Barbara Briggs Ward's Blog

I knew if I did not make the banana bread yesterday that I had been planning on making, the bananas would be beyond rotten. They were already rotten enough. So, out came the pans and ingredients. The oven was on preheat. And my son Brian, was working on his latest piece of art on the kitchen counter. While he has two art desks, he sometimes prefers the kitchen counter because of the windows.So, as I was getting ready to mix the ingredients, he asked me what I was going to make. He loves banana bread, so his interest perked. As I began peeling the bananas, he told me they were rotten. I told him my grandmother (nicknamed Giddy) always said the rottener the bananas, the better, the tastier the bread. I told him it was her recipe that I was using. This led to talking about my grandmother and her woodstove and her recipes, her aprons, her bowl that I was putting the rotten bananas in."That is Giddy's bowl?" he asked."Yes. Maybe she used it when making her banana bread.""Can I mash the bananas?"And so, he put his artwork aside and mashed those three rotten bananas while continuing our conversation as snow flurries drifted by those windows.After he went to bed, I found the photo I cherish of that bowl sitting in a cupboard in my grandparents' farmhouse. I showed it to Brian this morning. That led to more conversation and another slice or two of that banana bread.

Take a ride down most any country road in northern New York and you will see at one time or another, cornstalks lining up like soldiers out in the fields. Some of those fields seem to stretch as far as the horizon.

Growing up about a mile out on one of those country roads, playing outside with my cousin whenever possible, cornstalks would on occasion become part of our pretending, especially in the summertime. There was a field adjacent to my grandparents' farmhouse and on certain days when our pretending was on overload, that field full of cornstalks would work its way into our adventure-like the time we found our way out to the middle of that field. Then plopped down and made a cornstalk house. That meant bending some stalks. Crushing a few to the ground for cornstalk tables & chairs. Crushing a few more for cornstalk beds with cornstalk pillows. We would pretend our cornstalk house had windows from which we could "spy on the adults." We were certain they never saw us out in the field of cornstalks, in our cornstalk house. watching their every move.But as much fun as cornstalks could be, if we were on a high-speed mission chasing 'bad guys' through that field, the problem with cornstalks when running through a cornfield full of them was their big, floppy leaf-like arms. They have so many of those arms and they are all sharp as knives on the edges. We were wounded many times, but we kept on running and pretending. After all, we were on an adventure in our grandfather's corn field, and I am certain he was thrilled.My mother most always noticed my cornstalk injuries. Being a RN, her nurses' training would kick in. I never had to be admitted to the hospital! A few times a band-aid was needed. That was fine with me. They declared I was wounded in the cornfield. It became a badge of honor running through the cornfield on a high-speed mission on a country road in northern NY.

 

With the geese flying and the leaves turning, Autumn is upon us with all of its splendor. And now with those leaves falling, walking through them is as enjoyable as it was when growing up. 
Besides walking through them when growing up, raking them was just as fun. My cousin and I would rake them into a huge pile. Then we would divide them into smaller piles. From those smaller piles we would construct leaf houses using our rakes as our tools. After forming leaf walls into place, we would divide the house into rooms. The bedrooms would be complete with leaf beds complete with leaf pillows. The kitchen would include a leaf table with matching leaf chairs. We played in our leaf houses until the wind blew them away.

When outside the other day, watching my grandson raking leaves that had fallen and then jumping into the huge pile of leaves he created, I had the strangest thought. 
The best Toy Company ever is the one created by Mother Nature, if that was ever possible. When you think about it, Mother Nature is responsible for those leaves my grandson raked. Then gathered into a pile. Then ran and jumped into the pile and repeated all of it over and over again. Mother Nature causes snow to fall which gets turned into snowballs, snow forts. Snowmen. Snow Angels. Mother Nature creates mud puddles for little feet in rubber boots to march through and splash in. The Mother Nature Toy Company brings sunny days at no charge. Those sunny days make picnics possible as well as baseball games and playing in sand boxes and going swimming and riding bikes.
After watching my grandson playing in the leaves, I am sure The Mother Nature Toy Company would come out the Winner of Best Toy Company ever despite no use of computers or phones with games or artificial coloring or a fee to pay. 
Mother Nature offers Play, pure, fun, enjoyable play with no strings attached.

 

I hardly ever wore crinolines under my skirts way back when wearing crinolines underneath skirts was the fad. Not participating in a fad was unusual for me. After all, I ran to a department store located in the downtown of where I lived the moment Sonny and Cher's "I Got You Babe" grabbed my attention. I had to have bellbottoms and short-sleeved ribbed sweaters. I had to grow my hair down to my waist. But crinolines were a different story. I didn't like all of that netting. I didn't like my skirts pushed way out in front of me even when most of my friends wore crinolines all the time. 

However, there are most always exceptions to most anything-even when it comes to wearing crinolines if crinolines aren't your thing. For me, that exception came when my grandmother made me a velvet green dress to wear to a Christmas party. It was going to be held in a grand old hotel in that downtown where I lived. My date was a freshman at a nearby college. He was so cute. We were going with a friend of his and that friend's date.
My grandmother was an expert seamstress. I had no problem wearing a homemade dress. I knew it would look as if I'd bought it in some fancy store. My mother, also an expert seamstress, owned a fabric store. It was part of our home, and my grandmother lived next door. So, on a Saturday morning my grandmother came over and we talked about 'the dress.' It took a few hours. The dress had to be perfect. Since it was a Christmas dance, the three of us agreed velvet would be perfect, especially emerald green velvet. Then we browsed through some pattern books to get some ideas. The dress ended up being a combination of features taken from a few patterns. My grandmother never actually had a specific pattern to follow. She measured me while my mother measured out the yards needed. Besides a zipper, that's all my grandmother had to make the dress. No pattern. Just a bag with the velvet and a zipper inside.
I went for a few fittings. That was fun. I loved watching my grandmother tighten a dart or tuck in a seam with her measuring tape around her neck and straight pins attached to her house dress for quick use. When I went for the final fitting three days before the gala event, I was shocked to discover my grandmother had added crinoline to the dress. Not too much but still, it made the dress puff out a bit. I didn't say anything. I didn't feel like trying it on, but I did. She'd worked so hard on the dress. My grandmother put it over my head, and I could feel the netting go down my sides. After she zipped up the back, she turned me around in front of a long mirror and asked me what I thought. I was afraid to look. When I did, I fell in love with the velvet green dress. The crinoline added something special. It dressed it up. It would be fun to dance in it. I loved to dance. I was excited.
Despite the velvet green dress, the dance was a disaster. After we'd dance to a fast song and my crinolines went flying, my cute date smelling of English Leather told me I wouldn't see him again because he had a girlfriend back home. Not even that dress could stop the tears.
I never wore crinolines again. I was quite happy when miniskirts and go-go boots became the fad.
 

 

I am happy to say I can again attach photos to my Blogger posts. That means I will be back posting more often. To me, a photo enhances a post so here we go again.
As summer drifts into fall small changes in the landscape are becoming obvious. The clouds seem fuller. Closer to the earth. Their presence speak of the magic taking place. Shades of green seem to be creating a blanket of softness reminiscent of a favorite old sofa welcoming you back with its comfortable old cushions. Most trees, except for a few poplar trees, remain dressed in their leaves. Most of those leaves, except for the poplar leaves, have yet to change color. Those that have, turned to a mellow yellow. 
Thanks to the wind, those mellow yellow leaves are spreading themselves about the field. And because of the wind, all the surrounding poplar trees with their precious yellow leaves sound like violins playing out in that magical field, changing once again.
Mother Nature certainly out did herself again, turning a field into a masterpiece of color and design. Pure beauty for all to see.

PLEASE NOTE:(I am still unable to include a photo with a Post. I was waiting to post again when the problem was fixed but I have decided to get back to posting my little stories. I hope you enjoy. Photos will soon return.)

HOME: Most of us will go through life having more than a few places we will call Home. As life goes on, those places will remain with us no matter where we go. That is because home is defined in our hearts. Home tugs at us. Like a bird in its nest, we know when we are there. Home wraps us up in warmth like an old, tattered quilt. Home keeps the world away.
Home allows us to be still.
I have a few places I call home. The one that comes to mind more often than not was my first home. The home where I grew up before we moved to the country when I was in the third grade. I remember every nook and cranny of that clapboard house situated along a lane. I can still feel the 2nd step going down into my bedroom move whenever I was coming or going. I can still hear it creak. I can still smell the aromas from the kitchen coming up through a register in my bedroom. I can still hear the wind swirling through the pine trees in the back yard.
A few years ago, I drove by that house that used to be yellow but is now an emerald green. That did not matter. I still saw it as yellow. The owners happened to be out front. I knew the minute I saw them I was going to stop.
I pulled up next to the same curb that I would jump over and walk on when I was a little girl. The sidewalk where I would ride my bike remained the same. It just didn't go on forever like it used to. Or like I imagined it did.
Getting out of my car, I introduced myself to the owners and explained why I was stopping. Without my asking, they invited me inside the house that tugs at my heart.
As they took me from room-to-room, changes made to that home did not matter. In fact, I felt the 2nd step going down into what had been my bedroom move although there were new steps. Three in fact. And they did not move. I could smell the aromas from the kitchen still coming up though the register although the register was no longer there, I could hear the wind swirling through the pine trees in the backyard even though the pine trees had been removed.
I define that home by memories I hold dear in my heart. While I do not dwell on that place and time, when I think of it, I get in touch with that little girl inside me. That clapboard home on the lane grounds me. It brings me back, then pushes me forward and on I go to the place I now call Home. Out in the country with a small barn out back and fields to explore with smells and textures all its own.
If you are going back this summer to a place you once called Home, enjoy your visit. Like a bird in its nest, you will know when you are there.

(PLEASE NOTE: I have not been able to upload photos onto my Blog Posts so Ihave not blogged in a while. But I finally decided to go for it without photos until the time I figure out the problem. If you would like to see the photo that I intended to add with this post,both are on my Facebook page: The Reindeer Keeper).The Post Begins Here: When my older brother was a toddler, he nicknamed our grandmother Giddy. Thatnickname stayed with her over the years. Giddy worked from the minute she got up to the minute she went to bed. When going downstairs in the morning, she would be wearing one of her house dresses. Functional, with pockets, wearing such a loose-fitting dress made it easier for her to move about the old farmhouse as she cooked, mended, sewed, knitted, crocheted, braided rugs, did the wash, hung it out on the line to dry, did the ironing, baked bread, made donuts and cookies and tarts, prepared meals, cleaned-up, tended to six daughters, helped her husband in the barn and the fields and the gardens while dealing with everything else through four seasons, seven days a week. That rambling old farmhouse with its screened-in veranda was Giddy’s office. The kitchen was her Board Room, with wainscoting and white enamel cabinets adding a decorative touch. A woodstove in that rather large Board Room was where Giddy did her cooking and baking. Board members gathered daily to enjoy her home-cooked meals and partake in conversations while sitting around a pine table with three leaves. Instead of stocks and bonds and trends in the marketplace, discussions in the Board Roomfocused on chores and family matters and more chores. The work was hard. The hours were long in my grandmother's office. She never closed for holidays. Not even on Sundays. Not even on long weekends. She did not benefit from paidvacations or any vacations or sick leave or health insurance or social securityor 401ks. And even though she never wore pants, everyone knew she wore the pantsin that office while wearing a functional house dress with pockets. Giddy’s kindness and wit along with her molasses cookies baked in her woodstove, so bigthat it took two hands to hold one; her pies; her French goulash; hertraditional Christmas bread; her braiding rugs when sitting in her rockingchair; her high cheek bones and French-Canadian heritage, along with those sixdaughters and the love of her life were all part of this woman who did not needa movement to define her nor technology to assist her. Giddy never would have bothered with facelifts or Botox or implants or manicured fingernails. Her brown spots and wrinkles and long, gray hair kept up in a bun defined her, especiallywhen conducting business in her Board Room in a house dress with all members inplace around the pine table with three leaves, before going out to the barn todo their chores.

 

I knew at some point the magnificent poplar tree standing proudly in front of our home would have to come down. It was showing signs of aging. It was getting tired. Because it was so close to the road, I worried it might fall on a passing vehicle. With great sadness I contacted who I needed to contact and shortly after that, the magnificent and glorious Poplar tee was taken down. I know it was just a tree but growing up I loved listening to the leaves of the Poplar trees lining my grandparents' cinder driveway. Their singing was music to me so when my son Brian and I moved to the country with that mighty Poplar tree greeting us with its own melodies, I felt at home. Sometimes when the wind was blowing in the night, the mighty Poplar would wake me up singing its soulful song. The rustling of its leaves was soothing, telling me everything would be just fine, lulling me back to sleep. Whenever I was out in the garden, the Poplar was right there with me, moving its precious leaves like a conductor of an orchestra; the breeze singing another solo not just for me but for all the little creatures and birds and butterflies flitting about the fields.As my magnificent Poplar tree lost one limb and then another, I stood in the snow watching with tears in my eyes. I thanked that magnificent Poplar tree for its joy, its music, its love, its memories.I know the world is in dire need of Love and Kindness and Understanding and Hope. I know that Poplar was just a tree. But funny thing about that. Our Poplar tree gave us love and kindness, understanding and so very many unforgettable memories.After the ordeal of watching the Poplar tree come down, Brian and I went for one of our long rides on our favorite back country road. We eventually came to the road where his father had lived. Brian asked me to stop the car. We sat and talked about our Poplar. Then he pointed to two beautiful Pine Trees, reminding me he and his father had planted them. He suggested we plant a few Pine Trees where the Poplar had stood, along with a little Poplar tree. Being the amazing gardener he is, Brian then suggested we carve out an area in the Poplar tree's stump and plant flowers.On the way back home, we talked about what flowers we would plant. We decided our magnificent Poplar would be pleased with our plan. I can hear its leaves singing in Tree Heaven.

Getting a kitten was never a resolution. That is too strong of a word. It was more a Hope that at some point, it would happen if all the stars aligned. In other words, if having a kitten would work out in our home due to my son Brian using a walker. I had visions of a kitten getting in his way. Making him trip. Fall down. So, for a long time, I ignored wanting a kitten. That changed when Brian brought the subject of getting a kitten up, telling me it was a good idea. So did my two grandchildren. Not long after that a search began for our long overdue kitten. My grandchildren and I found the kitten on an Amish farm in a big, old Amish barn full of kittens. We named the kitten Daphne only to later be told by a vet that Daphne was a male. It was my son who named our kitten, Tony. And Tony joined our family in early summer.Tony fit in immediately. It was as if he was custom-made for our situation. He seems to sense the meaning of the walker. He stays out of Brian's way. If he happens to be lying in Brian's path, he moves without being told to move. Tony also shows love and compassion towards Brian. His favorite place to nap is on Brian's lap. Sometimes he will sprawl right out, with his head under Brian's chin. When Brian pets Tony, he snuggles even closer. A few times Brian has taken Tony for a ride on his walker. Tony doesn't budge. He is quite content. Quite happy to be a passenger.Our Amish kitten has afforded us many a laugh. He zooms around, sliding into chairs and tables, jumping up on chairs and laps at full speed. He has his many favorite little soft balls that he bats around with his paws, carrying them around, hiding them in Brian's bed. Under his pillows.Of course, Tony did bring down the Christmas tree turning it into "The Crooked Christmas Tree." And today when I was in the process of taking the ornaments off the crooked tree and putting them into a box that I have stored the decorations in for years, Tony had to join those decorations in the box for one last playtime. At least for this year. Maybe.The Hope of getting a kitten has become a reality. No resolution needed. Everything fell into place. Stopping at that Amish farm for Strawberry-Rhubarb Jam was nothing new. But that particular day, it was meant to be, especially when I asked the young Amish girl tending the roadside stand if she knew of any farms that had any kittens. Bingo! Hope prevailed. They had what seemed like a barn full of kittens!Happy New Year!

 

I loved playing TEA PARTY when I was a little girl. Most of the time they were tea parties with pretend friends I named Chunny and Winnie. Our tea parties were always held in the summertime, on an enclosed back porch where the sun and a nice breeze came through the screened windows. My favorite dolls and stuffed animals would join us. They loved being served pretend chocolate chip cookies. So did Chunny and Winnie. So, did I.
I wish I had photos of those tea parties, but I don't. There were no cell phones way back then.
That's why I was so excited when finding the above photo of another Tea Party, not with Chunny and Winnie but with my cousin Carol and my older brother, Johnny. The tea party was held just outside my grandparents' farmhouse. If you look above my cousin, you can see a bit of my grandfather's barn. At that time, the barn was home to cows, horses and chickens. When we were older, we played up in the hay mows in the barn and in our grandfather's nearby shed. 
It did not take us long to realize the shed was a great place to hide, play about in the bins of grain no matter the season, pretend to be building something with all the odds 'n ends of boards and nails, hammers and wrenches and screws and screwdrivers at our fingertips.
My most vivid memory of my grandfather's shed happened after he stopped working his farm due to his health. A few grandchildren still played around the shed and barn. One day my sister discovered a stray puppy in one of the bins of grain in the shed. She brought it home to my mother. The puppy found a home.
Like most of us I have times when I was little that I do not recall. Oh, I have heard the stories, but I was too little when it happened to remember. When I see such times captured in photos like the one above, I study it and wish with all my heart I could remember. 
If I could remember that sunny summer day when I was a toddler, sitting in an old wicker chair at a table covered with a tablecloth enjoying a Tea Party with my cousin Carol and older brother Johnny, with cups probably of lemonade made from hand squeezed lemons and freshly baked cookies placed on small plates sitting in front of each of us, I am certain later on when back home and tucked into bed I would have waited for Chunny and Winnie to come around. And when they did, I know I would have sat right up and told them about that other Tea Party out in the country with my grandfather's big old barn in view, where lemonade made from hand squeezed lemons and freshly baked cookies were enjoyed as the laughter between cousins and a little sister and her big brother danced about the fields.