Nostalgia all over the place

 

A small blowout

My youngest grandson, Kegan David, broke his leg in a “hard soccer collision” yesterday. It will, we’re told, require surgery, and his soccer season is over—just when it was ending anyway. Kegan is an athlete—lean and tall at fifteen (a birthday in a week), he’s too slight for football but is in demand because he’s a terrific kicker; even when he was tiny for his size, he was asked to play on teams of boys three and four years older than he was; a year or so ago, he decided to take up track as well and was no slouch at the pole vault. This is his second broken bone—if he is to keep up with his father’s early teen record, he has two more to go. At this point, however, he is tied with his Austin cousin, Sawyer, who broke his femur skiing and smashed an elbow doing some kind of trick bike riding. I have suggested that the boys should take up golf or swimming. Actually, Sawyer’s favorite sport is playing his guitar, so he’s less likely to break bones these days.

A much younger Kegan,
but look at that attitude!

But the broken leg made me nostalgic because I began to reflect on how my seven grands have grown—and, in truth, to miss the babies they were. I remember how the two older girls, Maddie and Edie, were always so anxious to nursemaid the little boys. When she was two or three, Edie talked incessantly about “Baby Sawyee.” And Maddie was always ready to play a game, change a diaper, do whatever the little boys wanted—well, almost. Somewhere on my computer are some adorable pictures. It’s true what they say—the time flies. My grands now include one college graduate, one college freshman, two high school rising seniors, a rising junior, and two rising sophomores. How did this happen?

Kegan this year

Then this morning in that banner MSN flashes across my Edge screen there was a feature about a beach-y national park just miles from Chicago. I knew instantly that meant the Indiana dunes. What I didn’t know is that there is now a national park adjacent to the Indiana Dunes State Park. I browsed with longing through pictures of beaches, carved into narrow strips by the encroaching water, and great blowouts—areas where no vegetations holds the sand and the wind has carved out saucer-shaped depressions or hollows, some quite large. Those are the scenes of my summer childhood.

My family had a cottage on a high dune, three long staircases above the beach. Mom used to tell us we were at the very foot of the lake as we watched storms roll in—I loved seeing the lake at its wildest, but for swimming I wanted calm ripples. The back of our cottage sat squarely in the woods, where the outhouse was—scary trip at night. We had no electricity, no running water (a cistern). Mom scalded dishes wit boiling water after she washed them, and our refrigerator was a three-shelf box that was lowered into a deep hole to sit on top of a huge ice block. You knew to always put milk in the bottom shelf where it stayed the coldest. When we finally got bottled gas, we thought we were really uptown.

The blowout pictures took me back to the time Mom made me and a friend hike all the way across a huge blowout, in the hot summer, so we could be dots in her picture—and that’s what we were: little black dots dwarfed by this huge, sandy landscape. And the beach pictures—when I was a kid, there were houses at the first level, kind of the top of the beach, where we got drinking water from a pump (and carried it up all those stairs!). Those houses, including one belonging to a family friend, have all long since washed into the lake. And speaking of drinking water, I will always remember the night we heard a plop—a mouse had fallen into the drinking water. We cried over a whole pail gone to waste, and Mom had to sterilize the pail.

When I was young, the beach was
three times this wide.

Today I was carried back to the past looking at the pictures. They say when you are troubled, you should go, in your mind, to a safe spot. My safe spot is a little knoll on the second level of the dune. Sitting there, with my arm around a wild collie mix female inappropriately named Timmy, I could look to the northeast at evening and see the round orange ball of the sun slowly sinking behind the skyscrapers of Chicago, which look like toothpicks from that distance. It is, for me, a serene spot. Somewhere there is a picture of that. Wish I could find it.

What about you? Is there your version of a comforting dune in your mind?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Believe It Or Not, This Beachy National Park Sits Just Outside Chicago (msn.com)

 

Of storms, trees, and happy hour

 

We just had a lovely storm come through my little corner of the world, the kind with no hail, no wind, little lightning, but dark skies, lots of thunder, and a gentle rain. I have the patio doors open and thoroughly enjoyed that fresh, wet smell. And the temperature, which had been in the low nineties, cooled down about twenty degrees. A neighbor emailed that she’s like Sophie—nervous about the thunder.

And that triggered a memory for me. When I was a kid, we had a cabin, really primitive, in the Indiana dunes. No electricity, no plumbing—we carried drinking water up three flights from the beach, used cistern water from a pump to wash dishes and then scalded them (probably not as sanitary as my mom thought at the time), and used an outhouse for private needs.

The cabin sat on a high dune at the very foot of Lake Michigan, and one of the joys of our summer times there was to watch a storm roll down the length of the lake, stirring up giant whitecaps in the water and turning the sky black. Bless my mom, for she taught us way back then to relish a storm and never be afraid. To this day I love a good storm, though I admit in Texas the possibility of tornados and hail make me nervous. And I have lived through a few storms that caused major damage, like one that took out my entire cookbook collection because the roof leaked.

After the storm passed tonight, the sky lightened, and for a while it had that eerie glow, a sort of greenish cast, that the atmosphere sometimes gets after a storm. I do understand that once again there was damage to the north of us, and I pray there were no injuries.

Most people worry about trees being damaged in our Texas spring storm. No such worries for us, because a huge branch—I mean huge!—fell off the old elm tree in front of the house this afternoon, well before the storm. No reason, except maybe age. It just fell. Since it is in the boulevard—the strip between sidewalk and street—it is the city’s tree, so I called the forestry department of Parks and Recreation. They made sure it isn’t blocking a sidewalk or a street (it isn’t) and said they will come look. We’ve lost big branches from that tree before, and each time I call the city I am afraid they’ll just take the whole tree down. It is probably a hundred years old—the age my house will be next year. I’m sure the house—and my daughter and her family who live in it now—would feel naked and exposed without that big tree which somehow seems to anchor us to our world. Then again, it does cross my mind that the whole tree could fall in the direction of the house. An arborist once explained to me that they are in the business of saving trees, not cutting them down, so I will wait to see what happens with this one.

A friend whose company I much enjoy came for happy hour tonight, and we timed it just perfectly. It was pleasant and lovely, and we caught up on each other—it had been too long. First we were waiting for vaccines, and then the weather was not patio weather, and then once we could be inside, she was sick, so tonight was a treat even though she had to leave for a meeting and I had a Zoom event, which it turned out I couldn’t log into because I had an invalid i.d. But just as we decided we had to go inside, I felt the first drops of rain hit my face. Good timing.

A good day. I wrote 1200 words and felt like I still have some momentum on my new project. And I heard from the editor to whom I sent my Helen Corbitt project—he assured me they would give it serious consideration and said nice things about my stature as a Texas writer. Everybody loves ego strokes, and I’m no exception.

Storm watch until eleven, so I’m going to lock up for the night, get in my jammies, and read the mystery I’m enjoying—Susan Van Kirk’s Death Takes No Bribes. Stay safe, everyone.

One man’s happiness

Father’s Day, and I’m sitting at my desk, worrying about all the dads who wanted to spend their day on the golf course. It’s almost as dark as night, and the thunder and rain have been constant all afternoon. When I napped, I had an anxious dog snuggled up next to me.

We went to early church—no wonder I’m sleepy—and afterwards had a delightful brunch, apparently Christian’s favorite meal. Now they have gone to Coppell to see his parents and pick up Jacob who spent the weekend there.

The internet is full of memories of fathers today, and most of them are being described as fun and crazy. Makes me think about my dad. He was never crazy but one of the most disciplined men I ever met. Fun? Only when you were old enough to appreciate his droll humor. Dad was Canadian and very much an Anglophile at heart. He liked order and routine, and Mom gave it to him.

I was his only child (a sister died at six months), though he raised my half-brother. Theirs was not always a meeting of the minds until John was old enough to appreciate Dad’s virtues and approach him as an adult. Dad was, among other things, a stickler for respect and table manners (the British version—I still want to switch my fork from the left, for cutting, to the right for eating—it drove him crazy, as did buttering your bread in the air. And elbows on the table? Never! No hats at the table either—perish the thought.).

But I got to thinking today, as I read about all these joyful fathers, whether or not my father was a happy man, and I concluded he was. Without boasting, I’ll say I know that I made him happy (except for the few major times I disappointed him). He was proud of me, as I was proud of him.

My mom made him happy. She ran what to his mind was the perfect household—meat and potatoes for dinner at six every night, served at a table covered with a white linen tablecloth and linen napkins at every place. Anyone remember napkin rings? And she was a perfect intellectual match for him, being equally as well read. She acceded to his belief that women should not work outside the home, though I think she sometimes longed to. She compensated with volunteer activities.

I think of three happy places for my dad. He, an osteopathic physician, president of an osteopathic college, and administrator of the associated hospital, liked nothing better than to put on old, disreputable clothes and work in his garden. When I was growing up in Chicago, we had a beautiful garden in the empty lot which was part of our property. Dad was equally happy on our annual vacation to the Indiana Dunes, where we had a primitive cottage—no electricity, no indoor plumbing. You had to walk a mile to get to it, carrying your clothes and groceries. But with woods to the back of the cabin and a sweeping view of Lake Michigan to the front, it was a little bit of heaven. Food tasted better, you slept better, and a swim in the lake was the highlight of the day.

Mom and Dad retired to North Carolina, the foothills of the Smokies where they had honeymooned, and Dad once again had a glorious garden. Mom had fresh roses on her dining table every day (the linen cloth had gone the way of all good things). Dad would come in from the garden, shower and put on a fresh shirt, and they’d have a proper British tea, with milk of course, never cream, and always some kind of biscuit.

Today it sounds like an old-fashioned life and maybe even by the sixties and seventies, it was. But looking back, I would say my dad was a happy man. He had professional success, a family he loved, and life that just suited him. Not many of us can say that.

My tranquil spot

   

They say everyone should have a safe spot in their mind where they can go, mentally, to find peace, tranquility, respite from daily confusions. For many years, mine was a small outcropping on a dune above Lake Michigan in the Indiana Dunes State Park. My family had a cottage higher up on the dune, and we spent many happy summer days and nights there. I remember going to “my spot” with our dog, a wild collie mix, a female inappropriately named Timmy. She loved to roll her shoulders in the dead fish on the beach, but when I called her to my spot, she would come obediently and sit quietly by my side. From that spot, I could watch the sun set behind the distant skyscrapers of Chicago. On a good night, the sun would be an orange ball, and the skyscrapers but tiny black dots against it.

I won’t pretend that I meditated or thought deep thoughts when I sat there at the age of seven or eight, but I do know as an adult, when troubled, I would close my eyes and imagine myself in that spot, with Timmy, watching the sun set. It was soothing and somehow made me feel better. Sometimes, but not always, it helped me think clearly about whatever was troubling me.

In the last couple of years, that dunes perch has given way in my mind to a new spot: sitting in rocker on the shore of the tiny lake in Tomball where that branch of my family—Colin, Lisa, Morgan, Kegan, and Grace the dog—live. When I visit in the summer, we take glasses of wine down there at sunset and sit to enjoy the encroaching dark, despite mosquitoes and flies and gnats. The water is always calm, though an occasional fish breaks the surface.

There’s no swimming in the lake—snakes and pollution from the stables next door prevent that, so the family swims in a pool. But my grandsons have fished from the bank with more enthusiasm than results, and occasionally some venture out in a canoe.

This Christmas visit I had not been down to the lake in five days—we’ve been too busy, and the evenings have been too chilly. But today, about four, Colin helped me down the stairs and brought a glass of wine. The lake was absolutely still, its surface like glass, and the temperature was neither too warm nor too chilly. I could stare at the lake and see a tiny house on the not-too-distant shore and another house, closer, on the side of Colin’s property. In the far distance I could see—and barely hear—cars on Highway 2920.  I soaked up tranquility. Not sure I’m a better person for it, but I am a happier camper.

Tomorrow I go back to Fort Worth, but I am already looking forward to a summer visit. And until then, I have my safe spot in my mind.

The magic of a sunset

Far too early in the afternoon, the shadows begin to fall long across the lake at Camp Tomball, and the light takes on a rosy glow. The house directly across the lake, a modest structure that could probably use some siffing up and one of only four houses, takes on a romantic rosy glow. We are reminded that sunset is early; it’s winter, and we aren’t in for a long summer evening, making s’mores over a fire pit until midnight. Tonight the air will turn a bit chilly, and I bet we’re all tucked in not too long after ten.

The three kids have done country kids things today. This morning they disappeared, but sent back an occasional runner. Once was probably to ask for breakfast, because pretty soon Lisa put a huge platter of waffles out with a bowl of strawberries and some syrup. I quietly drank my protein drink.

The next runner who came back announced Jacob had a splinter in his foot. Why was he barefoot in December where he could get a splinter? Don’t ask. Lisa set off with oil, a needle and a Band-Aid and soon was back, reporting success. They all went bowling about three this afternoon.

Just while I sat here, the sky turned more blue, with one great white cloud and soft fluffy light pink clouds at the skyline. Sunsets are fascinating—different every night.

When I was a kid, we had a cabin at the Indiana Dunes State Park. Our cabin was at the top of a huge Dune (I always thought of it as the third floor, maybe because we reached it by two long flights of stairs from the beach), The sun set to the northwest of us, across the water of Lake Michigan, to end many nights as a huge flaming ball outlining what appeared to be the miniscule skyscrapers of Chicago. My dad would go to his favorite spot on the “second floor landing” and take pictures of the sunset. Our dog, a wonderful female collie mix named Timmy, followed him and so sometimes did I.

When Daddy died he had literally thousands of slides (this was the ‘50s) of sunsets. I cried as I threw them away, but I’ve never forgotten those dramatic sunsets. and I can see Dad with his camera, calling out, “Look at this, look at this!”

Shiver me timbers, bite my tongue, and whatever. The outside temperature is 52, and everyone is by the fire pit making s'mores. We ended the day with a post-sunset mishap--Colin was outside for something and found Morgan on the ground, whimpering. She'd fallen off the trampoline, and the boys, not realizing she was hurt, had gone off and left her. Damage amounts to a few bumps and bruises and a bad scrape on one leg. She'll soon recover, and we would have quickly missed her if Colin hadn't found her. It could have been a lot worse.Hazards of being a country child.
It dawns on me I refer to these kids as country cousins, yet they live  in a small city and probably feel as much urban dwellers as they were in Kingwood or Sugar Land. But here the house is on acreage,, with the lake, swimming pool, barn and arena. Sure feels like country to this city kid.