My True Fish Tale

Back left, my mother and a woman unknown to me; front left, a child I do not remember, my middle sister, and myself.

I grew up in a fishing family. Every summer brought all manner of these wonderful delicacies to our table and even today, fish and seafood remain two of the things I love the most. Forget the filet mignon; I'll take a floured, fried in real butter walleye, pike or bass any day of the week. And I'm not talking about those grocery store fillets either. Dad always contended that filleting the fish involved tossing out edible food and he stubbornly refused to do so. My sisters and I were taught to eat around the bones. We're still good at it.

The first time I remember trying to catch my own fish was when I was around seven. Our family was at one of Minnesota's Ten Thousand Lakes, staying at the same cabin resort where we vacationed every year. I was out on the long dock that reached a good way into the water. I was close to the end when I spotted schools of tiny fish swimming all around the casements. I'd noticed them before and dad had told me they were perch and not good for eating. Maybe so, but to me they looked plenty good enough for catching. I don't remember where I got the old cane pole with a couple yards of black line and a hook tied on the end, but I distinctly remember deciding to catch some of those cute little swimmers.

I was after the biggest ones--likely all of four inches long, but to me they were fish worth trying for. I remember there was a worm on my hook, though how it got there eludes me. I probably got it from the same place I got the pole: someone had left it on the dock, intending to come back and without any ill intentions, I decided to use it. While those details are fuzzy, what happened next remains clear in my mind.

Without a weight on the line, the hook wouldn't sink into the water where those little buggers were swimming. I leaned out, trying to push the hook into the water with the pole end. No luck. I tried again, stretching my arms as far as I could. Still couldn't reach it. I moved as close to the edge of the dock as I could, toes barely over the edge and leaned my body forward, stretching my arms to their max. I was determined to push that hook down to the fishes or die trying.

I came to lying on the dock with all manner of adult faces staring down at me. I was soaking wet and didn't know why. I looked at all the faces again, searching for my parents, but they weren't there. I remember that I didn't cry, not a single tear. I was too busy trying to figure out what had happened, but my young mind couldn't conjure up any plausible explanation for my predicament. To this day I do not remember falling into the water. Fortunately, there was someone who had seen me lose my balance and tumble into the lake. I was told the lady had run to the end of the dock, jumped into the water and hauled me out. If I ever knew who it was, I don't remember. What I do remember is that I never caught any of those tiny fishes I was after.

Two things happened to me shortly after that. Swimming lessons and fishing practice. Young as I was, I understood the need to learn how to swim and my parents made sure I learned it that summer. But fishing lessons? Shoot, anyone could fish. I mean, toss a line in the water and wait for a fish. My dad didn't see it that way. He ran a tight  boat and there were rules to be obeyed. Dad had rules about everything, so fishing boat regulations weren't a great surprise. Since my unexpected excursion into the lake, it seems that my folks had decided that if I wanted to fish bad enough to go in after them, I'd best learn how to do it right.

A few days later, my dad came into our rental cabin and motioned for me to follow him. He led me to a grassy area where he handed me a rod and reel, the line-end tied onto a sturdy metal weight. Then he taught me how to cast overhead--the safest way to avoid snagging other fishermen in your boat. That was during the 1940s, when fishing poles and reels were manual do or die sort of things that backlashed into snaggles that could never be undone. It took me two days of practice and undoing more than my fair share of ornery backlashes before my dad deemed me fit to fish.

They woke me when it was still dark. "Get up, we're going bass fishing." I complained that it was still night time, but to no avail. "Bass bite at dawn," they said. It was now or never. And even though we had a perfectly nice cabin and boat rental at the resort and a huge lake at our doorstep, dad plopped his old wooden duck-hunting boat atop the car and we were off to some dinky lake tucked away on private property. That was the day I learned about Lower Mudd and the elusive bass that hid around its reedy edges.

With eyes barely open, I cast my line toward the weeds, the practice weight replaced with a funny-looking bit of wood painted red and white. Dad said it was a Lazy Ike--a real bass catcher. Nothing. I reeled back in and cast again, marvelling at how proficient my thumb had become at preventing backlashes. Plop. Plop. Plop. The lure  sailed overhead, hit the water and got reeled back in. I was on my fifth or sixth cast when my line took off, spinning out of control, the black line travelling faster than I'd ever seen it go. I hadn't even had a chance to set the reel's break. Whatever I'd caught was strong and mad. And there I sat, in the boat's middle seat, doing my best to get that fighting fish into the boat.

I reeled and reeled, thinking I must have hooked the biggest bass in the lake. I'd make some headway only to lose all I'd gained and then some. "Reel it in," dad said. I told him I couldn't do it because my arms and fingers were too tired. He ignored my complaint. Just then the fish jumped, arching out of the water in a splash of ripples. Then it did it again. I heard my mom tell dad to help me. She could see I was was in over my head. Dad's ever-kind, thoughtful reply was "She caught it, she can reel it in." Didn't I tell you he had strict rules? Knowing I was on my own, I set a stubborn, determined face and reeled that sucker in. My arms and hands were sore for two days.

I was hooked at the thrill of it all. I knew right then and there that I'd forever be a fisher kid. In the many years after, I caught a lot more bass as well as walleye, northerns, sunfish, crappies, and catfish. I caught alot of fish that weighed more than my first two-pound bass, but none of them brought the exhilaration of that first fight. I had fought the battle alone and I had won. In retrospect, I was glad dad had forced me to do the job myself for I had such a sense of accomplishment that from then on I was pretty much convinced that if I could land that bass, I could do just about anything I put my mind to. Good lesson to learn at the ripe old age of seven. Thanks, dad.

My Love Affair With Books

Even bad photos bring back memories as does this one of the Northfield Public Library, my favorite haunt during my years growing up on the Minnesota plains. I always considered it ironic that it was my mom who first introduced me to borrowed books and ever after, was always scolding me to "get my nose out of a book and go outside and play." Quite unknowingly, she had created a bookaholic--and then blamed me for being one.

I was in the third grade when I fell in love with books. Up until that time, a book was something read only in school and then stuffed onto the single shelf my wooden desk afforded me. I considered the school books boring, what with Dick and Jane constantly running up and down that grassy hill, playing with their dog, Spot. Young as I was, I realized that even I had a far more exciting life than they did and for some unknown reason, I assumed that all books must be as boring as those about Dick and Jane.

And then I got the mumps. Worse yet, mom insisted I stay in bed and rest. I don't recall being in a lot of pain--only that it was impossible to eat and at best, swallowing was a chore. What I do remember is that I was as bored as any third grader could ever be. Coloring books were good for about fifteen minutes; paper dolls not even that long. Modeling clay was no fun and drawing pictures lasted about two blinks of an eyelash. By day two, mom took pity on me and presented me with five books from our local library. I have to confess that I wasn't thrilled to see them. I figured they were just more of dumb ole' Dick and Jane. Still, I thanked mom for getting them and tossed them at the foot of my bed.

Mom would have none of that. She picked up the biggest one and put it in my hands. On the cover was the cutest puppy I'd ever seen and inside, were picture after picture of that little puppy having all sorts of adventures. I was hooked. I read the book five times that first day and who knows how many more the day after?  And while I don't recall what the other books were about, I read every one of them over and over. On day three, I asked mom if she'd go to the library and get me more books. She kept me supplied with stories until the mumps were gone and I was ready to go back to school.

But then the unthinkable happened. My sister, who shared my room, had come down with mumps and given it back to me--on the other side of my face. I would be home another week and if I knew mom, I'd be in bed the whole time. It wasn't long before I began the book begging routine. Mom rolled her eyes and mentioned, sort of under her breath, that I read them so fast it was hardly worth bringing them home. I suggested she bring me as many as they'd let her take. To my utter joy, at least eight books ended up on my bed. I was finished with them in two days but didn't have the heart to tell mom. I figured she was tired of taking care of two mumpy girls and running to the library in between. I kept silent. At least I had my sister to talk with now, so being home didn't seem so bad.

Then came the day when I asked mom if she would take me to the library. I didn't actually know what a library was but I'd figured out it was a place where they kept books and I wanted to see it for myself. The following Saturday, she walked my sister and me across town and introduced us to the big brick building that was known as a library. As quickly as my short legs would carry me, I climbed the many steps up to the door, waiting impatiently for mom and sister to catch up. How could I have guessed that the whole world was about to open up right in front of me?

Once inside, the scent of thousands of books hit me, mesmerizing my soul. I didn't realize at the time that I was addicted to the smell of paper and printer's ink and leather bindings. I only knew that this was surely the grandest place on earth and on that day, I promised myself that I would one day own as many books as the library did--just so I could sit and inhale their fragrance. It was a promise that pretty much came to pass. But more about that later.

These days, most of my friends and relatives read books on electronic gadgets. They swear they're wonderful and cost much less than purchasing the physical book. Maybe so. My guess would be that these are people who have never been mesmerized by a library or a bookstore or the feel of a book in their hands or the smell of freshly printed paper. These are probably book readers but not book lovers. There is a difference. If you're a book lover, you understand what I'm talking about. Readers borrow and give back; lovers purchase and keep, adding row upon row to their collection until there are so many books stacked in every nook and cranny that in desperation, they gut an extra bedroom and line it with shelves--just so they can keep each book on display. In time, the shelves fill up and with no place else to go, the books are stored in odd corners with the hope that more shelves will magically appear.

"Your books are running us out of the house again," my husband said one day. I knew he was right. Not only had I filled every shelf in my in-house library, but books sat atop books and in odd corners and stacked atop tables. In desperation, I spent nearly a week going through every shelf, determining which books I could live without. I wasn't very successful. How could I give away Heidi or Heidi Grows Up or Mother Carey's Chickens or my Agatha Christie collection? And what about the classics? Great Expectations had to stay. It was one of my favorite books of all time. In the end, I had packed up three smallish boxes and not knowing what to do with them, hauled them to the garage.

Is this your new book depository?" asked my husband. Just by his tone I knew he wasn't thrilled. Thinking fast, I replied, "Just until I figure out what to do with them." His reply was to call one of the charities who come around in a big truck and haul away things people want to get rid of. I was aghast. GET RID OF THEM? Book lovers do not get rid of those things which they love. I had to find them a good home. One evening, hubby suggested the library might take them. I considered that an inspired idea. A quick call to the library's main branch to see if they would accept them, and I was off and running. Since that time, my shelves have filled again and again, forcing me to donate hundreds of books to the city library. And guess what? I'm happy to do it--just as long as I can keep my treasured volumes.

I figure it brings me full circle to that third grader I once was. In some small way, I'm helping to fill an entire building with the aroma of those inanimate objects which I fell in love with as a child. And while today's recipient is not the library I grew up with, it is still a place where any youngster can discover a love of books that can be taken home and held, smelled, touched, and read over and over again--sometimes by the light of a small bulb held under the bedsheets.

Some books are so loved they become keepsakes of our past. Heidi is a book like that and I still have the 1940s version tucked safely away. It was a gift from a friend who knew I loved to read as much as she did and had talked her mom into buying it for me as a birthday present. I took it to bed with me that night and slept with it beside me, just so I could smell its newness. That was more than sixty years ago. Little has changed. I still fall asleep with a book beside me and too often, glasses askew. Times like that I ask myself why I persist in reading in bed rather than a cozy chair. And in my mind's eye I see a blond youngster with a puffy face, tucked in bed, reading to herself and relishing every minute. Some habits are just hard to break.

Copyright 2011 by Sandra L Keith, All rights reserved

Take Time To Daydream



Summer in S. California is always greeted by the purple clouds of jacaranda blossoms. Once the flowers fall, they form a purple carpet beneath the tree that is nearly as lovely as the tree itself.

 Summer has finally settled into San Diego. The purple clad jacaranda trees are a sure sign, as are the thousands of hot pink bougainvilleas that grace about every other property as well as a few canyons where discarded cuttings have managed to root and grow. The summer flowers are now in full bloom and while the spring grasses are brown and dying, the agapanthas and day lilies and desert primrose and geraniums are valiantly trying to camouflage last season's remains.

As I was out and around the city today, taking in its new look, a hint of wanderlust invaded my heart. I so want to go camping. I want to inhale the scent of pine trees, catch a waft of campground woodsmoke, and inhale that dusty aroma the earth has as it cools down from a day filled with summer sun. Yet I know I won't go. Not alone. I'm not ready yet to travel without the man who loved me so unconditionally for 53 years. I'm not strong enough yet.

So I daydream. How grateful I am that for all of my life, I've been able to bring forth images of places I've been and things I've seen. I don't know if that's normal, but once I store an image in in my brain, it never leaves. I've always been like that. Some have questioned if  I have a photographic memory. I don't know. I only know the pictures in my mind are always there and I can pull them up in the twinkling of an eye.


The California redwods are the tallest trees on earth and nearly the oldest, many reaching more than 760 feet high and spanning more than 2,000 years.


So it is that as wanderlust takes over, I take to my trusty recliner, intent on daydreaming. I already know where I'm going. It has always been my family's favorite destination, ever since the kids were 3 and 5. I'm off to the California redwoods and the many camping spots we  haunted so many years past. We began in a used tent, then a used tent trailer, then finally a small used trailer. We never had the funds to travel in champagne style. None of us cared. Truth be told, it was the tenting I loved the most, for it forced us to live outside, eat outside, and play outside. And all under the striking beauty of the coast redwoods-where winds whisper of coolness and footsteps are drowned upon the deep sponge of earth.

When morning chores were finished, we'd find a trail and follow it. This is the land of the ever-living sequoia sempervirens, the tallest trees on earth, and every step taken along their forest aisles only enhances our appetite for more. The light is muted; the undergrowth luxuriant. For thousands of years, cloud-sweeping branches have filtered both fog and sun, turning the grove into either a mysterious "other world" or sprinkling it with pinholes of light that momentarily outline a sword-fern or halo the bracken.

The earth beneath these auburn giants is a painter's palette of greens gone mad. Moss filigrees downed trees, maiden-hair fern decorates decaying stumps. Trillium and oxalis carpet forest duff while the vine-like poison oak, in a seeming attempt to atone for its toxicity, spirals numberless redwood trunks--and in the process, graces unimaginable heights.

Few wild things populate this climax forest and the stillness here seems eerily unreal. It is an intense quiet broken only by the groan of branch rubbing against branch or the crack of a stepped-on-twig or the intermittent scolding of the forest policeman, the bright-eyed Steller's Jay. This is God's own cathedral--far nobler and loftier than any ever built with human hands; and the silence here is such that even man speaks in whispers. For these are ancient sentinels, connecting you by a hand touch to the sunrise of all the centuries they have known.

This is a forest with a mood uniquely its own. Of peace. And strength. Of things content with their yesterdays and secure in the knowledge that for them, tomorrow is still a man's lifetime away. As a race, these ionic columns have survived the dinosaurs, the great Ice Age, and the forces that thrust the mighty Rockies skyward. Many standing today were young when Christ walked the earth--and still they will outlive us by a thousand years.

But be warned. This is a land that will steal your vanity and expose your soul. These ponderous colonnade's appear to hide the powers of the universe and the answers to infinity. Their ambiance is powerful, invading the very marrow of our bones. And whether we wish it or not, their spell will be cast. These trees will beckon and we will find ourselves returning again and again. It is a call triggered at odd moments. And sometimes, half a world away. It may begin with a scent. Or a sound. Or the way a lazy breeze brushes the back of my neck.

And suddenly I am there--locked deep within the redwood aura.  Reveling in the awesome beauty of its dense, pure groves. Touching a patriarch. Inhaling pungent air. Craning my neck, trying to glimpse that special spot where treetops meld with heaven. Understanding a bit more of patience. And tenacity. The flashback may only consume a moment. The spell lasts a lifetime. There is no escape. Not even in my dreams.

The coast redwood campgrounds are set outside of the old-growth forests. Finding a trail into the land of the patriarchs is easy. The camping areas are cool and shaded, many set beneath second and third growth redwoods--too young to have reached gargantuan size and height.

"One generation shall praise Your works to another, and shall declare Your mighty acts. I will meditate on the glorious splendor of Your majesty and on Your awesome acts." Psalm 145: 4,5


Copyright 2011 by Sandra L Keith, All rights reserved

True Confessions About Zucchini

Woe to our family when my mother discovered zucchini.  After eating it for nearly a year, I talked my boyfriend into eloping, just so I could get away from having to swallow it steamed, mashed, fried, sauced, grated or any other way mom could think to use it up.

It's time to confess. But first, a bit of history. When my family moved from the Minnesota farmlands to southern California, I was under the impression that my sixteen-year-old self knew the name of every vegetable grown on our nation's soil. I was wrong. We had been relocated only a few months when a neighbor brought us something he called zucchini. It was unlike anything any of us had ever seen. And even though mom thanked the neighbor with her usual grace, none of knew what it was or what to do with it so she sent dad across the street to get the particulars.

A vegetable? No way, I says to myself. It looked more like a big green gourd rather than something to eat. Since my family never wasted anything edible, mom cut the squash up and boiled it. I'll spare you the details of what I thought of it. I was the only one who greatly disliked it's taste and mouth feel. But at dad's house, we always had to eat what we were served so there was no getting away from that reprehensible vegetable. As fate would have it, my dad told our neighbor how much we'd enjoyed the zucchini, so once-again he came home with his arms loaded. I cringe even now thinking back on those days and months of imbibing that mushy vegetable.

To mom's credit, she tried everything to make it tasty enough so that I'd eat it without complaining. To no avail. There wasn't enough cheese sauce or butter or pan frying or grating that made me like zucchini. I finally figured out that the reason it wasn't grown in Minnesota was because it was such a tasteless vegetable no one in their right mind would plant it. That made perfect sense to me, considering that every farm wife I'd ever known spent untold hours putting  up their vegetables for the winter, canning everything from the garden in order to put a healthy meal on winter-time plates. If any of those farmer's knew about zucchini, none had planted it. I thought that spoke volumes.

In the meantime, that gift-bearing neighbor told dad how easy it was to grow zucchini. You just don't tell something like that to a farmer with his love for dirt and growing things. Before I realized what was happening, dad had dug up more than half of our huge backyard,  ripped out mom's new flower plantings, and pushed hundreds of vegetable seeds into the soil. Including zucchini. Nooooooo, I screamed in my mind. I had some solace though. Dad had planted the seeds on the shady side of the house. I felt pretty secure knowing they would never grow. Boy, was I wrong.

I could accurately say that for the last 53 years, I've never served zucchini. Then one day my sister-in-law was telling me about this zucchini recipe she had and how delicious it was. Of course you know what I told her. Then she asked me how I prepared it. By now you know that story too. To my amazement, she told me it was likely that mom had cooked it to death and no wonder I found it disgusting. I was stunned. Perhaps if I prepared it differently, she said, I would like it. So I gave it a try and doggone if it wasn't edible after all. So here's my true confession: Even though I thought I knew everything there was to know about vegetables, I was wrong. It feels so good to get that off my chest. I feel so much better now. Thanks.

STUFFED ZUCCHINI THAT ROCKS!

I did the dumbest thing preparing this recipe. Unfortunately, the photo documents that I may be brain dead. These zucchini boats are supposed to be floating in a sea of red sauce. Pretend that's what you see and we'll both be happy.

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees for use later in the recipe.

In a medium-sized saucepan put:

1 medium onion, chopped,

2-3 garlic cloves, minced

1 Tbs. olive oil.

Cook together until the onions are translucent. Do not burn the garlic or you'll have to start over.

To that mixture add:

1/2 cup millet

1/2 tsp. each of rosemary, thyme, marjoram, basil, and salt

1/4 tsp. pepper

1 tsp. paprika

Saute until the spices are blended into the mixture.

Now add to the same pan:

1  22 oz. can diced tomatoes with their juice

2 cups vegetable stock

Cover the pot and bring to a boil, then lower the heat and simmer for 20 minutes or until the millet is soft.

In the meantime, cut off both ends of 4 medium zucchini and then cut each in half lengthwise. Place in a pot of boiling water for 5 minutes. Don't overcook. Remove them from the water and set aside to cool. Once the vegetable cools, scoop out the pulp and add it to the millet mixture on the stove along with:

1/4 cup capers

1/2 cup pitted Kalamata olives, chopped

Let simmer another 5 minutes.

In a separate bowl, combine 1 pinch of crushed red pepper flakes, 2 tsp. sugar, 1 1/2  cups jarred marinara and 1 cup of dry red wine. I used Burgundy. Mix together and pour the sauce into oven-safe pan. Stuff the zucchini boats and set them adrift over the red sauce. Top with vegan Parmesan or mozzarella--optional. Bake uncovered for 20-25 minutes.

Allow the dish to set about 5 minutes before serving. Sprinkle with chopped fresh parsley for a hint of freshness. I used this dish as a main meal with no sides other than seedless grapes. The next day I chopped the remaining zucchini boats into pieces and stuffed them into a pita pocket and poured the remaining red sauce over the top. It was nearly better than the original dish--which rocked all by itself.

Copyright 2011 by Sandra L Keith, All rights reserved

A King James Virgin For Father's Day

Christie was our second child, and while my husband Jim loved our son and daughter equally, it was his daughter that had him wrapped around her little finger--practically from the moment she was born.

When my daughter was in the fourth grade, her Sunday School teacher announced that the class would be having a contest and the winners would receive a Bible with their name on the cover. All they had to do was memorize the books of the Bible and be able to recite them in order and without coaching. Christie took the contest to heart and much to my surprise, was determined to win one of those Bibles.

The contest would be six months long. Thus giving each contestant time to recite the books already memorized and to let the teacher know which child was actively participating. Christie and her dad worked each week on memorization, building her knowledge bit by bit. And while many in the class had undertaken the challenge, in the end, only a few could recite every book without faltering. Christie was one of them.

Then came the day the contest ended and the teacher asked the six winners whether they wanted a black, red, or blue Bible. Christie ordered the blue one because that was her father's favorite color. I wouldn't have known any of this had my daughter's teacher not sought me out after church, purposely wanting me to tell me what had transpired in class that day.

Seems that Christie insisted her dad's name should be on the Bible and when the teacher tried talking her out of it because she had worked so hard to win it, my daughter told the teacher that during their months of practicing together, Jim had happened to mention that of all the translations he had, he didn't have a King James Version--which Christie misinterpreted as King James Virgin. Understandable,  considering kids are taught from the beginning of Sunday School that Jesus was born of a virgin.

When the Bibles arrived at church with names imprinted, Christie brought home the gaudy blue Bible with my husband's name printed in gold. She hid it under her bed (along with everything else in her room she didn't wish to put away) and waited a couple of weeks to surprise him with it. The Bible was to be Jim's Father's Day gift--not something I'd purchased, but something just from her.

In all my years as a parent, I've never seen a child present a gift with such joy as my daughter exhibited that day. Nor the surprise on my husband's face as he unwrapped it and saw what it was. He grabbed our daughter and hugged her so hard I thought she might break--little thing that she was. Then she climbed into her dad's lap and said, "Well, daddy, now you have a King James Virgin. I bet you're happy, huh?"

Because both Jim and I were Sunday School teachers for 30  years or more, our Bibles were well-used. Jim's King James Virgin was his favorite. Can't you tell?

"Behold, children are a heritage from the Lord, The fruit of the womb is a reward. Like arrows in the hand of a warrior, So are the children of one's youth. Happy is the man who has his quiver full of them." Psalm 127: 3-5

Copyright 2011 by Sandra L Keith, All rights reserved
Photos are the property of the author and may not be reproduced

The Lesson Of The Lilies

I thought the Easter Lilies would bloom and die back. But God had a different plan.

The day my husband graduated to heaven started out just like every other day. Because of his advanced Parkinson's Disease, he generally slept late and somewhere around mid-morning I'd check to see if he was awake and wanting to get up. That particular day he looked up at me, gave a small smile and said, "yup."  I asked, "Are you sure?" and he replied with another "yup." I had no way of knowing those would be the last words he'd ever say.

I called for our live-in nurse to do the necessary tasks to get Jim washed, dressed, and ready for breakfast. Meanwhile, I set out to do my own work. No more than a minute had passed than I heard her call for me to get a bucket as Jim was throwing up. I ran into the bedroom, saw him sitting on the edge of the bed vomiting, and handed the nurse the small bucket I always kept handy. To no avail. I watched in horror as Jim first passed out and then died--despite the nurse giving him mouth to mouth resuscitation and my being on the phone with 911--telling them to hurry.

Within a day, friends and neighbors began dropping by to share their condolences, bringing all manner of food and flowers with them. We rejoiced over Jim's life and talked together over his love for Christ and his unwavering belief that heaven was his true home. We thanked the Lord for taking Jim so quickly that he felt no pain and for the fact that he was now with the Lord he loved so much. I was so grateful that his feet no longer shuffled when he walked or that he was horribly stooped because of poor muscle control. I thanked the Lord that Jim was now whole. And I sobbed the whole time I was doing so.

Unknown to me, I had gone into shock. Days were fuzzy and even now, a little over a year later, I still can't remember much of those first few months. My daughter and grand-daughters took care of every thing that needed to be done. All I did was sign the checks. And even though friends and family took turns staying with me, much of my time was spent sniffling, sobbing and participating in a meltdown or two.

Those who watched interpreted my actions as needing to see a counselor pronto. For some reason, there is a strange myth that hangs around the edges of a Christian's death. It states that those who know the Lord and are left to grieve should be happy and content, for they know where their loved one is. Yet I grieved--fully and wretchedly, even though I knew the Lord was beside me, encouraging me to let out my grief so that I be healed of the trauma and the devastation of being so suddenly left alone.

Since Jim was a Korean War veteran, I chose to have a military funeral. I wanted a family graveside service; my kids wanted a church memorial. We did both. I wanted closure as fast as possible and even though I knew Jim was with the Lord, I couldn't stand the thought of his body laying in wait while all the family made plans to get together.
 

Jim joined the Navy at 17, with parental permission, knowing he would likely end up in the Korean War. He served aboard the USS Whiteside AKA 90, an Androma class attack cargo carrier that earned 4 battlestars during the Korean conflict.

After the graveside service, I came home to grieve until there were no tears left. Between breakdowns, I found things to do. The two beautiful Easter Lily plants that had been given to me were still showing off their blooms so I set the pots in an outside planter for all to see. I figured I'd plant the bulbs when the flowers and stems died. But that never happened.

Without my even noticing, the shaggy, forelorn stems began putting out new leaves atop the old ones. How odd, I thought. I've never seen that happen before. The next time the lilies caught my eye, each old stem had new leaves sprouting from the stem top. Intrigued, I asked a flower-seller friend of mine is this was usual and the reply was "no."

Every lily stem had dead leaves, which I'd left attached so I could photograph their strange appearance. My good neighbor across the street, thinking she was doing me a favor, stopped by one afternoon and removed nearly all the brown leaves, trying to make it more presentable. I caught her just in time.

Intrigued, I now kept a close eye on those lilies, watching how healthy they were, sitting there atop what still looked like dead stems. Then came the day I saw miniscule buds begin to appear. I watched them grow bigger and longer, then swell so large they began opening their inner beauty to the sun. What a glorious sight. What had once been two small potted lilies was now at least a dozen, and nearly all in gorgeous bloom.

One day as I was coming home from the grocery store, I passed by the plants and marveled at what they had become. I told the Lord how lovely they were and thanked him that they still lived, even though the original stems appeared so dead. "It's like they never died but just kept on living," I said to God as a passing comment.

As I opened the front door to bring in the grocery bags, a thought came so strongly to mind, I knew it was the Lord. I looked back at the lilies and marveled. God had used them as an illustration to give me joy and help me further heal. My heart swelled with praise to God. The lilies had appeared to be dead and yet they lived. Just like Jim.

Jim was the love of my life for more than fifty years. I will miss him everyday that I live and wait anxiously till I see him again in heaven.


"Precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of His saints." Psalm 116:15

Copyright 2011 by Sandra L Keith, All rights reserved

Top photo courtesy of MS Clip Art

All other photos are the property of the author and may not be reproduced

My Feedsack Childhood

So you wish to create a quilt that reminds you of your childhood on the farm. Well, unless you have a grandma or great grandma with a bulging quilt stash she's willing to pass on, you'll have to use the reproduction fabrics available at any quilt shop. They are called feed sack prints, but I argue with that--having worn the real thing for what seemed like forever.

I've read that during the 1930s, quilt making had a huge resurgence as women hoarded every fabric scrap available in order to keep their family warm. Those bits and pieces of cloth became the stuff of today's greatly prized heirloom quilts which have been long hidden from sight or usefulness simply because they are considered a family legacy.

Both my maternal and paternal grandmothers made quilts. Grandma Wood created colorful blankets filled with flannel. They weren't warm, but they were fun to sleep under. Grandma Legler cast her quilts of worn out coats, woolen trousers, flannel shirts and tattered dresses. The colorful quilts smelled like fresh laundry and sunshine; the ugly ones smelled of an old barn. Foolish child that I was, I preferred the pretty ones--even though I froze beneath them come Minnesota winters.

My mom didn't quilt. She was barely even a seamstress. Yet she gave it her best. It was the time of WWII and with everything needed for life rationed, she looked for fabric anywhere she could find it. The white muslin sugar and flour sacks became washcloths and kitchen towels. Her largest supply of free fabric came from our chicken hatchery where it arrived in 100 pound bags filled with chicken feed. Yes. Chicken feed.

Because my folks owned a hatchery in a small town on the southern Minnesota plains, I grew up surrounded by chickens, eggs, feed, and all the other products geared toward helping the farmers raise healthy hens that would produce eggs aplenty until they grew so old they were strictly stew pot offerings. In the meantime, chicken feed deliveries arrived every two weeks and I tried to be there when the sacks came in. My reason was always the same: to scout out multiple prints. I always hoped there wouldn't be any. To my dismay, there were usually three or four of the same design. When that happened, I knew I was doomed.

Mom always grabbed up the matching sacks. She always told the same story of how the feed was for our own chickens, to make sure they grew plump and meaty so the restaurants and food stores in town would order our chickens rather than someone EElse's. Young as I was, I knew that tale made no sense. If it was strictly the feed she wanted, what would it matter if the printed sacks matched?

She had plans for that fabric. And I knew what they were. Empty sacks were unsewn, washed till every hint of feed smell was gone, and then pinned to the backyard clothesline to flap in the wind. So there they waved, announcing to anyone passing by that one of the Legler girls was about to get new clothes. How embarrassing. That feed sack muslin, with its loose warp and weft weave would soon become a sun top or slacks or shorts or worse yet, if mom had three patching sacks, a dress for church or school.

My two younger sisters, whom I labeled as having no taste in clothes, thought they were cute. To me, anything sewn of  feed sacks was the bottom of the clothing world. Yet with textiles so difficult to obtain, I was forced to wear what was in the closet. Then came the day I put on the light blue sundress with the tiny yellow flowers printed on it and dutifully skipped off to school. That was the day it happened.

It entire school was at recess and I was going about minding my own business when I heard someone call my name. Who would it be but Peggy Gunderson. Now Peggy and I were acquaintances, but not what you'd call close friends. Nevertheless, there she came, running toward me with a big smile. As she grew closer, I heard her bullhorn mouth say "Sandy, we have on the same feed sack dress." I wanted to melt into the grass. As luck would have it, a lot of my friends were standing around close enough to hear and then began the questioning. "What's a feed sack? What do you do with it? Did you buy it at the store?" While I remained mute, Peggy filled in all the details and then more. Do you get the picture?

During the 1970s, quilting had another great resurgence and unwilling to let another generation of non-quilters pass by, I was nearly the first one in line for classes. Since I had no stash of quilt fabric, I asked my mom and grandma if they could spare some scraps. Mom gave me a huge box filled with bits and pieces of raggedy remains, but it was Grandma Wood who had the real treasure. Boxes and boxes of pieces came into my sewing room. I began weeding out, tossing fabric here and there. Then I stopped cold. On the bottom of one box lay the remnants of leftover feed sacks. I recognized an apron grandma had long ago sewn for me. And there was a skirt I'd once had. And there were the leftovers of a blouse she'd made.

With such a memorable stash on hand and quilt class moving at a snail's pace, I decided to teach myself to make a Double Wedding Ring quilt. It was the era of trace, cut, and sew--one tiny piece at a time. I spent nearly a year creating the quilt, which I decided had become a twin-sized masterpiece. I took it to be professionally quilted then brought it home and gently placed it across the back of my couch--the better to admire.

Then came the day my daughter and grandkids dropped by and the next thing I knew, Christie was holding the quilt, pointing to a piece here or there and saying aloud how each piece was part of her own life. "Look, mom, there's the dress Grandma Wood made me and there's the apron I had when I was seven and there's the doll clothes you made for my Barbie Doll.

The entire quilt was a combination of three generations. I deemed it a treasure to be passed down so I held it till my daughter's birthday and gave it to her along with instructions to pass on to her children the history of each scrap she recognized. "Be sure your kids know it's a family legacy," I told her, "and not something for the Goodwill Box when it's no longer useful.

Over the years, I've made many quilts yet have none to show for it. All a family member has to do is admire the quilt and it somehow finds its way to them. I figure I had the fun of creating it and that was enough. The joy of passing them on to a son or daughter-in-law or grandchild fulfills my joy. Yet what amazes me the most is how my mind has changed toward the feed sacks. Now that I'm past 70, I look at the years of history I've lived through and the fabrics that accompanied them and I realize I no longer dismay over my feed sack years. In fact, I'm proud of them. I lived in an era when things were kept, just in case someone else could use them. I lived in the time of feed sacks. Few are we who know what I'm talking about and for those of us who walked in those shoes, let it be known that we are the last of a whole breed.

Times like those will never come again. And while it is possible to enter any of today's quilt shops and find feed sack reproductions, few are truly accurate. Today's colors are too bright; the prints too big. My two sisters and I agree that what is passed off as reproductions do not fulfill the true feed sack product. Even so, those chicken feed sacks fabrics remain popular with quilters--most of whom I believe must have been city kids. Farm kids know better. We remember what we wore in those early days and although we know the colors and prints aren't right, we purchase them anyway, cut them into tiny pieces, and then meticulously sew them back together.

I've often thought of forming a club which only those of us who wore genuine feed sack clothes could join. Our goal would be to pass on the history of those years before it is completely forgotten. We can always count on school books to teach our children and grandchildren the history and politics of our nation. But nowhere else will they hear true feed sack stories but from those of us who were there.Now who's with me?

The first quilt I ever made was the Double Wedding Ring. Look closely and you'll find some of the feed sack prints along with other fabrics of the 1940s. Had I kept the quilt, I would have stored it but my daughter chose to use it. I dare say had the electric heating pad not been so toasty, her Persian kitten would probably have been curled up in the quilt. 

Copyright 2011 by Sandra L. Keith, All rights reserved
Photos are the authors and may not be reproduced without permission