The Reindeer Keeper

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 brea...

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 ...

(PLEASE NOTE: I have not been able to upload photos onto my Blog Posts so I have 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. That nickname 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...

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 ...

Back in the days of my grandparents living on their farm, working the fields and raising a family, when November came around and it was an election year, they exercised their Right to Vote. At a certain time on that important day, my grandfather would come in from the barn to get cleaned up. My grandmother would finish preparing a full-course meal with all the trimmings. Election Day was treated with respect and a fine homemade dinner including dessert. When my grandparents were ready to go, they'd get in my grandfather's small Ford truck and head up the road to, what I remember them calling, the county barn, where they would vote.  A few times I was lucky enough to go with my Aunt Claire in her small Ford car to the county barn. I'd be able to go inside and wait for her. I loved doing that. Although I was very young, I was able to sense the importance of the moment; that being our right of freely expressing our opinions, hopes, fears and dreams for the country we love thro...

This is the only old photo I have that shows any inkling of where the creek that ran behind my grandparents' farmhouse was located. If you look beyond my older brother, the toddler in the photo, and my grandfather passing by on his tractor, a hint of  that creek can be seen beyond that overgrown field.  When my cousins and I were growing up that creek, known as Sucker Creek for a reason, turned into a marvelous place to play no matter the season. We'd build hideaways along its banks out of the brush growing wild. We'd skate on it in the wintertime, even in the evenings. One of our uncles built us rafts out of telephone poles so using steel poles as steering devices, we'd travel about that creek on one adventure after another. And in the summertime before the creek dried up, we'd go fishing although looking back, I can't ever remember seeing a single fish swimming in that murky water. But then, it wasn't the normal kind of fishing and we were just kids having...

  Sitting up on a shelf in front of my computer is an old piece of wood. It sits there for a reason. Whenever I’m in need of inspiration, that old piece of wood inspires me. That old piece of wood reminds me of a time long ago when I was a little girl reading my Louisa May Alcott books and Laura Ingalls Wilder books in an old chicken coop void of chickens, converted to a clubhouse where I’d play with my cousins. And next to the old chicken coop there s at a massive old barn. Like the chicken coop, it belonged to my grandparents. They were both a part of their family farm. My cousins and I played in that barn. By then, the farm was no longer a working farm. Although the roosts were void of chickens and the stanchions void of cows and the pastures void of horses and the grain shed was almost void of grain, none of that mattered to us. The roosts and stanchions turned into props. We were there to play and pretend and go on great adventures. There were two mighty hay lofts in th...

Right about this time of the year when growing up out in the country, I’d be looking for my bag of marbles. It wasn’t a fancy bag. It was a paper bag and there weren’t that many marbles in it. My older brother was the one with the marbles. He kept them in a plush-like bag with ties you’d pull shut so the marbles wouldn’t fall out. Sometimes when he wasn’t home I’d sneak into his room, pull open a certain dresser drawer and grab hold of that plush-like bag. Then I’d sit on his bed. Open the bag and spread the marbles out in front of me. One time a marble rolled off his bed and disappeared just as I heard him come through the front door. I panicked. I scooped up the marbles and dumped them in the fancy bag. Then I got down on my knees and searched for the one that got away. I couldn’t find it! I was running out of time so I put the plush-like bag back in the drawer and hurried to my room and shut the door. I waited for him to start yelling at me. I was convinced he’d find it. But tha...

After passing by the creek shown in the attached photo, I found myself turning back around to take a closer look. There was something about that creek; bringing me back to another creek waking up in springtime. When growing up in the country, spring surrounded us with the smell of the earth thawing and the honking of geese announcing their return. The creek that ran behind those four homes full of relatives would overflow its banks like clockwork when the temperature began to rise. One day it'd be frozen in place. The next day it'd be moving along swiftly, spreading out into the surrounding fields like a wildfire out of control. It was exciting to see that creek expand. Sometimes while having supper, we'd watch muskrats sitting on chunks of ice flowing by as if on a carnival ride. We weren't allowed to play near that creek when the water was full of cakes of ice and moving along at full speed but that didn't matter. There was a little stream that ran alongside...

When growing up and playing in the dining room of my grandparents’ farmhouse with my cousins, I remember being told to be careful of the china cupboard because it held all of my grandmother’s china, including tea cups with matching saucers and serving dishes, as well as plates and silverware kept in a particular box lined with velvet. We were told most everything in that china cupboard was kept for good. When I was a little girl I loved sitting in the middle of my parents’ bed and looking through my mother’s jewelry box covered with-yes again, velvet-midnight blue velvet. Everything in that jewelry box seemed to glisten. Gently touching the strands of jewels and stones and rings that glittered, I felt like a princess getting ready for the ball. But there were a few things I’d been told not to touch, like the long, narrow box holding my mother’s pearls and another holding a cameo brooch with matching earrings my father bought for my mother. I’d been told those pieces were kept for...

Simple things sometimes come with memories of a time-a person-a moment-even simple things like Jam Tarts. After filling her pie plates with crusts kneaded to the right consistency, my grandmother would gather the leftover dough and shape it into small balls. Then she'd take her wooden rolling pin and roll the balls out one at a time. When all the little balls were flat on the flour-covered counter, she would fill them with her homemade strawberry jam, fold the edges into the center and put the tarts in the oven of her woodstove. Anticipation would mount as the sweet aroma of jam and cinnamon blending into the dough filled the kitchen-the dining room-every room of that farmhouse. Once the jam tarts were pulled out of the oven, cold milk was poured into tall glasses. Then piping hot strawberry jam tarts were enjoyed. It didn't matter what time it was or if it was a sweltering summer day. They were enjoyed as much as any fine desse...

I often laugh to myself when drinking a bottle of water. So much money is spent on those plastic bottles. Growing up in the country we had an endless supply of pure,fresh water. We didn't have to pump it. We certainly couldn't buy it. It came directly from a crack in the flat rock that spanned the lower hill down from the farmhouse going up to the barn. It was the coldest; most pure water I've ever tasted. One by one we'd lay flat out straight on our stomachs on the bed of rock and reach for the bubble. Some hot summer days it would be covered in stringy, green moss. We didn't care. We'd find a stick; then clear the moss away and enjoy that bubble. It was always there except when winter put an end to anything as spontaneous as a bubble laughing its way up from the earth.

I've described the old farmhouse where my grandparents lived when I was growing up in my previous blog. It sneaks into my dreams ever so often and when I wake up I am always disappointed that it was only a dream. I loved that farmhouse with all its imperfections. But when you're a kid imperfections go unnoticed especially when you're having fun. We were always having fun. And when our grandmother made donut holes we had lots of fun eating the warm little morsels.They were plain donut holes. We didn't need different flavors. We'd just fill little paper bags with them and run back outside to play. I hope I dream about those donut holes tonight!

Throughout "The Reindeer Keeper" I made reference to an old farmhouse which played an integral role in the setting of the story. Subconsciously when writing I was going back to my childhood; back to the old farmhouse which was home to my grandparents and their six daughters. There would have been a son-he would have been the oldest-but my grandmother fell while taking my grandfather water to drink. He was out in a backfield haying in the heavy heat of a June afternoon. I can still smell the cookies and breads; donuts and full-course meals coming from my grandmother's woodstove which she directed like a conductor of an orchestra. The kitchen was enormous with wainscoating and a built-in hutch to die for. The floor in the dining room was slanted but we didn't care. One room led to another. Bookshelves held my grandfather's western novels. African violets hugged the windows especially when the sun drenched them in warmth no matter what the season. A pantry full of sh...