The Reindeer Keeper

Off in the field just outside our back door wild asparagus plants grow. I've cooked a few spears and somewhat enjoyed them. But the real enjoyment of having them as neighbors is watching them throughout the year. As autumn draws to a close, they turn a colorful canary yellow as shown in the 2nd photo. Those wild asparagus plants endure all sorts of weather. The field where they live is wide open to all the elements so when the wind howls, they take a beating. Sometimes they end up flat on the ground. Sometimes they lose lots of their ferny. Sometimes in winter they get buried in snow. Or covered in ice and lose more of their ferny. Spring rainfalls can get treacherous. If the wind picks up, I hesitate to look over in that field, not wanting to see if they survived. So far, so good. One morning a few weeks ago I looked out and discovered it had snowed overnight. A winter wonderland was in place, even on those wild asparagus plants. With my winter gear on and phone for photos in my h

  Old cupboards, like two of mine I am featuring in this Post, have always intrigued me. With drawers and shelves and files, they offer so many options for storing stuff, displaying stuff and hiding stuff. Better yet, stories of long ago are in the drawers, on the shelves and in those files. You just have to listen. And when it is Christmastime, those old cupboards become even more intriguing once they are dressed in twinkling lights or Santas or fresh greenery, candy canes, old crocks, Holiday art and decorations.  I stumbled upon the smaller cupboard at a place opening up several years ago. They were taking items on consignment. At that time, I was just beginning to dabble in art, using mostly markers and having no clue what I was doing. Looking back, I am so glad I went. While the owner did end up taking a few of my pieces, it was a simple cupboard off in a corner that made my day. Of all the stuff in that place, I felt that little cupboard was mine even before I took a closer look.

  I noticed the little tree set off in a field whenever I'd go by. Despite the weather, there it would be glowing in shades of gold. Seemingly so proud to be out there with the bigger trees behind him. Standing there as tall as he could, straight as a pin, spreading his beautiful branches as if to say, "Welcome Fall. Welcome Everyone. Enjoy your day." It dawned on me how happy the little tree was to be there. Happy to be feeling the wind and the sun. Embracing the rain. Enduring the wind. Watching the critters run around and the cars go by. In some ways, the little tree is actually the tallest tree in that field. It has nothing to do with his height. It has everything to do with his presence. With his roots buried firmly under the ground, his leaves getting ready to fly away like grown children departing the nest, he stands assured. No frills. No pretenses. Proud of the bark and branches and leaves and roots he comes from. Proud of the stories they tell. Respectful of th

  The other day I stopped at an Amish farm I’d driven by many times. It had nothing to do with their roadside stand. It was because an Amish woman at another roadside stand told me that one of the three Amish men on their local school board lived there. She told me this after I voiced my curiosity about Amish schools. I explained I liked to write stories. Some for children. Some for adults. I told her I had an idea for a new storyline which included an Amish community. A particular character was the Amish teacher. I asked her if it would be possible for me to visit an Amish school. That’s when she told me about that Amish farm where that Amish man on the school board lived. I never did tell her I had been wanting to visit an Amish school for years. New storyline or not. So, the other day when I finally stopped at that Amish farm, the Amish man on the school board was home. He was more than kind. A half hour later I was parking my car off the road, in front of the Amish school I had per

  For at least ten years now these two handmade friends have been getting together in anticipation of and to celebrate Halloween. In a way, they are related. The decorated gourd maker is the daughter of the brown paper bag pumpkin maker. The brown paper bag pumpkin maker was in kindergarten when he created his paper bag pumpkin. Whatever the handmade decorations made by little ones at home or at school happen to be, they weave their way back on to shelves or Christmas trees or tabletops when the appropriate season calls them out of wherever they were put to rest up for their particular season or holiday to come around again. After all, they have a very important responsibility. They just don't sit on a shelf or inside an old crock as reminders of a holiday. They sit there as reminders of the little hands that made them; a young imagination on full speed, using little scissors and glue if necessary and crayons and pencils; possibly glitter and cotton balls, even pipe cleaners when n

  I've written so much about growing up in the country in one of the four houses in a row full of family, and the old chicken coop converted to a clubhouse where I'd play with cousins, day after day after day, using our imaginations, using the books and chalkboards and desks the adults bought from an abandoned schoolhouse, bringing them home and putting them in our converted chicken coop for us to enjoy. And that is just what we did. Sometimes, I'd bring a book I was reading to the clubhouse. So would a certain cousin. We made time in our busy schedule to read our books. Those books might have been Nancy Drew titles or books written by Louisa May Alcott. One thing for sure, many of those books were from 'The Little House on the Prairie Book Series,' books more often than not bought by our grandmother and given to us with love as gifts for Christmas. IF MY GRANDMOTHER ONLY KNEW that very book series, she bought for us as gifts is now on the most recent list of Banned

Signs inform us. Direct us. Influence us. They come in all sizes. Some, like the Amish sign above, are simple. Some signs light up. Some flash on and off twenty-four hours a day. Some signs are subtle. Quiet, like a whispering breeze. Precious as a baby's smile. Signs of impending bad weather or a health scare are signs we would prefer to go away. After losing someone we love, their life is retold over and over again. Signs of their life are everywhere. They tell a story.  Their story unfolds as we take care of their things, from fishing poles to books (some with pages marked or paragraphs underlined, or notes scribbled on pieces of paper stuck between pages) to clothing we remember them wearing. We clean out drawers. Pack up boxes. Those signs are at every turn. On most every wall. On the refrigerator door. In most every room. From favorite magazines and countless editions of newspapers read from front to back, over and over again, to favorite old 45 records-to photos. So many pho

I recently made a few Raspberry Pies following my grandmother's recipe that is included in a cookbook featuring her recipes. It was put together by her oldest daughter. One of six daughters. I love using her recipes. They are quite simple. Basic. Born out of an era of raising a family on a farm where meals were homemade, and work and chores were nonstop and produce came from the garden, some of that produce eventually canned or stored in a root cellar. In a few of my grandmother's recipes, her instructions include words such as a pinch, a dash, a sprinkle or a hint as ways of measurement of certain ingredients. In the Raspberry Pie recipe, her instruction was to add a pinch of salt. Before, when coming upon that particular instruction, I would put a little bit of salt in a bowl or on a plate and take a pinch of it. Then add the pinch to the other ingredients. But this time I was curious. For whatever the reason, I asked Mr. Google what the instruction for a Pinch of an ingredie

When you think about it, the possibility of something so sweet mixed with something so tart tasting so very good seems impossible. But it happens most every year about this time when I make strawberry-rhubarb pies using my grandmother's recipe. I don't know how it happens but the unlikely combination of the two makes for one very delicious experience. I live in northern New York where fresh rhubarb abounds. From a friend's amazing rhubarb patch to Amish stands stocked with just picked rhubarb for sale, the rhubarb I use is the freshest available. The strawberries are just as fresh, picked from Amish strawberry patches, and sold at those roadside stands. After you've cleaned and sliced those two main ingredients, all you have to do is add a little flour, some sugar and a "sprinkle of salt" as my grandmother would say, and you are ready to add your ingredients to the bottom pie crust in your pie plate; then cover them with the top pie crust and bake at 350 degre

The top photo shows my mother sitting next to her father in the front yard of my grandparents' farmhouse during a family summer picnic. My mother is holding me. Behind my grandfather you can see the chicken coop and behind that, the barn. My grandfather was a farmer.  When I was seven or eight years old, my family moved out to the country, right next to the farmhouse. By then, the farm had been sold. My grandparents lived on the other side of our new home with an aunt who never married. The farmhouse was occupied by another aunt plus an uncle and four cousins. On the other side of the house occupied by my grandparents and aunt who never married lived another related family, including an aunt, uncle and two cousins. Once we were all settled, the fun began. Being kids we wandered all over the place including the backfields, the creek running behind the four houses, the barn, and the chicken coop which was eventually turned into our Clubhouse. By that time, there were no chickens livi

Between the ice, the wind and the snow, this past winter was a harsh one. Not only on us humans, but on the trees, roads, homes, barns, and whatever else was outside at the mercy of the elements all winter long. Some days when I'd look out the window, I was unable to see familiar sights, like the old barn out back and a little blue swing approaching its 12th summer hanging from a maple tree, providing lots of fun and lots of memories involving two little children who grew up playing around or near or in that plastic swing hung from a sturdy branch when the oldest, now twelve (in the bottom picture) was but a toddler. A few weeks ago, when early signs of spring were becoming noticeable, I went out back to check the garden and take a good look around. That look around included the maple tree holding on to the little blue swing. I discovered the twine rope attached to the swing, wrapped around a branch of the maple tree was severely frayed. I noticed that branch holding on to the swin

When I was seven years old my grandfather made me a simple pine desk for Christmas. It came with a stool, two side shelves and a single drawer. Inside that drawer was a pad of paper and two yellow, sharpened #2 pencils. That was the moment I knew I wanted to be a writer. I really didn't know what that meant. I think the pencils had a lot to do with it. I wanted to draw with them. Write. Scribble. Fill that pad of paper with original artwork. All kinds of artwork.  I fell in love not only with my desk that Christmas morning but with pencils as well and the infatuation has never gone away.  So, when I discovered there really is a "National Pencil Day" I had to celebrate it by sharing my infatuation for pencils with anyone who might like to read about it. I have a "few" boxes of pencils. Colored pencils. Broken pencils. Really sharpened pencils. Pencils with erasers. Pencils minus erasers. Pencils with funny erasers. And lots of yellow #2 pencils. I also have a few

Besides the robins, tulips, daffodils and geese, kids playing in and walking through puddles created by melting snow are a sign of spring despite occasional snow squalls and the wind howling. I bet most kids would say playing in those puddles is a favorite thing to do as Mother Nature tries her best to turn Winter into Spring. I know my nine-year old grandson would agree. The top photo shows him at age three, standing in one of those puddles after jumping up and down, laughing with his hands flying, losing his breath when some of the flying melted snow splashes him in the face. But kids don't feel getting soaking wet in a puddle. They just keep jumping and laughing, eventually racing inside to get warmed up with a cup of hot chocolate. The 2nd photo shows my grandson the other morning after sleeping over the night before. Nine years old now, he didn't jump up and down, but he did make waves with his boots. Then he took a stick and looked for fish or other fantastical creatures

I've always been drawn to remnants of places sitting in silence along country roads. As I drive by those haunting structures, I wonder who lived there. I wonder why they left. I wonder how they walked away. Each one of those abandoned places has a story. Just like we do. Most of us have been abandoned in one way or another at some point in our lives by someone we loved, by a boss, a friend, a community. My first realization of abandonment came when my aunt cared for a foster child-a little baby. I might have been twelve at the time. I never knew babies were abandoned. It was a rude awakening. That was followed by my sister finding a puppy alone, cold and shaking and hungry in my grandfather's old barn shed. I wondered how someone could do such a thing to a puppy. Since becoming the mother of a mentally ill son, I've learned even more about the harsh reality of abandonment by so many who either fear such an illness or are embarrassed knowing someone with such an illness. Wha

  BUT THEN, LIKE MAGIC They say change happens right before our eyes. And more often than not, we never see it happen. For some, waiting for spring after a long, hard winter is tedious to say the least. One day brings sunshine: the next a blizzard. Ice covers the roads and sidewalks. Schools are closed. The wind howls. The temperature goes below zero. Oh, those heating bills. Then, the ice and snow turn to water flooding the basement. Snow piles turn into mud piles. Grass is scraggly and frozen in place. Shades of browns and greys; heaved roads, dirt and debris; cold winds, tired people still wrapped in scarves and wool hats and mittens all make it appear as if Mother Nature is asleep on the job. But Then, Like Magic, daffodils show their yellow faces, adding color to the dreariness. Robins come back. Crows squawk. Geese honk. Fields are being plowed. Tulips pop up out of the ground. The scent of lilacs is in the air, and then, more Magic. One day we go outside, and our hearts are warm

  A few weeks ago, I posted a photo of our Christmas tree after dragging it outdoors and standing it up by the bird feeders. I secured it to the post holding the feeders, thinking it would offer additional ways and places for me to feed the flock. After one of our windy, snowy, icy storms I looked out one morning and saw the tree had blown over. It was on the ground not too far from the feeders. After a while I went out to get it standing back up again beside the feeders. But I couldn’t budge the tree. It was frozen in place. I knew I’d have to leave it there until we had a warm spell. I thought that was that. But then, the funniest, strangest thing began to happen. It’s still going on as winter is far from over. The Christmas tree turned into a hotel. A busy and spacious Bird Hotel with a marvelous view of the field. It appears to be patronized by Cardinals, Sparrows, Blue Jays, Chickadees, Woodpeckers, Mourning Doves, Rock Doves, Crows, even Squirrels and Chipmunks. Some days I’m

That's my grandfather sitting on the doorstep of what was his woodshed. The woodshed was attached to the back of the farmhouse. Inside the woodshed, there was a door that opened up into the kitchen, making it easier when working out in the shed, chopping wood up into pieces. All that the wood chopper needed to do after chopping was open that door, walk a few feet into the kitchen to the wood box sitting by the woodstove and dump the new supply of chopped wood into it. I remember being in the kitchen, able to hear someone chopping wood in the woodshed. I loved the smell of the chopped wood. Loved the saw dust and wood shavings all over the place. Another thing I loved in that woodshed was the wooden platform leading from the door in the kitchen to a set of stairs that took you down to the dirt floor in the woodshed or back up and through to the kitchen depending which way you were going. It was a good-sized wooden platform. Perfect for stacking wood and more importantly, perfect for