Big Tree

  Supposedly the sense that is most capable of conjuring back instant memories is our sense of smell--odors, in other words.  But for me today it was two simple words I read in a kid's autobiography--Big Tree.  Not The Big Tree or A Big Tree.  Just Big Tree.  This kid today was describing in his paper a beloved childhood destination easily reached on his bicycle close to his grandma's.  I too had a "Big Tree" in my past, and when I read those words I zoomed there in light speed.  When I was 7 and 8 we lived in a modest two story frame home literally "on the other side of the tracks" in Malad, ID.  We'd moved there from our "city house" to save on rent, I believe.  My mother was working at Morton/Thiokol (of space shuttle fame); my father had a new job with the U.S. Dept. of Agriculture; my oldest sister was in love and almost graduating from high school; the rest of us were kids.  This little home was situated on some acreage and had some interesting outbuildings--an old chicken coop or two, a small orchard, a ramshackle garage, a swift ditch managed by the water master.  But its most interesting asset was a reservoir--think large body of water which inspired rafts, a little non-fishing, and general allure.  Beyond that lay a dirt road that stretched far and straight to the south.  And down that dirt road (about a better-pack-a-lunch length) was Big Tree.  Big Tree was just far enough that you didn't run down there after school.  You couldn't even really go there any time the urge seized you.  Big Tree took planning.  And as a 7 or 8 year old I most certainly wasn't brave enough to slip down there by myself!  Therefore, Big Tree was not really a destination--it was an event.  Going to Big Tree meant I'd fannagled some time out of one of the older kids.  What did we do there?  Throw cow pies.  Swing on the rope, Try to climb it.  Scoot up against the massive trunk and dig through a lunch sack.  Big Tree meant a long hot hike home with maybe a popsicle at the end, but most likely we'd have to settle for scraping some frost off the sides of the deep freeze with a kitchen spoon. How could THAT have possibly tasted good??  Going to Big Tree took something out of you--better plan on some prone TV time to wind down--Henry Aldrich, Mickey Mouse Club, Tarzan.  Nowadays ("There she goes waxing all eloquent about the good ol' days..."), I would hope ("Maybe she isn't going to!") that kids have some sort of destination point--a place to anticipate going to.  Not a Disneyland or a Raging Waters.  Just a Big Tree...with maybe a lunch and the captured attention of a sibling and the feel of a giant trunk rough and barky under your summer T-shirt.

The Last Leaf

Joseph F. Smith taught:  "Sometimes the Lord expands our vision from this point of view and this side of the veil, that we feel and seem to realize that we can look beyond the thin veil which separates us from that other sphere...and we would understand that those who have passed beyond, can see more clearly through the veil back here to us than it is possible for us to see them from our sphere of action.  I believe we move and have our being in the presence of heavenly messengers and of heavenly beings.  We are not separate from them.  And therefore, I claim that we live in their presence, they see us, they are solicitous for our welfare, they love us now more than ever, and their desire of our well being must be greater than that which we feel for ourselves."  Today I have too much to say, and yet not enough.  The room is so full, yet so empty.  We gather joyful to see each other, yet still find ourselves looking around for the honoree of the day.
     Norma Foulger, in her younger years, would have been part of the kitchen guard today, crowd-feeding wizard, card dealer, sneaker of spoons, author of fun and good times.  She was the Christmas of our youth.  Her teacher gifts bounty filled our Christmas stockings.  Ice cream snowballs, nuts 'n bolts, cheeseballs.  100% of her nieces and nephews--great and plain--knew that her presence meant the Best of Times.  Not only the copious food from her "bewitched" dinner table, but the after dinner games and stimulating conversation.  Christmas, summer trips to Lagoon.  She worked so hard, the sweat running off the tip of her nose, pushing the hand mower, pruning, weeding.
     All of us have unique memories of her major role in our lives, but we all share the common ground of 932 23rd St. and all that that means in our heritage--warmth, security, comfort, anticipation, generosity, and tears of laughter.  Grandma laughing until tears ran and she said, "Oh, Shaw!"  We remember the day Grandma bargained with Uncle John.  She'd start a journal if he'd shave off his beard.  We crowded into the bathroom to watch the hair fall.  The magic of that old house--mystery drawers, back porches, complete apartments in the basement.  Those people--aunts, uncles, cousins--live so wonderfully in our deepest hearts.  And so we gather today to celebrate the life of the last leaf on that trusted solid tree.
     The Aunt Norma remembered by the next generation was a good old soul of BINGO, spoons, Rook, Manipulation, and Pop Shoppe sodas.  The years took her siblings one by one--the grandparents of our children.  We remember Aunt Norma on family cruises, trips to Mexico and Europe and all over the U.S., trekking across Central Park to the Met only to find it closed on Mondays.  Good sport?  Graduations, birthdays, weddings, blessings, baptisms, family reunions.
      Nearly 20 years ago my own mother died.  Aunt Norma and I clung to each other in our grief, and she took center stage in my life at that time.  Her friends became my friends, my friends hers.  We knit together, watched Wheel of Fortune and Jeopardy, shared stories, bottled fruit, sifted through thrift stores, bounced grandchildren, decorated her condo for Christmas, and filled the years.  I found her stubborn, strong-willed, opinionated, enigmatic, tireless, thrifty to a fault (many contents of her kitchen drawers need to go right to the Smithsonian Museum of American History!), thorough, and the sharpest thinker in my circle.
     Her friends over all the years were central and critical to her happiness.  How she loved them.  How they loved her for her keen ability to play bridge and make them laugh.  She served at church, in clubs, around her neighborhood.  Willing, prompt, capable.
     The years slowed her down a little.  She fell and broke a leg, got a few parts replaced, snarled her way through a month in a nursing facility, and came right back up, determined to walk, get out the door, and move on down the road.  At 92 she bought a new car, for heaven's sake!  25 years behind the gift counter at  Union Station.  If her till was one cent off, they said she fretted and threatened resignation.  I turned her station key in to Becky about a month ago.  How cool is that?
     I leave you with a final visual image of Norma Foulger.  Every day for as far back as my memory goes she worked crossword puzzles.  This is her crossword dictionary--pristine NOT.  Sometimes she asked me for answers.  I played along, occasionally pulling her out of a bind.  Modern experts recommend crossword puzzles, knitting, and travelling to fight off old age and dementia.  Take a note, dear listener...
      Aunt Norma, you worked the acrosses and the downs of your life.  You read the clues, processed the information, looked a few unknowns up in a book (which you have apparently worn out!).  Your pencils (perhaps older than many here today) are worked down to a nub.  Your eraser is smooth and brittle.  We are gathered today to send you off.  Bon Voyage!  At the risk of oversentamentalizing and giving in to our full emotions, may we just pause and thank you and wish you a glorious next chapter.  And here's a new word clue for your collection from my daily Merriam-Webster email a few days before your death:  cathexis--investment of mental or emotional energy in a person, object, or idea.  Thanks for "cathexis-ing" us and allowing us to "cathexis" you.  We love you.  Enjoy your journey.  Know that a part of each of us goes with you.  Our faith and the faith of our fathers assures us that you live on, unshackled, walking again--flying now.

Norma Foulger
(1918-2012)

"I'm Not Just Another Pretty Face!"

And so says Mrs. Patmore as she confronts a spice salesman in her kitchen who compliments her cooking.  He was smooth.  His next compliment to her at the fair involved the words 'your blouse'--'just stepped out of'--and 'Vogue'.  We could all see where this was going, but did she????  Was she (as Mrs. Hughes accused her) picturing herself in another life?  One away from Downton?  But the old gal came to her senses, laughed off her foolishness, and drank tea as she and Mrs. Hughes nodded sagely.  Which brings me to the end of Season 3.  Don't get your knickers in a frenzy!  I'm not going to give it away!  Paco and I watched Episodes 5,6,7, and 8 on dvd in a bit of a marathon on Friday, courtesy of a good friend onto whom we had "inflicted" Downton Abbey in the first place, thank you.  She loaned it to us even BEFORE she'd watched it--qualification alone for sainthood.  Would it be spoiling to just say...hmmmm....what can I say..."umm...STINKING REALLY, BBC?????????????????"

My Feelings on Deer--Bambi Excepted

I think deer are vermin.  They are the rodents of the woods.  They leap out of nowhere and send cars reeling off the side of the road, wounded and bent, causing thousands and thousands and thousands of dollars of damage and untold months of car repairs, to say nothing of insurance rates..  I think deer lack character and are generally parasites of the planet.  Graceful?  Nope.  Beautiful?  Not even.  Creatures of God?  Maybe just marginally.  My personal experience with deer has been nothing but discomfort and heavy annoyance:

• Once a deer barged across the highway outside of Soda Springs one spring (yes, you read that right--not even the decency to restrict themselves to one season) as Cheryl Belnap and I were returning from class at Idaho State.  This deer OBLITERATED my newly paid for Ford Festiva.
• Deer by the thousands invaded our large corner yard in New Jersey.  You couldn't even shoo them away, the lowlifes.  They chewed our garden down to the nubs and wiped my perennials off the face of the earth.
• Last October another deer lay in wait one dark night in Wyoming as I returned from Cokeville with a carload of young girls.  As I approached, he threw himself through the air smartly glancing off the front right headlight.  That pirouette resulted in screams and subsequent wallet squeezing repairs compounded by 6 weeks of Subaru-lessness because the mechanic got bit by a spider and couldn't go to work!!
• EVERY year I have ever taught in Idaho when hunting season approaches, deer fever seizes 90% of my students rendering them glassy-eyed and useless.  Young 12 year old boys, ink still wet on their hunting licenses, doodle antlers in their writing journals, stand in the halls with arms spread to demonstrate rack sizes, write endless journal entries involving blood, guns, near misses yadayadayada.  Barbaric.  For awhile our school sponsored a "Biggest Rack" contest.  Kids, many still pre-pubescent for heaven's sake, drug in racks of all manner--some still with bloody hair attached.  One kid didn't get the memo to detach the head BEFORE he carted in the antlers, so we all had nightmares for weeks of his deer head--tongue lolling--being proudly hoisted up onto the contest table in the hall.  Bad bad.  
• Deer fever so permeates a young kid's life that I've seen them over and over obsess about getting a truck with a gun rack.  All other focus in life steps aside, and consequently so do goals and academics.  Trucks are worse than girlfriends. 

Let's just say I have strong issues.  So this morning at 6:30 while I'm sitting placidly  at the computer desk knitting and finishing up the audio of Moroni, Paco flings open the door to the office and bursts in.  I nearly infarc.  Madd: "WHAT ARE YOU DOING???????????  YOU SCARED ME TO DEATH!!!!!!!!!!!!!  WHAT WERE YOU THINKING??????????????????????"
Paco:  "There are deer in the backyard."  Madd: "I HATE DEER!!!!  I CAN'T STAND DEER!!  I COULD CARE LESS ABOUT DEER!!!!!"  And Paco retreats.  See what I mean?

And She's Back...

I've taken a hiatus.  But those of you who know me know that I'm on the home stretch huffing my way towards 60.  And 60 this year not only means 60 books, 60 ya-da-ya-da-ya-da's (more on that later), but also 60 blogposts!!!  So this is me screeching back onto the blog scene.  "Let's welcome her back from ???????  And let's hear it for Mad Hadder!!!!!!!!!  Whooooo!!!!  Yay!!!!!!!!!"
Yes, I have been away--both mentally and physically.  Three months worth of away, and that is probably way more away than my readers could handle.  Perhaps my readers will drift back, hopeful that Madhadder will perk up and join the general hubbub again.
"It was a quiet week in Lake Wobegon..." 

Wanted: One Mouser Cat

Must be willling to work nights.  During day must assume another identity so as not to traumatize resident dog.  Mouser Cat must possess keen mousing skills and be able to dispose of all remains before sunrise.  Salary commensurate with experience and results.  Please come for interview in a disguise.

"Next to the Last of the Mohicans"

I like this guy.  He exhibits pluck and exudes savoir faire, no?  Furthermore, I can relate to him.  That guy in history who "also ran".  The common foot soldier in the historical battle that turns the tide of history.  The inconspicuous mother of a statesman that sways the masses.  The best friend of James Dean or the next door neighbor of Albert Schweitzer.  A small peg in the wheel that moves the history of mankind forward whose name will only be known to a small handful.  My fifty ninth year seems to be rolling out as highly introspective.  I want to hit 60 with a splash.  Perhaps it's the significance of yet another decade or the realization that the NEXT decade birthday I encounter may be full of drool and artificial parts.  So, in preparation for my upcoming birthday in the spring I've been striving to pack some things into this year that I may not have normally considered significant.  I'm reading 60 books, giving away 60 things, walking 60 miles, going vegetarian for 60 days, doing 60 blog posts--you get the picture.  My goal is to cap off the year with 60 miles on the Appalachian Trail if anyone would like to join me.  I realize that by going public I lay myself out for inspection.  That's OK.  Maybe someone will "go thou and do likewise."  Perhaps I'll write a book about it.  Not sure the world is on the edge of it's global seat waiting for my post-menopausal ruminations, but then again, I feel somewhat compelled to turn to the faceless throng and at least give a wave and a goofy grin...