to Haiti to visit my sister in 1997. I filled out
some paper work then the nice gal said it would be just a minute or two. She came back
and said, "The father's name is not on this birth certificate."

I didn't understand what she was talking about and must have looked dumb. She repeated
herself and said it will cost $40.00 to have his name added. I said, "It was on the one we lost."
"Are you sure?" she asked. Then - "Were you married when Jorgan was born?"

"Yes, I was married. Jorgan is our fourth child. His dad's name is on the decorative birth certificate that the hospital gives." I pulled that out to show her. She gave me a phone number to call. I decided not to get the birth certificate yet. I am hoping I can find the first one. I never throw anything away. How can it be lost?

The worn out cliché is still true. Growing old is not for sissies.




 

Birch Trees

 

Our lone birch tree died. It was too shaded by huge maple trees.


(The yellow-bellied sapsuckers didn't help it either.)

Ellis cut it down along with a tall pine tree that was also in the shade.

Yesterday we were in Rochester returning lumber to Home Depot
                        and attending a pancake brunch.
I mentioned to Ellis that Krysta and I talked about giving him a
    birch tree for a combination Father's Day / birthday gift.
We pulled into Hy-Vee to mail some packages and looked at their selection
of trees. They had lots of trees and a sign declaring shrubs and trees were 30% off.
                       But would there be any birch trees?
We found a choice of three tubs each with three - four little birch trees in a clump.
What fun to walk down a row of baby trees with the leaves rustling all around my ears.

We decided to think about it while we went to our friends' back yard pancake brunch.
Since we parked a block away we strolled along the side walk and would you believe it?
There was a clump of birch trees in a yard we passed by. There was a low retaining wall
around them with river pebbles at the base of the trees and an assortment of shade loving
perennials growing. Now I can't even think what kind of flowers because I was looking at
the trees. That's what was wrong with our poor tree. There should have been a clump of birch trees together. Instead, whoever planted it 40+ years ago planted only one.
But it had lived a long life in company with the maple trees, pine tree and
lilac bushes in our front yard.


Now I think Krysta and I have just made a lot of work for Ellis by purchasing
a clump of birch trees for his Father's Day / birthday gift.
Oh the things we do to keep him young and agile!

* These pictures were found on Google Images.

Pillows in the Chicken Pen

By Dawn Harshbarger

 
“Mom, what do you think of this one?” Krysta and I were shopping for shirts for Jorgan,
her older brother. She held up a gray T shirt with green words printed across the front.
They framed a picture of evergreen trees and a row of tents.
The words were: CAMPING IS IN-TENTS.

“Camping is in-tents,” I said out loud, trying to get the hidden meaning that escaped me.
I repeated the phrase softly to myself and then burst out laughing at the mischievous look on Krysta’s face. We both caught on at the same time. 

My mind went back over forty plus years of camping.
I remembered late nights and mosquitoes.
Sometimes setting up a tent in the dark with tired children doing their best to help
brings out the worst in parents. Or it may help them find strengths they didn’t know they had.
The word “intense” fails to capture all the drama in those situations but it comes close.

Now I’m getting ahead of my story.  Many years ago my family lived in Northern Minnesota
in Lake of the Woods county.  Our address was Graceton which was only a wide spot in the
road. There was a post office and a church on one side of the road. Across the road and over
the railroad tracks was an old depot. The trains never stopped there anymore. They just blew
shrill whistles and zoomed by.

There were four girls in our family and they were named Dawn, Ladina, Trenda and Maria.
Every summer my dad took us fishing on Lake of the Woods. When I turned ten we started a
new adventure, camping. Dad had purchased a tent at a reduced rate from a company in Indiana that made pop up campers. The tent had no floor because it was designed for a camper trailer.

Dad was a carpenter. He could build just about anything. He took a tape measure and a saw
and cut boards with notches at just the right spots and cut the boards to just the right lengths to support the tent. The trailer had two plywood boards that folded out to make two double beds. There it sat, perched in the air, supported by steel poles at four corners with a little trailer in the middle, looking like a canvas house on stilts. We girls loved that tent. We begged to sleep in it any chance we could.

One hot summer day we had permission to sleep in the tent all by ourselves. This was long before personal computers that tell you a storm is heading your way. (Expect rain in gushing torrents in one hour with wind gusts of 40 - 50 miles an hour.) We settled down for a slumber party unaware what was headed our way. I was probably eleven, Ladina was ten, Trenda eight and Maria five going on six.

The hens in the chicken pen clucked good night to each other. Robins sang their evening songs as they hopped around on the newly mown lawn, looking for the last worm of the day. I don’t know how long we slept but sometime in the middle of the night thunder crashed. We shivered under the blankets. Lightening, zig zagging across the sky was visible through the screen windows. The wind was whipping around the corners of the tent. 

Maria sat up. “I’m scared!”

Trenda wriggled around and popped her head out from under the covers. “Let’s go in.”

Ladina said, “I think it’s a bad storm. We should go to the house.”

I said, “Oh, come on. Let’s not be babies. We can stay out here! It’s not that bad!”

 
Just then there was another clap of thunder and another flash of lightening.
There was a patter of rain on the roof of the tent.
A gust of wind hit the side wall. 

Maria cried. 
Trenda jumped out of bed.
Ladina said, “I’m going in!”
Before I could protest Ladina unzipped the tent door.
Trenda got out and helped Maria down the steps.
Ladina grabbed a pillow and slipped out.
I shrugged my shoulders then climbed out too, zipping the door behind me.

We four girls flew across the lawn. But no matter how fast we ran sheets of rain
drenched us before we got to the house. The wind slammed the screen door shut
behind us. The storm raged outside the house. Windows rattled. The evergreen trees
in the wind break bent over in the wind. We were safe and warm inside the house.

Dad and Mom came into the kitchen as we rushed in.
“This is a bad storm. I’m glad you came in!” Dad said, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.
Before we had a chance to snuggle into our beds a violent gust of wind tore a patch of
shingles and tar paper off the roof. The next instant it seemed an enormous hand was
pouring water from a gigantic pitcher into our living room. Fortunately, the living room
was a step down from the dining room so the whole house didn’t get wet.

The storm soon passed and rain water stopped flowing into the house.
Mom made floor beds for us in the dry part of the house while Dad started moving books
and furniture to higher ground. We went to sleep knowing that our parents were working
together to figure out a solution for this huge dilemma.

The next morning roosters crowing woke us to a rain splashed world.
We ran outside to see what had become of the tent. The plywood beds
were twisted and the tent had come loose from one of the corners. Our blankets
were strewn across the yard. Our pillows were in the chicken pen.

“Look what would have happened to us if we had stayed out here,” Maria said.
We all shuddered at the thought.

This was the beginning of my camping adventures. I saw firsthand how my parents
set out to solve the problems that storm brought to them. Dad fixed the roof on the house.
He made the tent as good as new. Together, Dad and Mom sorted through soggy belongings
and got the house in order again. They didn’t let this disaster keep our family from many hours
of traveling across the U.S. and Canada, pulling our little camper trailer behind us.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Quotes

I like quotes.
They are written on scraps of paper all over the house.
When I remember one and want to use it I can't find it.
Then days or weeks or months later it shows up.
 - Usually in a book doubling as a book marker.

Here is the quote I looked for when I wrote about the sun rise.

If your efforts are sometimes greeted with indifference,
                                 don't lose heart -
                      the sun puts on a wonderful
                              show at daybreak,
                      yet most of the people in the
                        audience go on sleeping.
                                                                 - Edu Francisco Teixeira



Here's another one.

Life is not a final,
It's daily pop quizzes.
                 - Ann Crittenden
 (I found these quotes in an old Reader's Digest but failed to write the month and year.)

Krysta and I have been taking a writing class.
One evening a week . . .
This doesn't excuse the long silence but partly explains it.
A story is coming . . .

Have a good evening!

March . . . Lion or Lamb

I totally forgot to mention that yesterday's post was a bunch of random thoughts
all jumbled together. You already figured that out by now.

Random thot's continued . . .

When March comes around each year I start thinking about spring and flowers
and birds and mud.  In MN there could be a blizzard or two, snow blowers,
shovels and snowmen.
       We never know.

Or there could be tornadoes instead like the year Krysta was born.

Krysta's birthday comes near the end of March.
Eighteen years ago 16 tornadoes caused tremendous damage in MN and WI.
Ellis and I were in the hospital waiting for Krysta's arrival.
We saw the news about the storms. Then we heard from our family in MT
that Ellis's dad had pneumonia.

Grandpa Harshbarger hung on for a few more days.
Krysta was not quite 2 weeks old when we drove
to Coalridge to say Good-bye.

I remember people asking me if Krysta was ok.
They never heard her cry and thought something must be wrong with her.
She learned to use her lungs later on - believe me!

Bird Song, Coffee and Prize Coffee Cake

There's nothing quite like hearing a cardinal sing outside the window in the early
morning. It was still dark so I couldn't see the red bird but I could hear him
and the wind chimes that hang close to the bird feeder.

This happened Sunday morning when I was scurrying around making coffee
and Prize Coffee Cake for Krysta's *going on a grand adventure*.  Krysta was
getting ready to fly to India to visit friends and help with renovations at an orphanage.

When we are celebrating special moments like that this is the cake we make. If by any chance
Esther Mae Kauffman is reading she might recognize this recipe. She gave it to me many years
ago. (I added the Streusel Topping and cut down on the sugar in the cake.)

Prize Coffee Cake

1 cup sugar
1/2 cup shortening (butter or margarine works too)
Cream together until fluffy
Add 2 eggs
1 cup milk
Mix all together

Dry ingredients:
3 cups flour
4 tsp. baking powder
1 tsp. salt
Mix together. Pour into greased 9x13 cake pan.

Topping
I cup brown sugar
1/2 cup flour
1 T. cinnamon (more or less to taste)
Splash of vanilla
6 T. Butter
Cut the butter into the mixture with pastry cutter
Sprinkle over the cake evenly.
Bake at 350 for 35-40 min.

While that is baking let's go back to the birds.
When Ellis and I got married I could name a few birds
       and match them up with their pictures.

Robin
Cardinal
Blue Bird
Blue Jay
Crow
Wren
Redheaded Woodpecker

Except for the Crow and the Blue Jay I wouldn't have recognized their songs.

(There was one bird my family listened to up north and it was easy to identify by it's song
. . .  the whippoorwill)

When we got married I started on a life long hobby of matching birds with their songs.
We've been feeding the birds for a few years and enjoy quite a variety at our bird feeder.
This year two pesky squirrels have taken over the feeder. They can be a pain.

If you want to follow Krysta's adventure go to:
www.childrensopportunity.org