The Reindeer Keeper

"Run! Run! This Halloween- Get away from such a scary Scene! Ghost and Goblins, Witches too- Are ready to scream a Halloween B-O-O!"

With Halloween looming I'm reminded of my one particular uncle blessed with the art of storytelling. He was from Indiana; taught biology and coached basketball but it was his wit and smile and that particular gift of his that I remember the most-especially this very spooky time of the year. There was one particular poem he'd recite and everytime he did we sat breathless, gearing up for that last sentence spoken with such certitude and fear. Although he'd recite it any time we asked, it was this time of the year of witches and ghosts and creepy, dark shadows that the ending of that poem sent shivers through our little spines. Of course it was all in the delivery-and deliver he did every single time. "Little Orphan Annie" was the poem. It was written by James Whitcomb Riley who was born in the very city in Indiana where my uncle lived with my aunt and four cousins in an amazingly elegant, old Victorian home filled with amazing antiques he and my aunt restored. ...

The Reindeer Keeper: Halloween in the Country

Running along side my grandparent's farmhouse was a cinder driveway. To the adults it was a driveway; to those of us riding our bikes it could have been the Indianapolis 500. Some days, it was. After waiting impatiently for the snow and ice of spring to somewhat melt away, we took our Schwinns out of the garage. I loved my bike. It was blue and maneuvered that track like a pro. A long straightaway marked with tall poplar trees led to a left-hand curve we called Dead Man's Curve. The trick was to build up speed when approaching it and just as you'd go into it, you'd slow down, keeping your feet poised to brake-but not abruptly for that could prove fatal. There were times when the course was flawless. This was normally on those hot summer days when the breeze through the poplars fanned us from one race to the next. There were times when it should have been shut down-like the wild October Saturday when wet leaves covered the cinders like a damp, slippery blanket. It did...

When I was older and we moved above my father's funeral home situated in the nearby small town, most every day he'd go to the post office to pick up the mail. More often than not he'd be gone for over an hour-and the post office was just around the corner. That's because he didn't go just to get the mail. He went for the experience. He went for the exchange of conversation. Sometimes the conversations were with business acquaintances; sometimes old friends and sometimes with people he really didn't know but saw every day at that old building with its wall of p.o. boxes and photos of the town so many years ago and the counter where stamps were bought, letters mailed and packages picked-up. Christmas was his favorite time to go there. Besides the usuals he was certain to run into old friends visiting or locals not normally there but were in need of services only a post office could provide back then. Sadly I hear some small town post offices might close. You h...

This is the time of the year when all the thinking and ordering, cultivating, planting, weeding, watering, picking, cleaning, canning, freezing, and pickling come full circle. You've done all the work starting back in January when the seed catalogs showed up in your mailbox. You've accomplished and crossed off each step on your long list. Now it's October. Time to dig for those potatoes and pull those pumpkins from their straggly old vines. Digging into the earth in search of potatoes is as exciting to me today as it was back when I was a kid living in the country. My grandparents had massive gardens. They had to. With 6 daughters and farmhands, meals were major productions especially during haying season. When it came time to clearing the gardens in the fall, helping dig for potatoes was like going on a treasure hunt. You never knew what the shovel pushed into the ground might reveal when pulled back out. The hope was for oodles of potatoes but there were no guarantees. ...

The statistics are amazing! In 2008 Americans bought 34 billion liters of bottled water. Everywhere you go you see people carrying those plastic bottles. Water has become a zillion dollar business! One of the most favorite things my cousins and I did when growing up in the country was to go down to the flat rocks which spread out between our grandparents' farmhouse and their barn. One by one we'd lay on the rock; clear away the green, stringy moss and drink the fresh, spring bubble of water shooting up and out from between the rocks. That water remains the coldest, the most refreshing water I've ever drank even in the smothering heat of the summertime. And every time we'd have our fill there were no plastic bottles to redeem. Sometimes simple is best-and more fun! I admit I do drink the bottled stuff these days but despite all their hype not one of those brands could ever satisfy like that natural bubble-sprouting its way up to the surface for little kids to get on...

There's something about the colors and aromas and crispness of October that, when combined, present a most amazing awareness to one's senses. Add in apples and cider; pumpkins and candy corns and October climbs to the top of my most favorite list. I wrote a little poem once about leaves which stated exactly how I felt about them: "Falling, tumbling, drifting down-I love the leaves when they cover the ground; Falling, tumbling, drifting down-I love the leaves all around!" I still feel the same about the leaves. I love watching them zipping and skipping and dancing across a field or highway. I imagine them in a giant hurry to get somewhere-all travelling in a clump like a family on a mission. When I was growing up in the country leaves were meant to be played in. They were more than just leaves. They became giant mounds to jump in and hide in; getting up the nose, in the mouth, and stuck on clothes. None of that mattered when playing and pretending with cousins in l...