When I walk into the post office and the postal worker knows me by name and asks about my relations by name, I have to smile. I can pick up my parent's mail with no I.D. or hand-written note. They know who we are and to whom we belong.
When I go to the bank the teller greets me by name, comments how tall my children have grown and hands me a note through the window about some firewood she needs from my husband. I feel smug in my surroundings.
The lady at the grocery store asks after my garden, lets me know about upcoming specials on things she knows that I buy or tells me about her grandchildren.
It's all part of small-town life and it's something I appreciate. It's nice to be known, trusted, and to feel at home. I truly like that.
However...
There is a flip side to all this familiarity, and I'm not talking about the local gossip network, which we all know about.
(For example, the rumor that started at the Strawberry Festival this year that some famous Who's Who was going to buy a rather expensive parcel on the Island...that rumor zoomed around the Island faster than a hydroplane at 5 a.m. on the Fourth of July. The next week the local paper had an entire article on why the rumor was a rumor even though several well-known locals had begun selling it as fact. Indeed, the rumor had been posted on Wikipedia as fact in less than a week's time. Only on an Island....)
Though gossip is one flip side of familiarity, there is yet another, well, flippier side to it all: the introvert's need for anonymity. Sometimes it's nice to go where everybody knows your name, (as the famous lyric goes) and sometimes, well, it's just nice to go where no one does.
I have days when I just want to be left unnoticed. Days when I'd rather be surrounded by 1,000 people I didn't know on a New York subway than live on an Island. I'm sure I would feel more isolated manuvering through Manhattan anonomously.
Thursday was such a day. Thursday I was in no mood for a grocery aisle encounter or a check-out chat. I wanted to go into the store and out again without so much as a friendly grin. Tell me I'm not alone in wanting to be!
The truth be told, miraculously I made it. I went in during "rush" hour at 6 pm and somehow managed (with careful plotting) to dodge in, grab my much needed contact lense solution, run through the introvert-friendly computerized self-check out machine and back to my car in under 3 minutes. Alone in my victory I drove away.
Maybe small towns aren't the best places to live for true introverts. But then again, "sometimes it's nice to go where everybody knows your name...." sigh. Island living.
Saturday, August 22, 2009
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Family Root Cellar
I remember sitting on a stool in front of a crank apple peeler trying to see just how long I could get the peel without breaking it. I was at least eleven at the time. There was a box full of apples at my side and my mom was slicing them up as fast as I peeled them. It was early autumn.
I don't remember what she was making with the apples. Perhaps it was a pie? Perhaps she was putting them into the big juicer or putting them into the food dryer. The important thing was that we were together preserving the harvest.
It was hot. It was high summer and I was in Okanogan, Washington at my Grammie Buzzard's house. (Yes, my mom's maiden name is "Buzzard.") There were a hundred chickens to slaughter, pluck and "process" for freezing. I remember watching my Dad and my Grandpa Harold slaughter the chickens and throw them into the big gunny sack hanging from the tree in the yard to let them bleed out. We'd then dunk them into the very hot water in the big wash tub and sit around in lawn chairs plucking and talking. My Uncles would tell stories about recent bear hunts, cougar encounters, rattlesnake scares and who just bought whose "place" or horse. I was all ears while I squeezed out pin feathers.
Inside the house, Mom, my Aunts and Grammie were having races to see who could cut up the chickens the fastest. At some point over the years I became old enough to be taught how to cut up a chicken properly and join in with the kitchen crew. The stories changed to family, neighbors and children. The talk was often of health, marriages and fallings-out or spiritual insights.
Other times we gathered to slice up lugs and lugs of peaches or pears. There was always a family dinner afterwards and lots of cousins to wrestle and Aunts and Uncles to play board games with.
Today I picked two and a half gallons of blackberries. My hands are purple and my arms are scratched from thousands of thorns. I plan to make jam tomorrow. Next week I'll pick some more and hope to freeze some for pies and such. Later this month will be the peaches, the pickled beets, cucumber pickles and tomatillo salsa verde. I have onions drying on my porch and squash fattening on the vine to be put away for long winter days.
When I bottled the green beans a couple of weeks ago it was a family affair. Jon washed them and he and the children sat together on the kitchen floor snapping them. I washed and readied the bottles, lids, brine and kettles. Jon monitored the pressure cooker. We talked about our recent summer vacation and the happy memories we'd made. Jon and the kids tried to see who could snap the most beans the fastest.
I realized that it is more than vegetables and fruit I am preserving in these jars. Some things do indeed keep forever.
I don't remember what she was making with the apples. Perhaps it was a pie? Perhaps she was putting them into the big juicer or putting them into the food dryer. The important thing was that we were together preserving the harvest.
It was hot. It was high summer and I was in Okanogan, Washington at my Grammie Buzzard's house. (Yes, my mom's maiden name is "Buzzard.") There were a hundred chickens to slaughter, pluck and "process" for freezing. I remember watching my Dad and my Grandpa Harold slaughter the chickens and throw them into the big gunny sack hanging from the tree in the yard to let them bleed out. We'd then dunk them into the very hot water in the big wash tub and sit around in lawn chairs plucking and talking. My Uncles would tell stories about recent bear hunts, cougar encounters, rattlesnake scares and who just bought whose "place" or horse. I was all ears while I squeezed out pin feathers.
Inside the house, Mom, my Aunts and Grammie were having races to see who could cut up the chickens the fastest. At some point over the years I became old enough to be taught how to cut up a chicken properly and join in with the kitchen crew. The stories changed to family, neighbors and children. The talk was often of health, marriages and fallings-out or spiritual insights.
Other times we gathered to slice up lugs and lugs of peaches or pears. There was always a family dinner afterwards and lots of cousins to wrestle and Aunts and Uncles to play board games with.
Today I picked two and a half gallons of blackberries. My hands are purple and my arms are scratched from thousands of thorns. I plan to make jam tomorrow. Next week I'll pick some more and hope to freeze some for pies and such. Later this month will be the peaches, the pickled beets, cucumber pickles and tomatillo salsa verde. I have onions drying on my porch and squash fattening on the vine to be put away for long winter days.
When I bottled the green beans a couple of weeks ago it was a family affair. Jon washed them and he and the children sat together on the kitchen floor snapping them. I washed and readied the bottles, lids, brine and kettles. Jon monitored the pressure cooker. We talked about our recent summer vacation and the happy memories we'd made. Jon and the kids tried to see who could snap the most beans the fastest.
I realized that it is more than vegetables and fruit I am preserving in these jars. Some things do indeed keep forever.
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
It All Comes Out in the Wash, Doesn't It?
The August rain on the roof woke me this morning with its soothing rhythm. Knowing that more hot days are ahead, I was even more grateful for the wet coolness.
It is Wednesday and, for me, wash day. As I went about gathering up the laundry from each room and sorting them out into color piles I found Anna's striped shirt.
Ah, yes, Anna's day of pink striped top "matched" with the navy and aqua striped pants.... I had said nothing about it and even allowed her to go to the store in the outrageous outfit. I repeated to myself over and over that it was more important that she had made the effort to get herself dressed on her own and that SHE liked her outfit than what I thought of it. This kind of self-control on my part is a major victory for me.
Tut tut, I reflect, how many people do I know who probably wish they could weigh in on MY choice of dress each day? Let it go, Sarah, let it go.
And there are Truman's piles of big-boy underwear. Twice as many again as there "should" be... a reminder that potty training is another practice in patience. And, my, how many pairs of socks can one little boy go through? And where are the mates anyhow? He has obviously been taking off his shoes in the sandbox again, but not his stockings. I notice that if you go through his shirts day by day you can tell precisely what he ate for all three meals. But there is that little boy smell and those little boy sizes that bring me back to pure happiness.
Jon's clothing are a pile in and of themselves. Deeply soiled from tree cutting or digging about, or sanding wood or painting or changing oil or any other number of Jon's activities. His clothes are a testament of his work ethic: just get it done. Don't stop to blow your nose on a Kleenex when you have on a perfectly good old shirt for wiping. Don't stop to rinse your hands between each chore or worry about that big spill on your pant leg. The thing is to get the job done and done well. I must always check for screws and bolts, markers, pens, or money in his pockets. They are always full of curious things that I often label as "unidentifiable." But then, there are his Sunday clothes. They smell of his cologne. His whole pile testifies that "A man lives here." I smile that, God willing, his piles will be around for me to sort for another 60 years or so.
And then, of course, there are my clothes. Predictable, plain and work-a-day. Nothing in this pile any longer that is labled "dry clean only" or "hand wash." I found in one pocket a stash of tissues and remembered that the day I wore those pants I had been reading a tender account of George Washington at Valley Forge to Anna during Truman's nap time. As I read, teary-eyed through the sentences, Anna put her arm around me and snuggled close. "Even great men need God to help them, don't they, Mom?" "Yes, Anna, there are times in life when even the greatest and the smallest of us have no where else to turn." We sat comfortably in our quiet moment as we looked at the print of George Washington kneeling at Valley Forge that I recently hung on our living room wall in our little home at the far end of an Island in Puget Sound seemingly miles away from any sort of trouble.
I took the tissues out of the pocket and threw the jeans into the appropriate pile. Wednesday is wash day at my house.
It is Wednesday and, for me, wash day. As I went about gathering up the laundry from each room and sorting them out into color piles I found Anna's striped shirt.
Ah, yes, Anna's day of pink striped top "matched" with the navy and aqua striped pants.... I had said nothing about it and even allowed her to go to the store in the outrageous outfit. I repeated to myself over and over that it was more important that she had made the effort to get herself dressed on her own and that SHE liked her outfit than what I thought of it. This kind of self-control on my part is a major victory for me.
Tut tut, I reflect, how many people do I know who probably wish they could weigh in on MY choice of dress each day? Let it go, Sarah, let it go.
And there are Truman's piles of big-boy underwear. Twice as many again as there "should" be... a reminder that potty training is another practice in patience. And, my, how many pairs of socks can one little boy go through? And where are the mates anyhow? He has obviously been taking off his shoes in the sandbox again, but not his stockings. I notice that if you go through his shirts day by day you can tell precisely what he ate for all three meals. But there is that little boy smell and those little boy sizes that bring me back to pure happiness.
Jon's clothing are a pile in and of themselves. Deeply soiled from tree cutting or digging about, or sanding wood or painting or changing oil or any other number of Jon's activities. His clothes are a testament of his work ethic: just get it done. Don't stop to blow your nose on a Kleenex when you have on a perfectly good old shirt for wiping. Don't stop to rinse your hands between each chore or worry about that big spill on your pant leg. The thing is to get the job done and done well. I must always check for screws and bolts, markers, pens, or money in his pockets. They are always full of curious things that I often label as "unidentifiable." But then, there are his Sunday clothes. They smell of his cologne. His whole pile testifies that "A man lives here." I smile that, God willing, his piles will be around for me to sort for another 60 years or so.
And then, of course, there are my clothes. Predictable, plain and work-a-day. Nothing in this pile any longer that is labled "dry clean only" or "hand wash." I found in one pocket a stash of tissues and remembered that the day I wore those pants I had been reading a tender account of George Washington at Valley Forge to Anna during Truman's nap time. As I read, teary-eyed through the sentences, Anna put her arm around me and snuggled close. "Even great men need God to help them, don't they, Mom?" "Yes, Anna, there are times in life when even the greatest and the smallest of us have no where else to turn." We sat comfortably in our quiet moment as we looked at the print of George Washington kneeling at Valley Forge that I recently hung on our living room wall in our little home at the far end of an Island in Puget Sound seemingly miles away from any sort of trouble.
I took the tissues out of the pocket and threw the jeans into the appropriate pile. Wednesday is wash day at my house.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)