All Things Nice . . .

 

(source)

I love the blessed fragrance of the spring,

The smell of sod rising into the air,

Moist loam and furrows steaming in the sun,

Fragrant as lily buds . . . and everywhere

Little green noses pushing up the sod,

Like tiny scouts before a marching squad.

The lowlands have a fragrance of their own,

Of melted snow . . . wet twigs and drying boughs;

Warm hollows where the grass is faintly green,

The call of birds who follow after plows,

Wheeling and dipping in a maze of flight

From barn to field and back in sheer delight.

There is the odor or wild cherry bloom

Trilliums and dogwood . . . violets faintly sweet,

The taste of alders on the morning wind,

The earthy smell of newly sprouted wheat,

Old rotting logs . . . fresh willows in a clump

The smell of  moss by an old hickory stump.

The spongy odor or a nearby bog,

Bloodroot and wintergreen . . .  the scent of pine,

Stretching its eager limbs to find the sun

With every leaf and twig a weather sign;

Knowing all this if I were blind and dumb

I know  my heart would tell  me spring had come.

~Edna Jaques, Earth's Fragrance

The Hills of Home, 1946

There is something very wonderful about our sense of smell. It has the power to transport us through time to memories and things forgotten, but held within the recesses of our minds.  Smell memories are powerful ones. I remember when my oldest son was a baby, that first bottle of Gripe Water I bought . . .  as soon as I smelled it . . .  it was familiar to me.  Probably from my own infancy.  That's how powerful the sense of smell is.   

Every now and then I will catch a smell in the air and I am a teenager again, washing my hair in the basement sink, rubbing Princess Patricia hair conditioner into my long hair, or I am a small  child walking across  my grandmother's old linoleum floor to bury my face in the comfort of her warm, loving, and ample lap.

 

Cindy and I visited the cemetery earlier this week to change the flowers on  mom's headstone and clean up a bit.  There is one spot in the cemetery where our grandmother, great grandmother, great great grandmother and great great great grandmother are buried, all within a few feet of each other.  Oh, our grandfather's are there as well, but for some reason they don't seem to matter as much to us. Funny that. 

Oh, we revere and love them for sure, we are just more inclined to remember our grandmother's. 

Perhaps that is because we are women?  This is something I read . . .

“Before we were conceived, we existed in part as an egg in our mother's ovary. All the eggs a woman will ever carry form in her ovaries while she is a four-month-old fetus in the womb of her mother. This means our cellular life as an egg begins in the womb of our grandmother."    

This might explain somewhat the connection we feel with our female ancestors.

Afterwards, we drove up the mountain to visit my great grandparent's old farm. It is largely derelict now.  At one time the house was white, but someone decided to paint it this rust color.  It is a bit sad to see it looking so rundown. We walked along the porch and tried to think of our mother sitting there. 

Mom always told the story of how she and her older sister Thelma  would sit in chairs on the porch, each with a piece of turnip and a spoon, looking down the mountain to the valley below, scraping the turnip with the spoon and eating the flesh. 

 

My mother was born in the upstairs bedroom towards the front end of the house (right hand). My grandmother was a midwife, as well as being a farmer's wife. Women wore many hats in those days and still do.

 

We walked around the grounds a bit, trying to figure out where the Orchard had been. It was very difficult to tell. A lot of the trees are dead and overgrown. The whole farm is neglected and only a ghost of what it once was.  My great grandfather had orchards, and pigs, cows, sheep, fields where he grew grain etc. and my great grandmother had a large kitchen garden to the rear of the house that she tended.

Mom always spoke of beautiful flower beds where the Easter bunny would hide their eggs.  It was hard to picture mom as a small girl walking around these same grounds as we were walking on the other day . . . 

There are supposedly two little girls buried at the far end of the property. We have wanted to go down and check it out, but we were afraid of being considered trespassers, which of course we are.

I found myself wishing that I had paid closer attention to, or taken notes when my mother had spoken of her life on the farm.   I know that whilst they had very little in the way of money, they had plenty to eat and drink.  Mom often talked about her pantaloons being sewn from old flour sacks and dyed blue. She also spoke of them separating the cream from the milk and lowering it down into the well to keep it cool, and lots of other stories like that.  

Oh what I wouldn't give to be able to hear the same stories again  . . . I like to think I would pay closer attention to them and remember them. 

 

As we walked around I imagined in my mind's eye my grandmother baking pies and setting them on the windowsills to cool . . .  I am sure it happened  . . .  

I also imagined my mother as a small child running through the grass, entertaining the dreams we all have as children. Carefree, with all of her life waiting to be lived ahead of her . . . 

Oh, if only those old walls could speak . . . 

Did you have a pair of these when you were a child. I did, but I think mine were in a lot nicer shape.  I can remember being very proud of them.  Somewhere I have a photograph of me wearing them. I must dig it out one day and scan it. 

 

The pussy willows have burst their seams and are becoming catkins now  . . .  I think that is what they are called. You can correct me if I am wrong.  Yesterday the groundmen for this housing development I live on were laying soil at the corners of each yard where they had dug them up with the snow plough during the winter months, and laying in grass seed.  Summer is on its way . . . 

 

My sister stopped by on her way home from work yesterday to help me fill out a form. While she was here she helped to cut my cat's claws. They are quite used to her doing it now. They don't create  much of a fuss.  Nutmeg even tucked his head into her arm. 

They will not cooperate with me. I imagine in time they might.  They really love her and are used to her. We have always called her the cat whisperer. Actually she is the animal whisperer.  Even when she was young she was the one bringing home birds with broken wings and field mice . . .   Oh how I love her.  I am so grateful that I am going to be able to spend the last years of my life living close to her.  It is an extra special blessing for sure.

We may have squabbled a bit when we were growing up, what siblings don't . . .  but we are the best of friends. It makes my father very happy to know that his children are all very close to each other and love each other the way that we all do. Not a day goes by but what we don't communicate with each other in some way.

At the end of the day, next to faith in God, this is what matters most.  I am so blessed to have the family that I do. I am always telling my older boys that their siblings are the only people in the world who really know and understand them because they are the only people in the world who share their beginnings and their roots . . .  they have a history with each other that they share with nobody else.

  

 

I have already had two visitors this morning as I have sat here typing. Earlier on Nutmeg was laying next to me, his head resting on my arm as I tap tapped away, purring and nuzzling me. It is a lovely feeling.  And then Cinnamon was snuggling underneath the blanket I have wrapped around my legs and she was just now sitting next to me on my desk,  meowing at me.  She has a tiny meow, almost like a squeak, but she doesn't mind telling me when she wants something. 

I am grateful for vocal cats who don't mind saying their piece and who love me. It is a mutual relationship because I love them too. They are my family also.

And with that I best leave you with a thought for the day. I am off out with my sister this morning to do  my father's shopping. I am looking forward to that!

A thought to carry with you  . . . 

° * 。 • ˚ ˚ ˛ ˚ ˛ •

•。★★ 。* 。

° 。 ° ˛˚˛ * _Π_____*。*˚

  ˚ ˛ •˛•˚ */______/~＼。˚ ˚ ˛

 ˚ ˛ •˛• ˚ ｜ 田田 ｜門 ★

*Don't save things for a special occasion.

Every day of your life is a special occasion.

~Thomas S Monson  •。★★ 。* 。•。★★ 。* 。 

In The English Kitchen today . . .  delicious Queen Anne Squares. Fit for a royal celebration!

I hope you have a wonderful Saturday filled with things and people you love. Whatever you get up to, don't forget! 

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And I do too!