Tag Archives: Nostalgia

Once Upon a Snowfall

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I was surprised to hear about regions that had received an early snowfall. I didn’t personally see it in my area but I thought it would be appropriate to resurrect a piece from my previous blog, My Punchline. It also was brought to mind after my recent post about Landscapes and remembering how it was.

Since I was young, I have always enjoyed hearing stories of how it “used to be”. A picture painted with words and a faraway look could transport me. Very often I found myself wishing I had experienced it firsthand. It never occurred to me that one day, I too, would have stories of how life “used to be”.

The recent mammoth storm created a beautiful landscape blanketed with deep snow and drifts. It also created the challenge of how to dig out and where to put the excess snow. I found that current conversations often mentioned how there appeared to be a lack of willing youth to assist with snow removal. We lamented that there were no children lugging shovels up and down the street offering to lighten the load. That’s not how we remembered our childhood. We would be shoveling not because it was expected but more importantly, it was the right thing to do. If a couple of dollars made their way to your pocket there was cause for celebration.

Although the current blizzard-like conditions should have brought a chill, I found that I was warmed by memories of those snow storms of long ago. In what seemed like an eternity, we would layer ourselves to protect from the cold. Gathering at the end of the Harshman’s yard we would prepare for some serious sledding. The Harshmans were an elderly couple and to my knowledge they had no children but that changed after each snowfall as every child in the neighborhood would find their way to that backyard.  It was elevated just enough, with a long and open stretch that would allow our gliders to fly. Within time there would be a mound constructed in the middle of a path to add lift and excitement to our travel downhill. Our enthusiasm was only tempered by the elements finding their way through our best attempt to keep them at bay by our winter outerwear.

Trudging home, dragging our sleds behind us, we knew that soon warmth would greet us. I felt betrayed when the sleeves of my coat would shift upward and no longer meet the edge of my gloves. The sting of snow on the exposed skin of my wrists would make me long for our toasty kitchen, warmed by a large pot belly cast iron stove. It sat in an alcove, fired up during the winter season, beckoning to us after our outside adventures. We would pull the crunchy remnants of snow from our outerwear and toss it on the stove. Those little crystals would dance and sizzle on the hot griddle until they disappeared as little wisps of steam. 

Nightfall did not exclude the presence of snowfall. My bedroom was located at the front of the house, facing the street. Enveloped in darkness, under a pile of blankets, I would be lulled to sleep by the sound of vehicles, their tires wrapped in chains, traversing the ever deepening snow. The scrape of a plow would often interrupt the stillness of the night. My father worked second shift and would travel four miles to return home nightly after midnight. Long before the Sheetz and traffic light occupied the corner, a plain intersection was part of the setting. Once home it would not be uncommon for my father to take a shovel, walk down to the intersection and assist his coworkers who had the misfortune to become stuck in a deeply covered area. The snow fence was not always successful in keeping the drifts from hampering travel. The fence, comprised of slats and wire, would run parralell to the road and could be used as a barometer as to the severity of the storm.

The memories are as clear in my mind as they were fifty years ago. Half a century has passed and life has changed. The pot belly stove was removed when my father renovated the kitchen. The alcove had become a walk-in pantry for my mother and the stove became a source of heat in a chicken coop my father converted into his workshop. The home no longer belongs to our family and the workshop no longer stands. Yet the recollection of the past is as much a part of me as my present being, usually bringing smiles but sometimes eliciting tears. Now, with the passage of time, I find I derive great pleasure of painting pictures with words and sharing how it “used to be”.

Landscapes

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I happened to notice a house on the market. It caught my eye as it was located down the street from where I grew up. I can recall who resided there, so many decades ago. She was an elderly widow.  Her curtains would remain drawn and her house always seemed cool and dark. She was a tiny woman, whose overstuffed chair seemed to swallow her as she sat and told her tales. I would listen eagerly as she would recall how different the landscape was years prior. I was intent on learning what changes she witnessed in what we considered our neighborhood. With her description it was not hard to imagine what the route close to our homes looked like as a dirt road traversed by horse and buggy rather than the current paved road.  I always enjoyed my time with her. I never imagined that one day I would be the individual remembering how it used to be.

We lived on a road that was not, at the time, a major thoroughfare. The city limits were literally located across the street from us. As children we witnessed changes but they felt few and far between. Down the street a rundown gray clapboard Cape Cod was torn down as the land adjoining it was to change from pasture into a complex of multiple schools. One home on the corner of the intersection was torn down to make room for an ATM. On the opposite side there was a lovely brick rancher that was also to become history. On its land a convenience store was built. We seemed to take it in our stride. The farm down the street was sold. The field that once produced crops was to become a printing plant. In time, long after we had grown and moved on, the historic farmhouse would soon give way to be demolished along with the large printing plant. It was all replaced with a warehouse. The only thing that seems to remain unchanged is the spiral staircase manufacturer at the other end of the street. Could it be that we were the last children to make our way there and climb to the top of their display model that was erected at the corner of their property?

It’s not uncommon to hear residents complain about the local rural landscape being swallowed by new warehouse construction. Many of them are occupied bringing traffic and noise to a once docile environment. I notice many appear to remain empty. Built on speculation, they continue to wait for their time of activity. Many ponder if this type of growth is actually necessary and sustainable. I would imagine that the displaced wildlife population might wonder the same thing. Concerned with their own survival they must adapt to the changes brought by our economy. I wince when I think that I, too, might have contributed to this expansion due to my online shopping purchases.

Another change witnessed by those in rural communities is the proliferation of solar panels. Fields once farmed, offer energy as the new crop. Not to play devil’s advocate but they don’t seem to be as intrusive as the warehouses. They don’t hide lovely sunsets and once constructed there doesn’t appear to be an increase in traffic. I was pleased to see a herd of goats recently in one such field. Later along the fence line I saw a hawk. Maybe this is a more gentle way to change the landscape while welcoming the future.

Years ago, when I purchased my home, one great selling point was the farm field adjacent to my backyard. The first improvement I made to my home was to screen in the back porch. I have enjoyed the views and the privacy. Although I understood that a development of independent senior cottages would be built to accompany the existing assisted living residence nearby, those plans might have changed. A large sale sign, advertising the location, was erected. It has since been removed. I question whether the land has sold or if it was removed from the market. Either way, I have already determined what changes I will make to the back of my property to continue to enjoy the possible change in landscape. My rocking chair remains on the porch. If I find that no one comes to hear my tales of how it used to be, I might be tempted to continue to share them with you.

Dump Runs

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In a previous blog, I mentioned that I began to take my trash to the dump as a cost saving measure during a very lean period in my life. It is a benefit offered to the local community, who choose to take advantage of its fee free establishment. Now that paying for trash pick-up is feasible for me again, I can’t explain why it remains more acceptable to make this run on Saturday morning rather than gathering my refuse and putting it out every Thursday evening. For some reason I grew to resent that weekly routine. Now I travel the back roads with my trash and recyclables and gaze out across the mountains. I believe I currently enjoy the backdrop more these days since I don’t have to cross that mountain daily for work.

I also have reason to believe that going to the dump is in my DNA. Yes, I might be the only person who admits going to the dump and feeling sentimental over the trip. It was not unusual for my father to utilize the local landfill. Our home was often under construction and he undertook various other projects that created waste. Since my father has been dead for over thirty years, protocols and regulations at the landfill have greatly changed. Ages ago, items were not bagged and they lay in a pile which allowed everyone access. I have no idea if there were signs that stated no one could retrieve items once they were discarded. If that was the case, my father, who always had a very ethical approach to life, ignored them. If there was something that could be salvaged at no cost, why not go for it? It may be cliché, but one man’s trash is another man’s treasure. It is not a stretch of the imagination to say my father’s childhood was challenging financially. His father died before my Dad even reached his teen years and I know what a struggle it was for my grandmother to provide for the family. It could be that is why my father was comfortable with dumpster diving before it became a popular activity. I doubt if anyone used the term biohazard when sharing what they scored at the dump. It didn’t seem to be much of an issue at the time.

My father chose not to keep these adventures solely to himself. It was not unusual for him to take my son along for the ride. During one of his reconnaissance missions, I recall him finding a plastic figure about four inches in height. It looked like it could have been some kind of action figure, just the kind my son and his cousins would enjoy playing with for hours. It was clear that this figure’s plight was to be discarded at the dump due to a missing head. Between his shoulders, where his head should have been, there was a screw. My nephew, who continues to maintain his creative streak into adulthood, named him Little Head Man. I don’t recall if Little Head Man was on the side of good or evil, but his distinctive feature fit well into my nephew’s narrative.

Before you find your stomach turning thinking about the removal of items from the dump and being handled, know that all the treasures were washed well before they were used. I can recall how my father’s thoughtfulness extended to me one time that made me question his rational in determining what would be a good castoff selection. I have always enjoyed handicrafts and it wasn’t unusual for me to fill my time with sewing, crocheting or cross stich. My father, knowing this, spied a bountiful stash of yarn. It was burnt orange in color and had the texture of rug yarn. Although I appreciated his generous donation of yarn to my collection I was queasy about the thought of touching it. There was no practical way of washing it prior to its use and in order to make something with it I would have had to hold it in my hands for several hours. As distinct as the memory of receiving this contribution to my inventory of hobby items may be, the final destination of this yarn has been forgotten. I have a feeling it was returned to its original location, the landfill. I probably held a bit of guilt returning it with the adage of looking a gift horse in the mouth heavy on my mind. So strong is that memory that I will not purchase thrifted yarn to this day.

Yes, policies have changed and no one has permission to access the trash being brought to the waste management site. These days I consider the Saturday morning dump run a trip to the social mecca of my small town as it is easy to see people you know. I enjoy the usual comments about the recycling bins not emptied often enough and how short people like myself struggle with getting items in the bin without it all falling back on you. I appreciate the irony of seeing so many yard sales set up along the way, tempting you to stop and fill the void that your trash run might have created. Most of all, I enjoy my trips to the dump as they bring back memories of my father and a simpler time. I have never forgotten that upon return from the landfill we would enjoy the reveal of what surprises returned with my father. With this all tucked away as memory, it doesn’t take much imagination to picture my Dad riding shotgun when I go.

Memories of Mom

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I would be remiss not to express my thoughts on motherhood as we approach Mother’s Day. It’s not that I am lured into the commercial side of the day but rather appreciate the recognition that it garners. Giving birth to my son will always be the most important thing that I accomplished while on this earth. The fact that he has grown into a thoughtful and caring man only adds to my joy. My focus is not on myself though, but rather my own mother. She has been gone for a long time but her presence is still felt today. Memories, from early in my childhood, linger and have my mother prominently at the center.

Mom had the misfortune to lose her own mother at the age of four. Several years later, her step mother was to also die at an early age. My mother and her sister were raised without the benefit of a lasting maternal role model in their home. Their aunts were there and offered what they could, but basically, they were motherless. I feel that this experience taught my mother a life lesson that remained with her. She understood what a void she had experienced in her life and ensured that my brothers and I would never suffer the same consequences. No, she didn’t make a pledge to longevity but rather loved and guided us with every bit of her being.

When I was very young, we made the move from Philadelphia to the location where my father had been stationed for recruiter duty. Totally in agreement, my parents felt like it would be a good place to raise children and that is where we stayed. Looking back, I believe that this made us a tighter family unit. We were removed from our extended family and were making our way in a new community. Initially we had depended upon each other. Our world would expand to include our neighbors and friends but I was much too young to exist beyond the circle of my family. It might have been different for my older brothers but I was very much attached to our mother.

As we acclimated ourselves to our new community the time came for me to attend kindergarten. It was only for half a day but it was my first venture into the world beyond our home. The day came when an open house was held for registration. I recall going into the large room with my mother. There were other children there with their mothers. The room was large, colorful and filled with a variety of toys and activities. As we made our way around the space I was intrigued by a toy that was perched on a shelf. It was a wheel with wooden letters placed upon a wire that encircled it. I was enthralled by the object. I’m sure I didn’t grasp the educational concept behind the toy but I remember the simple enjoyment that sliding the small blocks around the wheel brought. When I tired of it I turned to look at my mother. She wasn’t there. Immediately I panicked and began to cry. It didn’t take long to realize that my mother had only moved to the other side of the room. I was never in danger and hadn’t been abandoned but I have not forgotten the terror I felt when I couldn’t immediately find her. I was the same age that my mother was when she permanently lost her mother. I have a hard time grappling with a loss so profound at such a young age.

It is clear that my year in kindergarten was helpful in expanding my world. My time there can be considered a success. I made friends, some of who I am still in contact with today. With an increase in my social skills and all the other necessary requirements met, my classmates and I prepared for graduation. The girls must have been instructed to wear white dresses and come with a bouquet of flowers. It must have been enjoyable for my mother to choose a dress for her only daughter to wear for this rite of passage. Actually she must have reveled in the idea of having her little tomboy wear something so special. A white dress was selected and my bouquet would consist of deep reddish peonies. Since the flowers made such a nice contrast, my mother thought adding a red sash to my dress would really set it apart. Then she must have thought that to complete the ensemble the anklets needed to match. Bright red socks were selected to blend with the sash and flowers. Decades later, when the topic would arise, she would never concede that it was anything other than a perfectly matched outfit. Mercifully, I believe this fashion faux pas is something only my family remembers, albeit with laughter.

Thinking of how we were raised, again I am in awe of our mother. After we had relocated, my father had to complete his last tour of duty in the Navy, a six month deployment. When he retired from the Navy his next career had him work second shift. My mother had the unenviable role of often being the sole disciplinarian. It is no wonder that one night, after dinner, I made a rude comment about her choice of serving rice pudding. At that point she lost patience with me and I was sent to my room without dessert. Thank you, Jesus! She did a remarkable job of raising us but I am sure Dr. Spock never contacted her for parenting advice after that episode.

Mom was blessed with a long life. Although being her only daughter and the closeness it brought, we never considered ourselves best friends. I held respect for her role as my mother. She did rely on me and we had some very honest and heartfelt conversations before her death. I told her that I planned on eulogizing her, just as I had done for Dad many years earlier. I confessed that I was going to share comical parts of her life. She would smile and had no reservations. As we held vigil around her bed during her last hours I wasn’t thinking about red socks or rice pudding. I told her that she did well by us and we would be okay. She let go and I can rest easy knowing that there was nothing left unsaid. She is missed everyday but I have no lingering grief over anything that should have been addressed. I can’t imagine how heavy that burden would be if I had followed a different path. I wouldn’t want anyone to travel that road and if I had any words of wisdom to share they would be simple and few: call your mother if you have the good fortune to still have her.

This is not the first time I have written about my mother. You are welcome to read another post on a previous blog: https://mypunchline.wordpress.com/2015/08/16/my-mother-and-loss/

Homesick

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So many times I cross paths with items I recall from my youth. It is with disbelief that I find these items are designated as vintage. Usually seeing them brings a smile but every so often I find tears forming. I am struck by the fact that beyond seeing something tangible from years ago, they are now accompanied solely by my memories. I grew up in an era that there were no phones to capture pictures or videos. Times like this can trigger a feeling of homesickness for my childhood, now just a memory from long ago. I miss the big rambling brick house, surrounded by maple trees that sheltered our three generations. More than that, I miss the people and the love that existed under its roof.

Our home was hot in the summer and chilly in the winter. We lived there without the benefit of air conditioning. Once released from school for the summer I would spend much of my time reading upon one of the many porches that surrounded our home. I would also enjoy sitting on a porch swing that our father actually fashioned into a patio swing with the construction of a metal frame. It was placed on the concrete patio that he created incorporating the landscape. Opposite the swing, a planter was placed. It was formed from a barrel, cut in half. Every year our father would plant coleus. I was not impressed. I always thought regular flowers would have been more attractive than the red, green and yellow foliage. Now I smile and think of him as I plant coleus in the flower beds found in my shady back yard. While I might have been dissatisfied with the choice of landscaping, our grandfather would be toiling in our large garden out back. His choice of uniform for such a chore was a straw hat, sleeveless undershirt and a handkerchief tied around his neck. He would lay out these pristine rows of vegetables and we would enjoy the bounty of his efforts. Days loomed long and endless in my mind as a child.

Days would come to an end and summer nights would find us, sitting in the dark, on the patio. The cooler night temperatures were a welcome change when they came but heat and humidity often seemed to be a constant. When we would turn in for the evening, the window fan in the stair landing was our only source of relief. Each of us would open a bedroom window, but not fully. A door stop of sorts would be placed at our doors to keep them ajar and to allow for the movement of air. The fan would be set to pull air through the house and the smaller openings to the bedrooms ensured everyone would benefit. At some point, during the night or early morning, the fan would reach the end of the set timer and it would shut off. The sudden loss of movement of the air and the quietness would be felt by all of us. Either our mother or father would get up, cross over the landing, and turn the fan back on. It was a ritual we knew well every summer night.

Those summer days would wind down and bring the season of autumn. All those magnificent maple trees would shed their leaves and we were tasked with raking. We would always make use of the large canvas laundry cart that our grandfather brought with him when he moved in with us. I’m not sure what lead to the decisions of which items and furniture would be brought from Philadelphia. He had once owned a laundry business and I recall the basement housed an unused press. We found the laundry cart was indispensable in capturing those leaves and transporting them to the compost pile. Playing in the leaves would, in time, become playing in the snow. There was shoveling and sledding in equal portions. Our home would transform at Christmas time. A large lit plastic Santa head would be hung for all to enjoy as they passed the house. Our stockings were hung on a hanger on the back of the closet door in the TV room. We had no fireplace and that was as good as any place to display them. I don’t recall anyone ever asking how Santa found his way into our home. There was always joy on Christmas morning as Santa never disappointed.

In a blink of an eye spring would be upon us. Days would pass, seasons would change and years slipped away. Sounds are the backdrop to the memories of those days. The sound of a train passing less than a mile away, the chain covered tires on a snowy road, and the voices, now forever silent. I recall our grandfather saying he chose to speak English as he was an American. He was indeed, but one who never lost his Italian accent. Our father’s speech would match his pipe smoking tradition, one that was slow and deliberate. He might have left the red Georgia clay behind but his soft southern drawl remained. When we sought our mother, she could be found in the kitchen, outfitted in her cobbler apron and humming as she cooked and baked. Thinking about it now, she had a slight nasal quality to her speech but it is one that I would be overjoyed to hear again. I miss those days, those ordinary, mundane days. Life will always offer special moments but it is the regular day to day activities that consume our time. Don’t blink, they pass so quickly. Pay attention and hope that homesickness doesn’t have a reason to often come visit your doorstep.