The Reindeer Keeper

I've written before about my grandmother's skills when baking pies. Her recipes featured measurements such as a pinch-a dash-and a sprinkle. This time of year she'd be on overload making her pies. Many would be berry pies because of the abundance of wild berries in the fields surrounding the farm. From raspberries to blackberries and strawberries, berry pies were created and enjoyed one right after another. But one pie didn't contain any berries; no apples or pumpkins. The main ingredient in that pie was lemons. And on the days when she made her mouthwatering lemon meringue pies, my grandmother's  kitchen was bustling. The process began with her creating the most flaky pie crust I've ever tasted. Her pie crusts were perfect every time she made them. Every pie crust offered the same consistency, the same flavor, look and smell as previous pie crusts. She'd measure the flour, salt, water and lard together. Then divide the dough into two balls if it was a t...

When my grandparents lived in their farmhouse, many times during the winter my grandfather worked on projects in the kitchen. In the evening he’d shut the door leading to the dining room and get busy. He’d do it all in that kitchen-from sawing to nailing to finishing. The end results became keepsakes to those lucky enough to be given one. I’ve written before about the pine desk my grandfather made me. I fell in love with it the first time I saw it on Christmas morning when I was 8 years old. Smelling of shellac, it came with a stool and a single drawer. Inside that drawer was a pad of paper with a sharpened #2 pencil. My mother was another recipient of one of my grandfather’s wooden heirlooms. Hers was a bookcase made of pine with three shelves. The bookcase was the perfect gift for my mother as she was an avid reader. Her favorite books were mostly novels set in the South during the Civil War; the era of Rhett and Scarlett and big hoop dresses and sprawling plantations. I re...

On my way back home late this morning from participating in a Grandparents Day breakfast with a 4-year old little fisherman who left us both sticky from maple syrup as we laughed and talked about perch and walleye and his upcoming Fishing Birthday Party and he showed me the right way to drink chocolate milk from a small container using a straw, I thought about his saying goodbye after giving me a sticky kiss and sticky hug.. “Love you too G raGra,” he waved as he disappeared around a corner on his way back to his classroom. He’d been chosen to be the caboose-the child at the end of the line-so he was able to wave goodbye to me all the way down the hall. When he disappeared around that corner I felt my heart sink. A few hours later I was back at that school-back in that cafeteria enjoying a Grandparents Day lunch with a 7-year old granddaughter. To see her smile when she saw me made it feel like Christmas. I was certain the rain falling was really snow and the gentlema...

On my way back home one day last week passing by farms and fields a story my grandmother would tell came to mind. Whenever my grandmother told the story she’d laugh right out loud. So did anyone who was listening to her talk about the time when she was a little girl sitting at the kitchen table playing and acting silly with her siblings. Eventually her mother told her to stop but she kept on playing. In fact my grandmother played so hard that she ended up running around and around that table so fast that she went flying out the kitchen window. Whenever she’d get to this point in the story my grandmother’s eyes would widen with a twinkle and the laughter would get uncontrollable. She’d always end her tale by saying it was a hot summer day and the window was wide open. While she didn’t get hurt she did ‘catch heck’ as she’d describe the aftermath from flying straight out that window after being told to stop. Once in a while I’d take my grandmother for rides out in the country an...

As the snow keeps falling in this month of March I am reminded of my mother and a 33rpm vinyl record album she played over and over again on a record player which was part of a fancy console complete with a radio featuring both AM & FM channels as well as a space to store albums. She bought the massive console as a gift for the family or so she said when it was delivered days before Christmas one year when I was in Junior High School. Thinking back, I believe the main purpose of that console was for my mother to play a particular song from one of her favorite Dean Martin Christmas albums. The song was titled-“A Marshmallow World.” She played that song not only in December but all through the winter months. Each of us in that household knew every word, every pause in that song. We’d automatically sing along without even realizing it. My mother was a fanatic Saturday morning clean-the-house-thoroughly kind of person which meant I had to pitch in. Dean Martin made that tort...

When I drove by the Amish home with quilts flying in the breeze as winter was thinking about turning to spring I couldn't help but stop. With the colors and detailed craftsmanship of those beautiful quilts hanging by clothespins against the simplicity of the home and the barn set off to the side and fields still holding on to patches of snow, the scene was breathtaking; looking more like an oil painting created by a master himself. Of course if it had been created by a master, that master would have had to contend with puddles of yuck and smells of the barn animals and the earth waking up. On my way home I thought about my mother. She would have loved seeing those quilts flapping about. I know she would have worried they might let loose and end up in the mud. That's because she was a skilled seamstress. Her tailored suits and coats were sewn to perfection. Every dart and every seam; every button and button hole; every zipper and strip of bias tape-all were flawlessly sewn o...

Growing up I always thought my cousin Joe was so lucky having his birthday fall on February 12th. To be born on the same date as Abraham Lincoln was certainly something to celebrate. But that wasn't the end of it. The celebrating continued on February 22nd, the birth date of our 1st President. That was the icing on the cake-the birthday cake that is. And nudged between these two historic dates was Valentine's Day which meant there was a Valentine Day's party in every classroom. Instead of cake, cookies and/or cupcakes were served. February was an overload for celebrating. Whether it was Abe's tall hat or George's ax or bright red hearts, February was made for creating and that's why it was my most favorite month when in elementary school with Art Class being my most favorite class of all. I had no use for arithmetic. It was too exact. I did like reading but Art Class-that was the class where my imagination was allowed to soar. Using big, fat crayons we'...