A is for Apple Tree

A is for apple and the apple tree I've known all my life. Apple Tree lives in the orchard at my Mom's. The property was my Grandparents and Apple Tree was given its honored spot in the orchard close to 70 years ago. Care was given I am certain as she was placed in the rich dark earth by strong, yet gentle Norwegian hands. Nurtured and loved was she as new shoots reached high and her broad limbs strengthened. 

  As children we would sit in her limbs when Grandpa wasn't paying attention, and shimmy down in a hurry when he realized where we were. Our own offspring perform similar antics. For decades now Apple Tree has shared her treasured fruit and provided a peaceful resting spot beneath her canopy.

Apple Tree has watched children, grands, and great-grands ramble and wrestle in the tender, emerald blades surrounding her base. Silent watchman over generations at play.
 
As they have played and rested, so have the same generations cared for Apple Tree and her friends in the tiny orchard on the Northern California seaside prairie. New clan members and caregivers will learn of Apple Tree. They will learn of her strength, her loyalty, and her willingness to share abundant fruit and ample shade.

Some stay and some go out to find their own treasured plots and build new sacred places much like their forefathers found and built this homestead. They scatter much like Apple Tree's leaves in the late fall breeze. Fruits of labor they will remain, spreading branches and blooms of their own amongst the orchards of life. Earth keeps spinning and life goes on. And for now, A is for Apple Tree.



T. Bundy
Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Location:Lost in the DP, Humboldt County

Spring Cleaning

February 23 marked 10 years since my Dad passed away.  In France, on vacation, unexpectedly, passed away.  Gone from this earth.  Left behind a legacy of family, friends, living for the day, falling down, dusting off, and Irish Humor.  Anyone who knew my Dad, however briefly, learned something from him.  I perhaps learned the falling down and dusting off the best.  I expect it of myself, and I accept it in others.  The hardest falls teach the most valuable lessons.  Falling comes in unexpected ways, over unexpected edges. Surely though, falling comes to all.  It is the dusting off that counts.  Even if we are dusty for a long while.  Even if we, or those next to us are so covered by yesterdays sandstorm we are hard to recognize, it is the dusting off that counts. 

It is important to dust ourselves, and just as important to dust others.  There are after all, spots we just don't think we can reach.  Don't be afraid to hand someone your duster and ask them to get that spot for you.  Help from others in your dusting might make your task a bit easier.  Of course, they might refuse.  If that is the case, kindly take your duster back for future use, back up against your obstacle, rub a little harder, and remove it yourself.  Equally, don't be afraid to help dust someone else if they ask.  If they hand you their own duster and it appears too rough or bristly, offer to use your own  feather duster. Gentle dusting is best when it comes to others. 

Dusting can be difficult.  Lots of places those dust bunnies can hide.  Be patient and attentive, and you'll find them though.  Go slowly and deliberately so as not to just scatter the dust.  Discard or cleanse thoroughly the used dusters for future use.

Dust is everywhere. Dust does not discriminate where it lands.  When someone falls or is stationary long enough, they will get dusty.   While falling and getting dusting can't be avoided, dusting off can be.  Don't avoid dusting.  I've found a little wine or Guinness can make the task easier.  Hey, I said a little.  Dust off people. Spring is coming.

Oh Shoe-T

Be warned, shoes can get you in trouble if you're not careful with them.  I know this because my shoes have gotten me into some odd situations.   Two of which are as memorable to those who witnessed these episodes  as they are  to me.  It's good I'm writing this because when I relate these two events aloud, the laughter usually interrupts the story before it's finished.  My laughter that is.  Those listening usually have facial expressions somewhere between disbelief and "She's really gone nuts this time".   If you don't know me, you might find it hard to believe.  If you do know me, you understand it is true.  Every last sole-ful word of it is true.

I have never, ever, ever, (thanks Taylor) owned a pair of high heels.  The tallest heels I've ever owned are the 2 inches on my old shit-kickers.  At 5'9" I don't have a desire to be taller.  As the proud owner of the nickname "Grace" growing up, I don't have a need for twisted ankles and scraped limbs from falling down steps.  I've had plenty of those while in my sneakers and flats.  I suppose my ragged relationship with shoes comes from just having to wear them at all.  I never used to take good care of my shoes.  I paid little attention to my shoes, and I suppose it was a matter of time before they and their friends revolted and gave me a footwear's version of a tongue lashing.

Event 1 in being schooled by my shoes began on a calm fall day showing no signs of what lie ahead.  I needed new work shoes.  I worked as an instructional aid and had "yard-duty" every day, which led me to comfy cozy shoes just high enough to keep my pant hems from dragging in the puddles and other nastiness found on middle school playgrounds.  I found what I was looking for in a pair of Munro shoes,  and was so fond of the fit that I purchased them in black, and in blue.  I liked them even more because Munro is an American company. My black and blue shoes made by a red, white, and blue company. 

I decided to take my new shoes on a test run (OK, walk) that evening.  My husband and I were picking up my little brother and his wife to go out to dinner.  We pulled in their driveway and I joyfully stepped out of the car as usual.  Sister-in-law Susie walked towards me and I raised my right foot, twirling it around, showing off my latest purchase.  All leather upper and strong last.  "I like them so much I got them in blue too" said I.  "I see that", said she.  Weird response thought I.  Giggle, giggle tee-hee, went she.  As I opened the car door to climb in, I took another look at my brand new shoes. My black and blue shoes.   My right black shoe, my left blue shoe.  You get the picture.  "Gyppo, we need to run back by the house" said I.   Enough said. 

Event 2 in being schooled by my shoes, and the lesson that finally made the point, came on a cold winter day in Weaverville, CA.  We were going to a dinner as our sons guests and had driven over from the coast a couple hours before. I had hurriedly tossed some things in a bag to change when we got to his house.  We had minutes to spare as I changed in his extra bedroom.  I put on a clean blouse and slipped my feet into my shoes.  Well, I slipped my right foot into a black right shoe.  My left foot had a little trouble.  There was no left shoe.  There was no left black shoe.  There was however, a right blue shoe.  My two right shoes. My black and blue shoes.

Six o'clock on a Saturday in Weaverville, CA there is no hope for purchasing shoes.  My daughter-in-law wears a size itty-bitty or something that doesn't stand a chance of housing my size 10's .   The muddy hikers I wore over weren't going to work either.  "Wag 'em and shag 'em", I hear from a trio of loggers ready to leave.  Heading out the door into 30 degrees and light snow, the Gyppo wisely says "Put on your damn shoes".  A lament he's all too familiar with living with me. "I will when we get there" I growled.   I attempted a brief explanation of my dilemma to no avail.  I don't remember if the noise in the truck for the next 10 minutes was supportive, or ridiculing.  Probably ridiculing.  I do know that as we made our way into the community hall ( full of about 200 people), I quickly made my way to our assigned table.  Two right shoes make it a little difficult to walk so I kind of waddled to our table.  By the time everyone had a round or two, my two right shoes were old news.  Except to my two big toes which were still recovering from major cramping. 

Such were my lessons in taking care of my shoes.  I realize shoe care may not be priority to many people.  I do suggest however, that you give your shoes the respect they need.  Wipe them down with a cool cloth after a hard days work or a night out dancing.  Give them a little spray of freshener on their over-tugged on tongues once in a while.  And please, wash the dogs business off the poor soles, don't just do the grass wipe and run.  That's a shoe's pet peeve.  Neglected shoes, overworked and overrun, can rebel fiercely and form a mini confederate army of sorts.  Rebel shoes come from all walks of life, and their leather uppers are brazen enough to sabotage any owner.  And rebel shoes have friends. They have friends with all the newest shoe technology and reinforced lasts just waiting to give a little pay-back for the mistreatment of generations.  So take heed, and take heel.  Be true to your shoes.

Old Cozy

All summer long it waits patiently, stuck behind shorter pants and summer dresses. My Old Cozy Sweater waits. Year after year it's just as soft and warm as it was the year before. My Old Cozy Sweater so soft. Through cool fall mornings and cold winter evenings it never complains about being tugged at and shivered in. Not a word does it whisper when left on the couch back or rocking chair for an afternoon. Old Cozy offers its' pockets for chapstick, found coins, kleenex, and runaway socks. Age and wear don't stop Old Cozy from early morning grocery store visits or midnight 7-11 runs. Over the years it has shouldered much laughter, as well as tears of joy and sorrow as it warms these shoulders of mine. It is somewhat mystic my Old Cozy Sweater. And its purple. 

Five Pound Box

It is December and the lovely boxes have begun to arrive. Most are delivered via United Parcel Service or the Postal Service. A few get hand to hand service by a Federal Express Courier, or even by the gift-giver themselves. Cool beans or I should say cool nuts. Nuts and chews, soft centers, caramel filled, nut covered, fruit centers, they all arrive in their best attire. Pretty boxes to decorate my office desk and filing cabinet, kitchen counter and coffee table. Some have real bows; some have a printed red ribbon on the white glossy paper covering their home of partitioned spaces and delicate tissue papers. Every year kind-hearted business acquaintances, some who are treasured friends in spite of these December deliveries, send these gifts of struggle.

Most of the time this struggle comes in one or two pound segments. Once in a while, like last Thursday, the struggle presents itself as a whopping five pound family in the same cardboard condo.  One, two and especially five pounds can be dangerous to a girl, especially a middle-aged working girl who has sworn herself  to be “the fun Grandma”.  Fun Grandmas need their energy, and too much chocolate can give them a headache.  Five pounds can turn Fun Grandmas into cranky Grannies faster than you can chew and swallow that marshmallow chewy thing covered in dark chocolate, or his cousin swathed in ground walnuts. It’s obscene what candy companies do to an otherwise perfectly lovely naked marshmallow.  Five pounds can be especially frightening when Fun Grandmas mix wine with anything chocolate.  Just ask my sister.  Oh wait, on second thought don’t ask my sister.  She was sworn to secrecy years ago, not long after she was sworn in as an attorney. At least I have legal defense should I drown a box of chocolates in the lake next week.

Why don’t Sees, Godiva, and Russell Stover come in Christmas boxes of two or even one?  Maybe they do and I just have generous business associates and friends.  It could mean hey sister sledge, five pounds means nothing to us.  Maybe when I walk away from a lunch meeting with an insurance agent they really aren’t looking at my oversized backside?   Or maybe they’ve been listening to  Christmas music on XM and they love all of mankind, and pudgy Fun Grandmas.  They may send extra because they think I will share with yarder crews and equipment operators when they come by for paperwork or paychecks.  Fat chance.

The month of December never fails to present me with this issue of boxed chocolates.  Different year, same problem. Hell, different decade, same problem. Five pounds of guilt wrapped in a pretty white box though is a bit excessive.   I will say, if it’s got the right center, guilt never tasted so good.  A cup of Baileys laced coffee and it’s all good, for an hour or so.  I am pretty sure I can have the issue narrowed down to four and a half pounds by this evening, maybe even four pounds.  I may need to wear yoga pants tomorrow.  Good thing I work at home.

                                         

Stilts

A dreary, foggy December day was unwinding in northern Humboldt County when my wisecracking brother Mike approached me for a ride "downtown".   He refused to tell me why until I had secured the use of Grandma's late 1960’s model Ford Fairlane.  I was a new driver so this was no easy feat.  As I drove the 7 miles to the little shopping center, Mike told me he wanted to go to Chilcott's.  I remember being surprised because Chilcott's was the toy store.  Mike announced he was going to get our younger brother Chris a present.  After I rather rudely reminded him that money would be needed, he grinned and said, "Just park the car and follow me".  I did follow him, and what that14 year old mischievous brother of mine did that December afternoon still brings tears to my eyes.

 

For a few weeks each year, the days of Christmas bless us with a handful of weeks filled with the making of new memories, the remembering of old.     Memories from childhoods and brand new bicycles, memories of early adulthood and making do with little or nothing,  memories of raising  children and prayers that the magic of these days will live in their hearts forever, for some the memories of grandchildren’s excitement.  For many, if not most, Christmas does bring at least a remembrance or two of difficult times.  The sleighs and Santa sacks of people everywhere are filled with a bit of both.  Many difficult times are best left in the past.  Some however, can be worth revisiting.  A few may even become our most beloved memories.

Our parents divorced when I was 13 years old.  My older sister was 14. We were five “Stone Kids” rounded out with Mike at 11, Dennice at 9, and Chris at 6.  Dad moved out, Mom went to work, Sharon went to work, and I stayed home with what we still refer to as "the little kids".  We are in our late 40's and 50's now but it is still how I describe my younger siblings. A few years passed with more than a few "stories you'll talk about when you're older" added to the memory banks.  Mom collapsed at her night job managing a bowling alley in the Bay Area when I was 16, and it became obvious that changes were necessary.   Our knight in shining armor was Mom's brother, our Uncle Harvey, who in two days’ time had us and our few belongings moved back to our Grandparents home in Humboldt County. 

To this day I can't imagine the change my Grandma and Grandpa had to deal with.  Their quiet retired life in what they referred to as "God’s Country" was turned muddled and chaotic with the invasion of their 38 year old daughter and her rowdy brood of 5 into their 2 bedroom cottage type home.  Grandpa was gentle and nurturing to his new housemates, and Grandma proceeded to spend less time in her garden and more time cooking and cleaning.  We "Stone Kids" were enrolled in local schools and attempted to adjust to a very different life.  Humboldt County in the 70's was much like it is today, stuck in the 60's, and a world apart from the Bay Area.  Culture shock is an overused term in my opinion, but it works here.  Mom spent much of the next several months in bed and it was a tough time.  We were lucky to have our Grandparents as a soft landing zone. Perhaps my most treasured childhood Christmas memory comes from these first years back in Humboldt County.

Christmas was nearing and it was no secret that money was nearly non-existent, though it certainly could have been much worse.  We were actually very fortunate.  We did not go hungry, and we were not homeless.  We had Grandparents who were managing to care for us, and Mom was beginning to pick herself up a bit.  One early December afternoon, the five of us were called to sit on Grandmas' brown upholstered sofa, which was already showing signs of being used as a bed by one or more of us.  

Mom announced to us in a soft, yet strong voice, that our Christmas present that year would be a load of peeler cores.  Grandma and Grandpas house had only wood heat, and peeler cores (waste logs purchased from a local mill) were an economical way to heat the place.   We were encouraged to help in the splitting and stacking of the cores into actual firewood.  There would be no presents under the tree.  We all had a unique and developed sense of humor and Mike, now age 14, was no exception. He stood up loud, proud,  and freckle faced with wild brown curls hiding his ears and shading his eyes announcing, "I don't care if there's only one present under the tree, as long as it's for me!”   Laughter and pillow throwing ensued, as we five assured our Mother that the firewood would be a great gift for our family. 

I was more than a little apprehensive on that foggy December afternoon as I followed my brother Mike into the toy store.  My uneasiness grew  as he approached the husband and wife owners at the counter, who kindly asked what they could help him find.  His reply was quite polite and very clear.  "Do you have any broken toys I can have?"  Owners Mrs. Chilcott and her husband looked sideways at me, then at each other, then back to Mike.  "What kind of things are you looking for?" Mr. Chilcott asked.  With his hands stuffed in the pockets of his worn corduroy pants, Mike grinned shyly and said, "I need a present for my little brother".  Mr. Chilcott told Mike that they didn't really keep the broken things around but motioned at us to follow him through the store as he mumbled something under his breath.   We followed him to a doorway in the back of the store walking between the shelves of board games and wire bins of giant bouncing balls and waited as he disappeared into the dimly lit and somehow magical back room.  After hearing a few muffled grunts and unrecognizable words from beyond the doorway and what sounded like boxes being pushed across the tile floor, the store owner emerged holding two long square wooden poles.  They were blue.  I can close my eyes and see them clearly even now.   They were stilts.

Mr. Chilcott handed Mike a pair of royal blue stilts, dusty and a bit scratched, with one missing footrest and the other dangling loosely to its place on the blue pole.   Mike informed Mr. Chilcott that these were perfect and assured him that he was capable of fixing them up.  Mike and I both thanked the husband and wife team and headed out the door with Mike explaining to me his plans for repair.   We headed back to Woody Road with two royal blue stilts wedged from the back seat through the open passenger window, and my brother Mike hanging tightly to his Christmas treasure.  Somehow we managed to sneak the stilts into the back of Grandpas garage without anyone seeing us.  I don't remember seeing Mike work on the stilts over the next several days, but we exchanged knowing glances whenever the subject of our peeler core Christmas present came up. 

On Christmas morning, Mike and I were up first.  Mike snuck out of the house and returned on tiptoes carrying the now shining royal blue stilts.   A few scratches were still evident but these stilts now had freshly painted, securely attached footrests of the same bright red color I’d seen Grandpa using on an old patio chair the past summer.  Others in the house slowly awakened and came to sit in the glow of the tree lights as was our tradition.  Grandma and Grandpa had managed to purchase each of us new pajamas, and Grandma had them wrapped handsomely so we did each have a present to open.   As we sat admiring our new sleepwear, Mike pulled the stilts from their hiding place behind the old piano and proudly presented them to Chris.   OH’s and awes came from almost everyone except Mom.  She sat staring at her eldest son with a look I can only describe as astonished pride.  A brotherly and nearly dangerous hug followed as the two boys attempted to keep from smacking the rest of us with one end or another of the awkwardly intersecting  stilts.  Amazingly they managed to avoid knocking over the already inclined Christmas tree.  Mike beamed as Chris examined the gift.  “Merry Christmas Little Brother”.  

Chris was the first of the "Stone Kids" to learn stilt-walking, and over the next months we all learned the skill.  Mom even gave it a shot a time or two.   Hours upon hours were spent on those poles over the years and at times arguments took place as to whose turn it was to exhibit their sense of balance, or lack of it as the case may have been.  We could all walk on stilts, some more gracefully than others.  We had to maneuver around the firewood logs for a while, but we could all walk on stilts.  Some of our children can walk on stilts as well. They learned on that same set of royal blue scratched up stilts with red footrests which they found still stored in their Great- Grandfathers old garage.

Nearly 40 years have now passed since that Christmas. We have all been blessed with many Christmas seasons since and have undoubtedly added to our collection of wonderful memories.   We’ve each had our own struggles, and added to the difficult memory sack as well, perhaps dealing a bit more easily with those struggles in part because of what we learned during earlier times.  While Chris was the recipient of the treasured and well used royal blue stilts that year, the rest of the Stone Kids shared in that joy, and I truly believe it was our brother Mike who received the most wonderful and lasting gift of all.

Day 30 - Thankfulness

Today I am thankful for Baseball.  I considered winding up this 30 day challenge with thanks for a more soulful topic, but Baseball is a most soulful activity.  I considered addressing lifelong learning, two of many words I try to live by, but I relate lifelong learning and life to Baseball.   Today I am thankful for Baseball.  I wasn’t ever a Baseball Player.  I don’t own stakes in a Baseball Team (though that would be pretty cool), yet I don’t remember a time when Baseball wasn’t part of my life. 

I learned a lot about Baseball from my Grandfather, who interestingly was blind.  Many summer hours were spent on his Humboldt County patio listening to Lon Simmons call the Giants games.   Those moments of shelling peanuts, cleaning smoked fish, and sneaking a sip of Grandpa’s Hamm’s Beer, oftentimes as the Humboldt Fog began to roll in are treasures of my heart. I’m thankful to Baseball for those memories.

One of my earliest memories in life is sitting in the kitchen with my Dad and yet another transistor radio. Dad taught me a lot of the technicalities of Baseball.  He also taught me how to figure batting averages, on base percentages, and how to keep score.  These lessons with him are probably why I love Math, and scorebooks.  Dad also taught me how to yell rude comments at umpires and opposing players.  I don’t bellow out  “pitchers got a rubber nose” very often, but I’m glad I know how to when it’s needed.  I also know that if another man offers a certain first baseman a fictional picture of his wife or girlfriend, said first baseman will become flustered, and then giggle like a little girl.  My Dad had that affect on a lot of people.   Baseball gave me time with my Dad.  I’m thankful for that.

Raising boys, we spent a lot of time at little league fields.  Our boys did homework on bleachers while watching the games of their brother and friends.  For a couple months each year family dinners consisted of chili pies and hot dogs prepared at snack bars lovingly run by Moms and Dads to whom I am forever grateful.  Youth Baseball helped teach our sons not only about the game, but about adjusting their priorities, being responsible, and taking care of your friends. I’m thankful for the help in teaching those important life lessons.

As an aging child, Baseball has been and continues to be part of my life. Just the last decade has provided countless treasured moments.  The Red Sox curse breaking 2004 year could leave only true haters and Yankee fans without a warm feeling somewhere. I am blessed to occupy the seats that belonged to my Dad at AT&T. I can feel him at every game I attend.  Giants fans kept the faith through the lean years and were rewarded with moments correctly described as magic.  I was lucky to see the Bonds record-breaking hits and saddened by the ensuing controversy.   Joe and I helped hold the American flag on the field at the 2007 All-Star Game. I like to think I’m pretty good at forgiveness, but the lesson was learned anew when I began to love Barry Zito. Being at the park with my sons when Pablo hit 3 out on October 24th of this year will carry me through at least until pitchers and catchers report in February.  OK, I lie, it’ll stick with me forever. 

We’ve shared games and surrounding times with parents, siblings, offspring, and friends.  Each one is registered in my own record book of good times. Each one is eligible for my personal Hall of Fame. I’m thankful for every moment.  I’m thankful for Baseball.