That crack in the concrete....

My grandfather has been an ever present image in my memories.  Even the very first of memories, from years ago, from when children probably shouldn't be able to have memories.  Curled up under his very tanned arm on our very cheap and old sofa, velvet upholstery of an autumn color scheme.  Itchy if you didn't sit just right on it, hence the old bed sheets that were often draped over it, although having tears in the cushions might have been the reason for the sheet as well.  He wore a light cotton sleeveless shirt, it was summer, it was warm but I still sat under his arm, the skin of his hands rough on my tiny legs.  His gold colored watch rolling loosely on his wrist.  He smelled of his cologne.  Of course, I have seen a photo of this very image many times, so is it truly a memory, or just implanted in my head from viewing the photo and studying its details.  Or maybe one enhances the other.

Either way, Grandpa Ludwig was always close, only a couple houses down the street.  I can remember the time the neighbor boys thought it would be fun to tow me around in a wagon tied clumsily to the back of an old bike.  Being a nasty boy, Chris was his name, he slammed back on the pedals locking up the brakes and sent my head reeling over my knees, banging with a thud against the back wall of the wagon.  Chipped two of my front baby teeth.  I screamed, probably, and grandpa came running (in my head he was running) down the street, scooped me up and took me inside my house.  I remember the taste of blood, the bike was blue, and how light grandpa made me seem in his arms.  A bit like I can remember my dad, vaguely, carrying me sat on his shoulders.  I miss being that tiny, that small, and that blissfully happy.

We value the innocence of our children do we not?  We value their untainted and beautiful views on the world and how utterly fascinated the smallest of things can be to them.

I can feel the innocence of my childhood very strongly.  I feel it's gradual waning and fading so sharply, like a sudden bitter taste that doesn't easily fade.

I am very hesitant to type this next thought.  It is the reason for my reflection but each time I come to its precipice, a flood of memories, like those I've mentioned, keeps my heart in denial.  Makes me that little 7 year old girl again, happy to be sitting on the couch with her favorite grandpa.  This year may very well be the last Christmas with grandpa.

He always told me he thought it would be so terrible to lose his mind before his body eventually gave in.  I can remember that very clearly.  Grandpa was not deluding himself with any thoughts of staving off death as long as possible.  His crystal clear grasp of mortality and reason and practicality and compassion were always evident in everything he did and said.

There it is, past tense already....I should correct myself....

The Ludwig family has practically no drama whatsoever.  We do not easily excite, or enrage...well okay, maybe one or two of us do...but on the whole, we do not make mountains of mole hills, as the old saying goes.  We gather for holidays, drink our old fashions, play our sheepshead, and put butter and gravy on everything.  There are also no fewer than a half dozen desserts sitting on the table after any holiday meal.

Grandpa always appeared as the solid, unchanging anchor of it all.  Sitting among his children and grandchildren, just enough in number to fill the house, but not to crowd it.  Humbly taking joy out of the small things with which life had blessed him.  I admired him.  I wanted to be that satisfied with life.

I would not say he "settled" for what he had - the usage implies a lack of applying a skill or ability for greater achievement.  But he was a settled human being.  He was happy.  He enjoyed simple things.

He still does.  But it is harder and harder to see him, to talk to him, to ask him questions, discuss the weather, or even play cards.  Secretly I had always keenly observed his mannerisms while playing cards.  In the last year, even that has become difficult for him.  He cannot deal very well anymore.  Some days are better than others, probably depending on his medicine regimen.  The man who used to be able to tell me the last two cards I was holding, struggles to remember what suit was led now.

I love my grandpa.  I have been telling him more often when I see him these days.  He still knows my name when I come through the door, and I hope he still has images like I do in his memories somewhere.  Though he may not be able to remember "what I've been up to lately," at least he remembers that one time in church on Sunday, many years ago, when I decided I was going to run all the way up the center aisle and around the pews to the back of church.  Apparently one of the ushers was chasing me the whole way, and I couldn't stop laughing.

And I'm so very happy that each time I walk out the door of their house, take two steps, and look down, I see the jagged crack, like a river viewed from space, contorting in different directions across the driveway pavement.  It was the "coffin corner" on our childhood basketball court.  Our short, weak arms thrusting the ball hopelessly at the hoop after taking a running start.  That soft, worn leather ball flying out of our hands and landing a good ten feet short of the rim.  Grandpa standing on the other side to gather our rebound, walk back to the same crack, and, with the flair of a man completely satisfied with his life, squat gently with the ball dropping between his knees, and heaved it upward, "granny style" before it fell with a wispy swoosh through the bottom of the net.

My Disclaimer

Well that's typical - start one project, work on it until I get distracted or bored, then move on to something else.  According to the date of my last blog, that's exactly what happened and pretty much what is typical behavior for me.

I've known people who have gone so far as to keep a tiny note pad that they scribble ideas on, or even pulling out a cell phone to record themselves trying to speak what their minds are wrapped up in - I've fallen victim to that as well.  Sometimes it's helpful, having a mechanism to instantly capture a few of the many vast and complex thoughts our brains churn out on a daily basis.  Mostly, I just wish my own brain was better organized to start with, then trying to select topics and stick to them wouldn't be so difficult.

Rambling is something I do in general, in person, so if you know me, reading this blog is pretty identical to any conversation you might elicit from me.  I have friends out there who love this about me and I have friends who take no pleasure from it at all.  This is the conundrum I face when thinking about trying to write - why does it pay to exert the effort to communicate my thoughts to a broad audience if I'm not going to reach all of them?  Or worse, if some of them will think me flimsy and a klutz as far as writing is concerned?

The other thing that constantly presents itself as a hurdle is my infatuation with idealism and drama and love and poetry and all those other romantic afflictions that can make a person's writing seem drippy or sappy or unexciting.  My mind floats all over, taking in everything at once.

But there it is, the inner apology creeping out into the open.  Though not solicited by anyone, it's my disclaimer.  It's me saying, well if you don't like my writing, at least don't dislike me.  That's exactly what every paragraph has been eluding to since the start of this entry.

Well - I'm not apologizing anymore.  I will do my best not to step forcefully on anyone else's thoughts and feelings, but out the window goes this drizzling everything I say or write with a layer of syrup before it goes out of my head.

......yeah right....

Typically when I start a blog, I have a fairly good grasp of what I want to write.  Usually there is a starting point, a middle theme, and a neat as a bow tied up ending.  I do this out of consideration for the few readers I have, because any of you who know me, know my brain works on several topics at once, and were I given a podium at which to preach my knowledge to the world, I would probably perform a feat of unending blabbering that Rand Paul would envy.

Tonight is different; tonight I don't know for certain that I will publish this entry when I finish.  The critic in me is hardest on myself, and would destroy my thoughts before making them blatantly public.  It's my disdain for self-centeredness and vanity.  I guarantee you I will count how many "I's" I typed in this diatribe before I post it.  

Lately the radiant heat of summer in Wisconsin has me appreciating every little bit of the world I experience.  Thankfully the rain hasn't been as scarce as last year, so I'm privileged by the grace of Mother Nature to have a very lovely garden on display.  There are days that it's beauty and peace are exotic enough to me that I can feel balanced, undisturbed, and content.  Each day the sun breaks through the tall pines and illuminates the edges of my garden boxes, sets alight the petals of my flowers, is a good day.  The cluster of birds begin lining up for their morning feeding; swapping spots in the bird bath and poking at each other playfully.  Some days this is enough.  Some days, this is a paradise anyone would envy.

Do the infinite possibilities of this world pull so strongly at other people as they do at me sometimes?  How is it possible to feel so completely at peace and settled in one corner of this globe, and yet still want so urgently to drop everything at a moment's notice and set out to see the unseen?  Travel bug you say?  Possibly.....

Few people really know me.  I guess I've never felt it necessary to explain myself to the world.  The world and I have always understood each other.  It's other humans that are often a puzzle to me.  Too often my blunt observations have gotten past the barrier of my lips and I've regretted it.  It happens to us all, but I can honestly say that I don't feel bad about it.  I guess my opinion is that you need to be strong enough in your sense of self to not let those things get to you.  

Why do so many people go about set on propelling themselves into the social abyss of trying to be something that in the end will be nothing but a pile of dust anyway?  Embrace mortality and discover the freedom that comes with it.  I can't remember the exact quote, but I believe it came from an excerpt written by the late Roger Ebert, and had a similar theme.  He wrote about how few people understand what it means to really live an enlightened existence.  He said, and I'm paraphrasing, that people die all the time, every day, thousands and thousands of them.  However, the way to go on living after you die is to have ideas that stick around.  Don't waste energy on trying to preserve your looks, or your possessions - instead work on preserving your ideas.  Share them with people.  Communicate.  Change the world in a small way.  

I like that thought.  It's not practical, everyday living.....it's above it.  It's being unselfish.  It's being truly grateful to just breathe everyday.  It's setting an example of a full life, and a life well-lived.  

The Sugar Shack

Days like today, when the sun finally seems risen from its lazy banking along the horizon to announce the arrival of Spring, and the only clouds in the sky are wispy jet contrails smeared in every direction matching the thick blotches of snow still left covering the ground, remind me of a tiny old shack standing in a bit of woods with smoke piping happily from its tiny metal chimney.

When I remember the happy times of being a kid, there are specific images that immediately pop into my head; the local village fair with its carnival rides and sugar-smelling thick hot air, or the old timber train bridge that ran over the crick behind my cousin's house where we would spend hours fishing and exploring.  The Sugar Shack is one of these as well.

Late winter and early spring have some magic about them.  The clean beauty of the snow still blankets the countryside, but the sun is out longer, making it easier to be outside.   It is when nature is truly in balance - light and dark, warm and cold, beauty and ugliness.  

As I walked today, the tree branches above me were different.  Their buds were starting to swell.  Life was starting to course through their veins.  Like most things truly delicious, maple syrup comes from collecting this life from nature and adding a little extra energy.  The Sugar Shack was our source of energy. 

The melting snow made the ground in the woods between the trees and on the trail very soft and muddy.  I can remember my boots getting stuck a few times and having to flail like a wounded bird to free myself.  The sucking sound that came from the brown mud always made me laugh.  The parallel lines of the tree trunks were dotted by white pails hanging everywhere.  On a warm day, those pails would fill with sugary sap.

It was something so appealing to the senses - the charred smell of the burning wood heating the vats of sap, the candied syrup coming off the pan in thick caramel strands, the freshly carved hole in the side of the tree leaking the wet sweetness (sometimes in steady streams) down the metal spouts.  Freezing toes from collecting the pails in the woods were easily warmed by a few minutes sitting inside the shack.  It was a simple wood frame with corrugated metal walls sitting atop some stone.  Couldn't have been more than 15x15, with thin windows on the south and west sides.  A shelf above the windows held an array of various tools, a spoon hung off a hook (for tasting of course) and scratched on the beams framing the sliding door were the yields from the past years.

Sat in the far chair away from the door was Elmer.  A tiny waif of a man, puffing on his pipe, his brimmed hat sitting just askew over his crinkled brow. For some reason I can't remember him having teeth or not, but he was nearly always smiling.  I think it's because he smiled through his eyes more than anything.  There are only two places I picture Elmer when I try to remember him:  on his orange tractor seat bouncing happily as he drove the trailer through the woods collecting sap, or sitting on that corner chair in the sugar shack, tending the fire and giving his predictions on the weather.

In reality I'm sure my brothers and I were only in those woods for a day or two each spring, but remembering it makes it seem almost like a special vacation.  As though it lasted for weeks, with no school in between. I remember it as though those woods were our home until the life in the trees had reached its climax and could no longer be tapped into our little pails.  What a vacation that would be - collecting life from trees and turning it into candy!

Thoreau and Emerson

Lately I have been becoming more closely acquainted with some writings of the aforementioned Transcendentalist writers.  I feel as though I've stumbled upon a group of old friends.  Nelson Mendela once said that there is nothing like returning to a place that remains the same to see the ways in which you yourself have changed.  That about sums it up for me and Emerson.  I remember my college English professor pushing a wide variety of literature on our first year impressionable minds.  

I've decided to brave it and lay out a few of my own attempts at expressive poetry.  I've always held an appreciation for the Iambic Pentameter crowd, however, as much as I've tried I do not think that is my medium.  So here is the first one, and appropriately it's about Spring:

The old, brittle, useless stems
damp with the still morning air
are brown.
The type of brown that looks dead,
and dry
and hollow.

They are a snapshot of time, frozen in their attempt
at reaching above the saturated ground.
A mere etching of the lush greenery
they used to be.
Last summer,
When they were alive.  
When nature's nectar flowed through their bodies.

Nearly buried in the black muck,
at the base of the dead steams, 
protrudes a green head, born of the deep soil,
crowning through the mangled bush of old growth
reaching for the sun,
for the light,
for the life - the life that began in the ground
and now will spring into the air,
bearing it's fragile body to the elements.

All in the hope of living another Summer,
blooming another Fall,
and becoming frozen stiff, preserved in death, another Winter.

That early morning winter blue

Remember that excitement filling your bones as winter drew near?  Slowly, pieces of outer wear started turning up on the coat rack - mittens, scarves, hats, and soon enough the snow was hitting the ground in big white balls of fluff.  It came down so thick, as if not real...being tossed on us by the handfuls from the sky above.

Kids love winter.  I have yet to see a child not get thrilled at the thought of bundling layers over their body, only to be given the go ahead to scream out the door and wildly leap into the first big pile of snow they see.  It's a way of life around here.  Any place that has 4 seasons (yes I know, some of us Wisconsin cynics complain that there are only two seasons - winter and road construction) has a bit of magic.  There is a speed to each metamorphosis that can seem deathly slow.  One 90 degree day after another in the peak of July, or one -25 degree day after another in the bleak of January.  But the magic happens at the first hint of the arrival of that next season.

The first flecks of green appearing in spring, from the dead brown ground.  Like the dead awakening, reaching for the renewing sunlight.  Then the first blossom; always the most special.  Soon all the fields and yards and gardens are full of color.  Lush and beautiful.  Rarely do we notice the first leaf to flash gold in August.  It isn't until full patches of orange and yellow and red start to appear, that we know autumn has begun to greet us.

Then that first snow!  Not the dust that might fall in October or early November.  I mean the first time the sky opens and gives us piles of the soft white stuff to roll around in.  For weeks, the mornings were dark, thick black and dark.  But with white snow on the ground, the mornings become alive!  All the soft pastels that were lost are now reflected on the snow and bathe the neighborhood in serenity.  A house across the street is frosted with blue-white color as the chimney releases plums of lazy smoke.

These mornings I love.  I sit with my coffee in the not-so-dark living room, in front of my picture window and just try to absorb the peacefulness before me.  Sometimes I still get that wistful urge to hastily pull on layers of clothing and just run around in circles in the front yard, throwing the snow up in the air.  But sometimes its just nice to watch nature's magic, thankful that I not only see what passes before me, but that it is a part of me as well.

An Old Woman's Cookies

One thing there was never a shortage of around our house when I was growing up was cookbooks.  Stuffed away in the cupboard above the washer and dryer in the kitchen were dozens of cookbooks.  Some of which I am almost positive were never used, save for one recipe.  Others were in 3 or 4 pieces from their repetitive use.  By the time I was ten, I knew exactly which book to get down if we were baking chocolate chip cookies.  The red Betty Crocker had the best recipe.  Snickerdoodles?  That was page 74 of the St. Louis church ladies cook book.  Crinkly Molasses cookies?  Well that was a bit more challenging because it meant we had to dig through the recipe card box for my grandma Dora's handwritten card.  The best part about those hand written recipes?  After the list of ingredients, there was one line of directions:  Bake 12 min at 350 degrees.  Pretty straight forward right?  How many of you would be able to journey through a recipe with only this one instruction and come out with perfect cookies on the other side?  Well my mom could.  And I have a feeling her mom and her mom's mom could as well.

I was craving gingersnaps one day.  It was cold, rainy, foggy, and just plain gray outside.  I wanted to make a good cup of tea and have a crispy spice cookie to go with it.  This is usually how most of my culinary adventures begin - I get a craving, won't be satisfied until I can have what I'm craving, and if I have an hour or two free I usually dive right in.  Well I tugged an old favorite down off the shelf:  The St. Louis women's cookbook.  If there was a recipe for a basic, old fashioned gingersnap cookie that I couldn't mess up, it was bound to be in this cook book.

Ah ha!  Page 288 - "Best Ever Gingersnaps."  There is a fleeting memory as I look at the name on the recipe - Helen Johnson.  Her face is very real to me.  She had a loose but curled bob of white hair, dark set eyes and charmingly feline features.  I can hear her soft, squeaky voice smacking in the back of my mind.  Her brick red hat with the wide brim that she always wore to church on Sunday.  Still walking to and from even in winter.  Her husband Ernest was home bound but he would spend time teaching me how to play Gin-Rummy on the wood table he laid across his lap while in his chair.  He passed away when I was very young, but she lived on for a decade or more after that.  Her basement was an art gallery filled with the dozens of oil paintings she had created while she taught herself the craft.  One Christmas she sat with me while we worked together on a very basic crocheted ornament.  It wasn't much, but she dressed it up with bows of different colored yarn, and hand wrote "Merry Christmas" in her neatest cursive across a piece of cardboard that we tied to it.  I must have been the proudest child that day, showing my mom what I made for the tree.  That ornament is still in a box that gets pulled out every year my mom decorates her tree.

I had never baked anything with Ms. Johnson, but I knew THIS was the recipe to use.

The only question left, was hinging on the first ingredient on the list:  "3/4c lard or shortening"  Hmmm...lard or shortening?  What to do?  After a phone call to my mother and a short discussion about cause and effect of using lard over shortening, I decided to go with the shortening.  Here's the list of directions under the recipe:  "Mix together all ingredients.  Form into balls, flatten with the palm of your hand.  Bake on cookie sheets at 400 degrees until brown."

Yep, that's it!  Simple as that.  Because who wouldn't know how to properly mix cookie ingredients together right?  Thankfully I had a basic upbringing in the subject and was able to survive.  In the end, it took two attempts to get the desired SNAP from this recipe.  Which I believe is a considerable success.

It's not everyday you page through a recipe book and can associate a memory from your childhood to each one.  But it sure does make choosing the recipe to use a lot easier.  Here's to Ms. Johnson - for teaching me how to crochet, and how to make the "Best Ever Gingersnap" cookies!

(See below for full recipe)

3/4 c shortening (or lard softened)
2 eggs
1.5 c white sugar
1/2c molasses
2 T ginger (don't skimp if you want the real deal)
1 tsp allspice*
4c flour
2tsp soda
2 T white vinegar
1 tsp salt
2 tsp grated orange zest*

*optional ingredients that I added on the 2nd try and was very pleased with the results!

1) Cream shortening, eggs, sugar and vinegar in mixing bowl
2) Stir in molasses, ginger, allspice, and orange zest until well mixed
3) Whisk or sift together 3c flour, soda, and salt in separate bowl
4) Add dry ingredients to batter a cup at a time until dough come together and stiffens.  Add final 1c of flour.  May need more flour if batter is still too soft.
5) Refrigerate dough for an hour.  (This step can be skipped and you can begin rolling balls right away, the cold dough was just easier to handle.  If you use the dough right away, make sure you dust your hand with a little flour in between rolling each ball to keep from sticking.)
6) Pre-heat oven to 400 degrees
7) Take 3/4 T of dough at a time and roll into a ball.  Place on a greased cookie sheet - I fit 8 on my sheets at a time.  You can make bigger balls but I found this led to a chewy cookie rather than a crispy cookie.
8) Using heel of your hand, press dough balls out to flatten.  The flatter they are, the faster they cook so try to keep them all the same size.
9) Oven racks should be middle lower and middle upper - cookies will literally only take about 5-7 mins per pan.  I did mine one sheet at a time.  If you do two at a time, make sure to rotate pans top to bottom halfway through.
10) Cookies need to be dark brown but not smell burnt when you take them out.  1-2 mins too long and the bottoms go from brown to black - I recommend not leaving the kitchen for these cookies :)

Hope you enjoy!!!