September in the Raggedy Garden

      September. September means seventh month. That's because the ancient roman calendar year started with March. It makes sense. March is when everything wakes up and starts living again. Somehow, things got a little mixed up! Oh, but when I hear September, I hear a different sound. A smokey, warm, delicious sound, An end of summer sound. September mornings stay dark until seven. Thats when the sun comes shinning up over the hill and into the Raggedy Garden. The breeze sighs softly through the pine trees, so soft you can't hear it unless you really listen. The turkeys come gabbling quietly on the edges of the field, scrabbling through the acorns and fallen leaves. It's a fairly large flock, many different sizes. They blend in. If you don't know to look and listen, you probably won't see them. The dew lies heavy on the grass. It takes a long time before it dries.

         It's time to start putting the Raggedy Garden to bed for the winter. I know I should be out there filling the garden house with clay pots , fountains, all the fragile things that can't be left out in the cold and the snow. I go out, but I get distracted, and  sit in the swing, and dream. The mellow September sunshine, the breeeze with just a hint of coolness, the musty, damp fall smells, they distract me. The dandelion fluff and the monarch butterflies that drift past, rising and dipping as they go. The raucous gang  of crows winging aross the garden....did you know that a bunch of crows are officially called a 'murder' of crows? Now, isn't that delightful?....The blue jays, too, now fly in noisy crowds. All summer they have been sneaking about in nefarious pastimes. Now they distract me with their racket and their coats of blue.
           The Autumn Clematis has climbed up and over the roof, a huge cloud of sweet whiteness. The cone flowers and sunflowers still bloom. The alyssum has come into its own, the fairy roses and the pansies are back enforce.The leaves come slowly twirling down, landing willy nilly where they will. Red leaves, orange leaves, yellow ones and brown. Some mottled and splotched, not deciding which color to be. A walk along the edges of the woods is rife with crunching and rustling as I step on acorns and shuffle through the leaves.

         Now, for coffee, hot cider, tea or hot chocolate. An amber cup that glows in the September sunshine. A picnic in the Raggedy Garden. Homemade maple oatmeal bread for sandwiches, spicy cookies and crunchy apples. feasting indeed! Frost warnings means bringing houseplants back indoors.  I sigh to think I must go around shutting windows, and digging out the flannel sheets. Can summer really be over, so soon? The nights start out starry and bright, but the cool night air makes for misty dawns. Even after the sun comes up, I can see where the river runs by the line of mist that rides across the valley. Flocks of  geese have been passing by . In the gloaming, that brief time between daylight and dark. I hear them, far up, and lonely, calling , calling to the vagabond hearts.
        So I dream of summers past and holidays that are coming, remembering old friends, old attics, old songs. seeing old roads and hearing old fires crackling in the dusk. Old books, they too have the musty September smell. There will be time, now to curl up and read an old favorite. Harvest these, all things September, in this month of the harvest moon!

                                                                                                                                                                   












                                                                                                                                                                  





         

On Flanders Pond

         Did I ever tell you that I love this place? This serene and hushed cove where I have been fortunate enough to spend a few days the end of many summers? Fragrant with the scented balsam , cedar and hemlock. Wrapped in the misty foggy mornings. Dappled by blue and gold days of sunshine. Sleeeping in the coolness of clear starlit midnights. Whispered to by waves, and breezes. Fed by the bounty of the sea. I took no pictures of the eagle, nor the loons, but let me draw them with words. No picture could do justice to the eagle. Early in the morning, all shadowy and still, he dips and dives for his breakfast. When the sun comes up, he soars and wheels, flashing his colors, and he dips and dives again. The water drops fall like diamonds from his wings as he mounts the air and flies to his tree top. That highest tree top across the way. There he sits, all hunkered and fierce, and he screams his wild and mighty scream. The loon will swim by in the day light. He's huge and bright, and he skims across the water, dives deep and comes up again a far, far piece away from where he went down. But he's quiet. You never hear him in the day time. It is only then, in the misty mysterious midnight , with the fog hiding all the world, then you hear him. His long lonely tremelo, his mournful wailing, sobbing song. It fills the night. It echoes over the waters. It cries into the forest and the camps and the pond and the sky. Remember in the Heidi story when Heidi asks the Grandfather "Why does the eagle scream so?" And the Grandfather answered that when he sits up there in the clean pureness of nature and he looks down with his keen eyes and sees the dirt and the wretchedness and the pettiness of man and what he has done to Gods world, then he has to scream down at us to tell us his disgust. I think perhaps the loon, too, as he glides about in the daylight and sees what a mess we make? Then at night he cries out against us , laughing and sobbing at how we have continually ruined and ignored the world that God made.
      Isaiah the prophet comforts us with these words " But they that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength, they shall mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run and not be weary; they shall walk and not faint."

          The long wet dock is a must. Here the kids and the dogs run. Once you have heard bare feet on the dock, you will never forget the sound. It will ever bring back to you memories of that great sploosh when you get to the end, and dive in. The way the water got in your nose when your brother ran up behind you, and pushed you off. The way the boat thumps against it when you got back from fishing. The way the little water birds hopped across it. The way the frogs chugged at dusk. The way the fishing poles leaned against the posts. The dreams you dreamed as you dozed there in the sunshine, the picnics you had there , all sandy and wet. Everyone should have a shadowy dock to pull out from their memories when they get old and sad.

        The little house out back, so necessary to camp life. Here the sun light dapples the trees and the forest floor. It's not really so bad, either. At night, when you go out with your flashlight, tripping over roots, feeling the kiss of the night breeze, hearing the owls talking and the water lapping against the shore and slapping the sides of the john boat. Then you go back up the trail in to the house, trip over the dogs, and shiver with that aaahhhh feeling of crawling safe and snug under the quilt.

        The fishing fun begins after dark. The tiki torch sheds a warm glow over the dock. The night sky is full of stars. Our glow-in-the-dark bobbers streak over head like fiery meteors as we cast them into the wind. They float , red glimmers in the black water until a fish is on, and then they disappear and send us dashing for the poles. Everything looks different in the starshine. Shadowy and secretive, soft and peaceful. Our voices carry over the water. Our laughter sounds lilting and far away. We fill a bucket with perch , leaving the bucket filled with water until morning. Then the master fillet man goes to work. Fish fry coming up!

       The campfire flickers and glows. It crackles and sizzles. It sends a smokey fragrance blowing across the pond. A camp fire is friendly. It goes way back, back to Indians and pioneers and mountain men and cowboys. Men have hunkered over campfires, cooking fish and game, boiling tea and coffee, warming hands and feet, drying clothes and jerky, keeping the wild things at bay. Thats the things you see in the flicker of a campfire. All those lonesome, friendly times and places, all those long ago dreams and faces. Thats what a campfire conjures up.We have a late night snack of blackened hotdogs and crispy, melting in the middle marshmallows. Then its into the sauna. Hot steamy goodness cleansing our bodies and softening pur muscles and minds. A brisk scrub with a bar of Irish Spring, a run down the sand and into the water, cool and senuous on the skin. Who doesn't sleep the sleep of the pure heart after that?

         Going clamming at low tide, we are. The boys catch a pile of lobsters off the floating dock. Now we will eat like royalty! Steamers and fresh lobster dipped in butter. We invite Tinker, who lives next door. It's Tinkuh, I believe. Born in Bar Harbor, lived there all his eighty one years. Has a camp out here at the pond to get away from the craziness of a Bah Hahbuh summer. He brings us a bluberry gingerbread that he has just made. Spicy, fragrant, moist, warm. We add a dab of ice cream and we lick our buttery fingers and listen to him tell about eighty years of Maine living.

        Low tide, we girls head for the sea glass beach, buckets on our arms. We walk the sand with our eyes on the ground, stopping to bend and pick up a treasure and straighten up again, the shell seekers dance at low tide by the sea. Each piece that goes into our bucket is a small piece of a large story that we will never know. Someone, some where, some time, treasured this cup or plate or bottle. How long has lain broken , washed by the waves and the tides all over the world, before we pick up these fragments, so smooth and softened by time?

         Do I have to leave? Well, I know I do. I know I wouldn't appreciate it if it wasn't so rare. But I have my memories to carry me over to next year. Beautiful place by the sea. Giver of happiness, giver of dreams. God bless my family on Flanders Pond!                                                                          

Remnants

The woodshed. The shingles are worn and warped and some are missing. The door is crooked with rusty hinges. The windows are broken, the glass gone. The floor is part dirt, part cracked and broken concrete. This is a remnant, a piece of a life before I came here. I have walked in and out that door a million times, I think. The remnants of a once new tightly made door. I pile wood in here every fall and all winter I take down the piles and lug them into the house, remnants of trees that grew green and tall in the woodlot. They feed the maw of the stove, merry crackling fires, wisps of smoke, and lastly, ashes. Ashes that I spread as poor mans fertilizer in the Raggedy Garden. Remants of warmth and cooking and flame.

             When I open the door the sun is shining through the remnants of the window, streaking the wood pile with golden light, remnants of  golden fall day. There is not so much wood left in here now, in the remnants of summer. I need to get stacking. But today I stand in that stream of sunshine and look around. The walls are cluttered with the remnants of many years of burning wood. Axes with broken handles, old crosscut saws, oil cans ,black and smeary with years of dripping oil. Old wooden boxes, old tobacco cans full of nails, a rusty shovel with a chipped head, a rake with most of its teeth missing. Lacy spiderwebs grace the corners. A pile of tire chains is heaped on the floor, remnants of old. Does any one use tire chains any more? Sawdust dusts everything. An old chewed up glove sits high up on the pile. I can hear the rustle of a mouse, and a chipmunk peers at me from the doorway. A bee bumbles in the glassless window, a groggy fall bee who flies without rhyme or reason. There is a shelf above the window. It's higher than my head. I stand tippy toe and crane my neck.

           The sign hangs there above tin shovels, tiny oil cans, a tin funnel, coffee cans, an aluminum pot filled with wedges and jugs. A remnant of our family, from long ago. R. Somero. Fancy script. Purposefully serrated edges. Remnants of the chains that it hung all those years before. It hung at a camp in northern Michigan, on the lake. There was a boat and fishing equipment and rustic living accomodations. Boone remembers fondly the time he spent there, mostly with his grandad. Fishing and cooking up their fish and sleeping with the slap, slap of the water against the shore. Remnants of memories, hidden in everyday living. Fragments of the past here in the shadow of the roof where the sun shine never can reach. I'd take it out, hang it for the world to see, still smooth and sturdy, speaking to all and sundry. " Here I  am still, R. Somero. I lived and I died and I left you the remnants. Share them so the chain goes unbroken   and the circle goes round." He likes it hidden there, where only he can find it, and remember....

           Broken window, bringer of light, soon I will pile the wood in front of you , high up where I can barely reach, and no sun will shine in here til winter is past and there are only remnants again.

Perfectly Peanut Butter Cookies (Gluten Free)

     I 've had this recipe hanging around for , probably years. But I never made them because it just seemed unrealistic.  Any way, I needed to make some cookies, and had used up all my flour because I got a big Nissu order. So, I thought, give a whirl, Annie. Much to my surprise, they came out absolutely perfect! Here goes.....
                                             1 cup peanut butter
                                              1 cup sugar
                                              1 tsp. baking soda
                                               1 egg
                        Mix together. Drop by spoonful on sprayed cookie sheet. Bake at 350 for 8 to 10 minutes.
       Thats it folks! I crisscrossed them with a fork dipped in sugar just because thats how peanut butter cookies are supposed to look.

           So easy. It only made 18 cookies. Good sized ones. So for a lot of people you would want to double this. I also left them on the pan for a couple minutes before I transfered them to cooling racks. They were nice and firm, didn't crumble.

              Now for a cup of good coffee, a good cookie, and a good book! I like the way you can see the reflection of the coffee and cookie in the book cover! Boy, am I glad I ran out of flour! Make these and enjoy!

The Story of Al and the Bear

     A long time ago this place was busy and well populated. The roads linked the towns together in an unbroken chain of life and living. Now there are only traces of that time left. Homes and schools and churches. stores and mine buildings. The years have turned them all silvery gray. Broken windows and sagging doors have let in the sun, and the snow, and the small animals. From inside and outside, time has polished them until they lean, and slowly crumble and fall. Fallow fields have grown up to brush. Once lush orchards now feed only the deer and the coon. Bears amble where children once played.
     This story happened in that long ago time. There were bears here then, too, and Al had always wanted a bear of his own. He had already made pets of all the farm animals. Horses and cows and pigs and even chickens would do things for Al. Every one knows how uneducated chickens are, so that was saying something about this boy. He had a certain magic in him when it came to animals. Now he had heard about a bear in Calumet. The bear had gotten big and mean, and the man who owned him wanted some one to take him away.
      Al took some marshmallows, and he took his friend Leo. Leo was Als much younger brother, but they were long time pals. Al and Leo put the marshmallows in Als car and they drove off to Calumet. It was a long drive, then, in those early cars, on dirt roads. They drove through small towns, past farms and churches and schools and stores and gas stations and mine buildings. When they got to the place where the bear lived, it was a toss up over who was more excited, Leo or Al.
       Al knocked on the door and explained to the man that he was interested in the bear. The man grumbled and complained and whined as he took them out to see the bear. Leo was feeling sorry for the poor bear, to have to belong to such a wretched man. The man said he had raised the bear from a cub, but now he was so big and wicked that every one was afraid of him. The bear was lying in a forlorn black heap in the dusty disgusting dirt pile. His chain lay slack, and you would have thought you were looking at a bearskin rug. He was that limp and dejected.
       As soon as the man announced "there is the bear", the bear came to life. Bear raised his massive head and looked at them with his squinty little eyes. A low growl came from some where deep in his throat. "You can have 'im", said the man, "if you'll just get 'im away from here". Bear rose quickly to stand on his four feet. He was a huge bear! His eyes followed them, unblinking, angry eyes, and strange threats rolled out from his broad chest. His fur was matted and splashed with bare spots.
        Leo wondered what Al would do now. The bear was such a sorry, angry looking wretch. The bear had stretched his chain out tight. Leo and the man kept edging farther and farther out of his reach. Al kept walking with his usual, unhurried pace. His quiet, steady voice kept talking, a rambling, one sided dialog. He was telling bear that everything was going to be good again. Not that bear was believing. He lunged at his chain and snarled at Al.
         Al offered bear some marshmallows, still talking softly. Bear stopped growling and sniffed. probably he had never had marshmallows before. He hesitated. The calming voice of Al and the curious sweet small were getting the best of him. Al was able to walk around him and unfasten the chain from the bears tree.
        Leo and the man each held his breath as Al confidently walked along with the chain over his shoulder and the huge bear lumbering after him. Bear took quick looks around him, wary and tense, turning his head slowly from side to side, watching them with his angry little eyes.
        Still speaking in the same easy voice, Al told Leo to open the trunk of the car. As soon as Leo had it open, Al spilled the rest of the marshmallows in the trunk. Bear had found some thing good in these small white sweets. He climbed in after them. As he hunkered down to gobble up these, oh, so many goodies placed within his reach, Al threw in the chain and slammed down the trunk.
         There was complete silence and stillness for a moment. With a quick good bye and thank you, Al and Leo hopped in the car and were off for home with a spurt of gravel. Al was in a hurry, for theirs was not an ordinary cargo. They sped along with out saying much. Suddenly Al grinned, his eyes on the rear view mirrror. "Don't turn around, Leo, we have company," he said. Leo didn't need to turn around. He could feel and small the presence of their company.
         Poor bear had not liked the feeling of being shut up in the trunk and had pushed the back seat forward so that he had a little more room.. Now he seemed to enjoy his car ride, his stomach full of marshmallows. Well, Leo couldn't blame him, but he was still glad when they reached home and they could all pile out.
        It didn't take long for Al to work his magic touch of gentle friendship on bear. Al and bear soon were fast friends. Al cleaned him up and fed him and played with him. You would never have known him for the same sorry bear who had been back seat company all the way from Calumet. Bear and Al would wrestle and play rough, loving games.. Games that would leave Al scratched up and happy  and bear happy and fine loooking.
        The old farm is gone now. The mines are no longer working. The years have turned the houses, the schools, the churches, the stores a soft silvery gray. Sagging doors and broken windows have let in the rain and the snow and the small animals. Al is gone, and Leo. They had vagabond feet that carried them all over the land. Where ever Al was he always had a bear to teach, and play with. Where ever Leo was, he told his stories, stories like Al and the Bear.
        It has beeen many years since Leo told me this story. Afterwards, I wrote it down, so it wouldn't be forgotten. When he read it, he sat for a long time, quiet, remembering, lost to me and where we were and what we were doing. When he looked up,his eyes were still far away and dreamy. "You got it exactly right", he said. It has been sitting in my papers for years, fading and gathering dust . I give it to you now, hoping you will chuckle,and set your eyes afar off, dreaming and seeing many things.
        

Boots

          Boots. Cowboy boots. That was the beginning of life as we know it. We were very young. We didn't know it, we thought we had it all figured out. He says he rescued me from a convent. He was a rebel. A rebel with out a cause. Vietnam was staring him in the face. I was in high school. He came to the west coast in a fast car, with a leather jacket and cowboy boots. He sold his harley to have a nice car to come courting me. (And maybe, to look more respectable to my folks?) He has work boots, and he brings his mason tools, and he has black cowboy boots for sunday go meeting. They are just plain, black cowboy boots, nothing gaudy or fancy. He cares for them. He polishes and oils and brushes them. They do shine. He wears levis and western shirts, too. He has sideburns, and slicked back hair. He's cool, and he's a rebel, and really, it is without a cause. Just because he wears cowboy boots?
          He asks them first, before he gives me a ring. We can't beleive they actually say yes. They say they will sign for me. We pick a date, quite soon, because he's up for the draft. We figure even a little time will be good. They plan the wedding. Quiet. My fathers church. He will marry us. I wear a plain wool suit, creamy white. He wears a suit. And his black cowboy boots. We have no flowers, no music. My sister and his best friend stand for us. Just before the wedding, he gets a letter from the draft board. It grants him a years deferment to finish his apprentiship in the Portland Bricklayers Union. We can't imagine a better wedding present.
          As we are leaving the house to go to the church, my mother suddenly balks. She has noticed the black cowboy boots. No. She says she will not go to a wedding with black cowboy boots. Perhaps she has never heard of such a thing? I don't know that anyone cares about what the groom wears on his feet. It's a moment of horror. She cries. I can see by the look on his face that he will not back down. It will be cowboy boots or no wedding. My father is a very patient man. He sighs, from deep down. He has nine daughters. I am the first one to get married. I think he is seeing some long years ahead. He tells the groom to climb up on the kitchen chair. He walks around the chair, scoping out the situation. There is a stillness in the room. We are, none of us, sure what the verdict will be. He is gentle with my mother. It's fine, he thinks. He can't see any reason for her to be upset. She never argues with him. So we get in the cars, a sober bunch, and head for the church.
       It is fine. We have been married for forty six years. Every day he wears boots. He still takes such good care of them. They last for years. He has many pairs. I wear cowboy boots, too. As soon as the weather cools down, and fall is here, I get out my boots. I wear them for sunday go meeting. They make me feel tall, and graceful, and I like the sound of them on the floor. I like kicking them off, at night, one after the other, and placing them by my bed.
       We have a large family and we don't have much money. We wear hand me downs. Sometimes someone gives us things that don't fit and I take them apart and remake them. Pretty dresses for the girls, wool shirts for the boys. But always they have boots. Once we bought a brand new pair. The little boy laid them proudly near the wood stove at night. In the morning, we see that the puppy has chewed them to shreds. They are taught right a way to take care of their boots, oiling and brushing them, drying them. Our house has lots of boots. One winter he works on a job at the Frye boot factory. He saves and scrimps. He comes home with a pair of brand new boots from the discount room for each of his daughters. They are tall and shiny and stiff. I think he just bought one of every size, maybe. Any way, every little girl has cowboy boots. Do they want cowboy boots? He doesn't think about that. He only feels his heart swell with the joy of this wonderful gift he has given them. They wear them, I think they all get worn out. He still has a few pieces of the boxes that they came in hanging on the sugar house wall. He still cries when he remembers coming home with all those beautiful boots.
         Now we have grandchildren. Some of them love cowboy boots. One of them has already crossed over Jordan. His small worn boots still stand on the mantle. When I go there, I touch them. Feel them worn and warm in my hand. I think in Gods heaven he has on his new boots, for dancing all over Gods heaven. I am always on the look out for cowboy boots at swap shops, yard sales, and thrift shops. If I find some, it always makes somebody happy. The teenage girls wear them, now, even, and feel so chic-y. Brooke shops long and hard to find her perfect pair. Tall, colorful, daring. She sends me pictures.
        In the last couple years, I have met up with so many people. People that I have not seen for a long time. I wonder how many times I have heard, " Oh, Annie, I remember your wedding! Boone wore cowboy boots! I was young, and I wrote it in my diary...Went to Boone and Annies wedding. Boone wore cowboy boots. Why was that so shocking? " And we laugh, and wonder together, why was that so shocking? My mother is old now, and frail and shakey. The last time I went to visit her, she remembers. Why did I act like that? She thinks she was being silly.  She hopes I didn't hold it against her. I love my mother. I pat her hand and we reminisce about my wedding. We only have gay and happy thoughts about that day. She still has never worn boots. No boots of any kind. No work boots, no cowboy boots. She doesn't know what she's missing!
       That was then. This is now. All Gods chillun' got shoes (boots). Gonna walk all over Gods heaven.

August in the Raggedy Garden

        August, when the morning glories are at their best, gracing each morning with glorious blue. I have tried to duplicate this color, with paint, with cloth, with thread, but it can not be duplicated. I think its only made by God. The Raggedy Garden begins to look a little weary, in August. It has been hot and dry for many weeks. The grass is brown, in spots, and leaves are dusty. The humming birds are here, full force, they empty the feeder every couple days. So tiny are they as they dart to and fro, from flower to flower, up to the feeder, over to the lilac bush, then back again.

         See him, there, hovering on his mighty wings? Of course, its blueberry time. Is it really worth sweating over in the wild bluberries, trying to get enough in your bucket to make bluberry jam? And not get too many sticks or leaves, or bugs? Um. Yes! It really is. And sweating in the hot Raggedy Garden kitchen, slaving away with boiling jars and stirring and stirring? And ladleing hot jam into hot jars and turning the lids tight, so they seal? Yes, I know it is. When I slather it on toast , come a cold January morning? I won't remember all that. I'll taste the sweetness of warmth and sunshine on my tongue, and hear the merry voices of children, and the buzz of a bee, and the song of the dove.

         And guess who came to dinner one day? In a large white styrofoam box, all taped up? We gingerly open it. A large orange lobster claw waves at us.  A long feeler reaches up wards. We hold our breath, and stuff them back in, laughing. Will we be like Julie, in Julie and Julia? Not looking when we drop them in the pot, and jumping and crumpling when the cover flies off and that orange claw gives us a good bye wave?

         He is rich and delicious. We have the Persied Meteor showers in August. It rains the first night, so we can't see them, but we need the rain and we are thankful for it. The next night, though, is dark and moonless and we lay in the dewey darkness and watch the stars rain down. They go so quickly, leaving their tail of sparks. Who can know how long they have been out there in the void, only revealing themselves to us as the rush earthward. Beautiful, silent glowing pieces of the universe. There's something about meteor showers, something that makes me feel glad to be alive.

          These weed daisies flock around an old sap bucket, left there by children who used it for some wonderful game. I can't bear to mow them, they are so clean and pure looking, so I leave them to grace the lawn. Its time to cut the lavender. I hang some in bunches, and cut some for potpouri. The bees love lavender, too, you have to work around them. It leaves a lovely soft, clean scent, when you walk by the rafters in the garden house where they hang, but its almost over powering while you are working with it.

         Rumbles of thunder, flickers of light, I lie awake hearing the rain bucket down on the roof. I hear the voice of St. Francis of Assisi say, " Be praised, O Lord, for sister water, the which is so useful, humble, precious and chaste." So long ago this humble man knew, like us, how much we need water. When the earth has been so long dry, then you can smell the way it drinks in the rain. It is scented of mustiness and growth and  greenery and the dryness drinks up the damp, quickly assimilating its wealth of goodness.

         The dill scents the air, when the breeze comes by, when you brush against it. Dill I planted long years back, but every summer it is back again, cropping up all over, anywhere it finds a spot. I love the smell of dill. And you know, dill will keep the bad witches out of your garden, so I might as well be on the safe side! Once by mistake I used dill seed instead of caraway in a batch of bread.....oh, that was a glorious mistake! Imagine the possibilities!

         Oh, garden of August, gone so soon. September will come, after the blue August moon. Lucky are we to have two moons of august. The green corn moon to sing it in, and the blue moon to lullaby us out of summer and into fall. Come back, friends, and sit here with me in the Raggedy Garden in this  last lingering loveliness.