Making 'Lasses

Here is a picture of my friend down in Arkansas, checking out the sorghum patch.  Taken a few years ago, this photo reminds me of the happy days when we would spend the weekend helping make sorghum molasses.  She and her husband would grow the cane.  And Andy and I and several others would gather at their home and pitch in...making 'lasses.

Sometimes we had good cane to work with...and sometimes not.  It might be full of juice and splitting its green sides, just waiting to come out.  Other times it was skinny and selfish, holding on to the sugary pulp until you had to beat it out with the heavy rollers that squeezed it in the mill.

At times we used a tractor to make the mill go around.  One time we had the resident mules do the job. 

Making sorghum is hard work.  The juice needs to flow into the buckets at a good rate, leaving the residue of cane pieces on the filter cloth.  You have to make sure the juice is as clear of trash as possible.  Nothing worse than to have bits and pieces of cane floating around in that green liquid.

We use a stainless steel pan that fits snugly over the fire.  It is a small pan, made especially for heating the green, raw sorghum juice and turning it into dark brown molasses.  Many places I have visited use a pan with baffles that guide the juice from the raw start to the bubbling end over the constant heat of the wood fire. Workers use paddles to move the liquid along, making sure it doesn't stick along on the way. 

We sit across the fire from each other, waving away the smoke as it goes up the chimney.  Using skimmers, we pick up the foam and floating scum, flicking it off into the waste bucket near at hand.  Taking turns, we watch closely, moving the logs in and out of the fire pit to regulate the temperature.  We visit as we skim, talking to the kids nearby who are playing a game of tag and wondering when lunch will be served, because they are starving.

When the molasses turns that deep, rich brown, bubbling gently under the hot steam that rises above it, we take a thermometer and check the temperature.  This is not an exact science.  When is it done?  Don't want it to burn, but we want to make sure that no green tinge or taste remains.

The moment of truth arrives when two strong men lift the pan off the fire and carry it to the table where it is placed among the jars that wait, clean and shining in the sun.  Our friend carefully opens the spigot and fills jar after jar with golden brown goodness.  We are there to help wipe the rims and cap it off.

Everyone stands around to see how it is done.  Meanwhile, the mill keeps on working and the juice keeps on flowing.  The pan is cleaned up and we start the process all over again after a bite to eat.

Sometimes people come to visit the party.  They bring their fiddles and guitars and entertain the crowd with music, Sometimes someone gets out the jig board and dances along to a lively tune.  We encourage them by clapping and yelling.  The kids usually dance in the grass just to show they can do it too.

Back to work. The mill goes around and around, the juice is poured into the pan, we skim and talk and trade places when our backs get tired.  As the evening shade starts to cover the yard, we make our last batch of the day.  Cleaning up is not a problem because many hands make light work. Everyone pitches in.  They grab a jar or two of sorghum, take the empty pots and skillets of what they brought to share for lunch, leaving us with something to eat for our supper.

As twilight falls the four of us that are left sit on the porch, a cool breeze blowing up the valley. Sometimes we talk, sometimes we sit in silence.  It is a companionable silence, no need to chat.  We are tired, bone tired.  Feed the animals and get them ready for the night.  Maybe bring the fiddle out again and play a tune or two there in the darkness of the new moon.  Stars begin to wink above us.  Bed beckons.  And tomorrow...joy of joys...we get to make ' lasses again.

  

 

Auction Fever

I thought I had gotten over it.  I thought it was part of my past.  I took the cure.  The desire was gone....or so I thought.

Unfortunately, I was wrong.  I still have auction fever.

It is not an awful disease.  I am able to control myself...most of the time.

It all began a long, long time ago.  My mom took me to auctions when I was a little girl.  In my hometown in Illinois, these sales were called by a notable and famous man, a real fixture in our area.  Unfortunately, I can't remember his name. But he was Swedish, as were many of the people in our county, and he talked with that wonderful lilting cadence so characteristic of that group.  His auction call was unique.  I have never heard it anywhere else.  I still remember it though it has been many years since I stood behind the crowd, looking up, standing on tiptoe to see what he was selling.

I was hooked.  

My backsliding happened today.  Andy and I were visiting a nearby town.  We were going to yard sales, seeing what we might be able to find.  We chanced upon the first minutes of a wonderful one and bought quite a few things to take home.  Bargains we couldn't resist.

We had looked in the local paper and saw that an auction was almost ready to start a few blocks over.  When we arrived the crowd was thin, just a few stragglers, looking with interest at a car, some women rummaging around, looking at the pots and pans and dishes.  We almost left but then realized there was much, much more beyond the few items set out in the front yard.  The entire back yard and garage were full.  I could feel that urge.  The call of the hunt.  Then auction fever took hold of me.

I fought it for awhile.  I stepped back and watched the crew setting up and arranging last minute findings.  A box here, a piece of furniture there.

I rummaged around in a pile of books.  I could almost reconstruct this person's life.  I didn't know them, but I could tell just how talented they were.  Among the piles in the garage were well-worn tools, ancient items I had not seen in years.  Memories flooded in.

I was mesmerized.  I walked in a trance from table to table laden with quilt fabric, two quilting frames, piles of blankets, boxes of this and that. Papers, family pictures, toys left over from long-grown grandchildren, furniture...desks and chairs and sofas, a piano, a rug, two rugs, a whole pile of rugs.  On and on I walked, searching for a reason to stay.

There were many hidden treasures there on those tables.  I just knew it.  But we had an appointment.  We needed to get on the road.

As I walked back to the car, I was very briefly aware of a whisper in my ear.  I could almost hear that long ago Swedish auctioneer calling the sale.  The excitement of finding a desirable antique lurking somewhere in the bottom of a box, the satisfaction of being the winning bidder, the anticipation of carrying my finds home, like a warrior returning from the hunt.  Oh, glorious day.

Yes, auction fever has returned.  And, really, it's not that bad.    

 

The Magic of the Turning Season

First question?  Did you get any rain today?  We did.  And it was most welcome.  The dry and dusty roads, the dead and dying grass, the heat that threatened to overcome you at midday.  All were forgotten with a thunder storm in the early morning, and mist and light rain for a few hours after dawn.  It wasn't enough to jump start the creek  flowing, but that will come later.  Rain, glorious rain.

And the coolness of the day.  I had to search in the closet for my sweatshirt when I went out the door this evening.  It felt good to feel that smooth comfort on my chilled arms.  Driving into town I thought the sun setting in the west had a different glow.  I love  fall sunsets.  The clearer sky.  The light shining through trees soon to turn red and orange and yellow.

There is something special about fall here in the Ozarks.  The air smells different.  Cleaner and full of promise.  Night comes quicker.  Dawn is later. The open road beckons us all.  I love to travel during this time.  To see familiar places in new ways.  I never knew that valley was so deep.  I never saw that river quite so blue.  I never knew the wind could blow the clouds into such wonderful, mystical shapes...

Tomorrow is the autumnal equinox.  Another season.  Another chance to seize what is important to each one of us.  New conversations.  Old friends.  New experiences.  Old tales.  

Welcome fall.  We have been looking for you.  

 

Kindergarten Tears

This is a blog I wrote 11 years ago, August 16, 2010.  The picture above is my daughter, Nina Jane, when she was 3.  I wrote this piece to assure moms everywhere that they are not alone.   

You would have to be deaf and blind to not know that school is ready to start in my hometown, here in the Ozarks.  Everyone is shopping, taking last minute vacations for the day or overnight to theme parks and lakes.  Anything to cram a little more summer into an already hectic schedule.

As the first day of school looms ahead, I remember watching the Kindergarten moms bringing their children to school for that once-in-a-lifetime experience.  The road to the old elementary went right by my house, so my husband and I had a front row seat to the reality show called "I'm so happy, I'm so sad."  Mothers had spent lots of time combing hair, tying in ribbons, picking the perfect outfit for their little ones.  Proud as can be they marched along the street...little mister or miss hanging onto mommy's hand and carrying their new lunchbox in the other.  I know what happened next, even though I wasn't present at the classroom door.  Because, soon, here would come the Kindergarten moms, minus their little ones.  And every face was covered with tears.  Some tried to hide their feelings, but most were openly weeping.  And I felt for them.

I too had that Kindergarten mom experience.  The only trouble was that I was a teacher in the same school and I was expected in my classroom that morning.  My little girl went with me up the stairs to her classroom...new tennis shoes and blue, blue jeans for the first day, and her very own lunchbox.  How proud she was. Thankfully, her teacher was the mother of one of her best friends, so there was already a connection there.  I kissed her good-bye and left her at the door.  Walking through the gym to get to my own classroom, I can remember thinking, "I AM NOT GOING TO CRY!" but the telltale tears would not go away.  Luckily, my principal saw me coming by the office and called me in to speak with her.  I ducked my head and followed her into her office.  Giving me a smile, she closed the door, pulled up a chair and handed me a box of Kleenex.  She didn't have to say a word.  You see...she was a mom too.  After a few minutes, I was able to pull myself together, and with red eyes and a wobbly smile faced the beginning of a new school year.

This is written for all you Kindergarten moms.  That first walk to the classroom is hard, you will cry, but it will be okay in the end.  It's all part of being a mom.

 

Point of View

  June has been a crazy month so far. Cold rain, cloudy, windy weather.  And more rain.  And more clouds.  Would it never end?  Of course there were some good days when the sun shone and a gentle breeze stirred the trees.  The damp kept gardeners from planting in their soggy ground.  A cold snap a month or so ago hit the early young plants and laid them low.  The constant rain soaked peonies and roses that were just coming into bloom, turning their beautiful colors to sodden brown as their drooping petals fell to the ground.  

And now it has turned into summer.  Just a few days ago we woke to clouds and threats of more rain, but then the elusive sun broke through to beam down on us.  And it got hot.  And it got hotter.  Sweatshirts were put back in the closet and shorts made a return along with bare feet and swimsuits. But along with the warm-up came the ever present humidity.  Every thing you touched seemed to have been soaked in warm water.  Clothes on the line refused to dry. The sudden change in temperature made us retreat to the cool of our air-conditioned houses. After a long day spent working in the garden, mowing the lawn, or putting up hay, the slow approach of dusk came with welcome relief.

As I sat on my porch, I marveled at the changing colors in the sky.  First orange, then streaks of red.  Purple shadows graced the flanks of the nearby hills.  It was almost magical.  Even though the remnants of heat were still there, a feeling of peace and rest came to sit beside me in my west-facing chair. 

Though we struggle daily with all sorts of trouble, there is a place where we can change our point of view.

It may not be a perch like mine...above the valley and creek...but we can find a place to rest body and soul.

This summer will pass, fall and winter will follow, and then spring again.  Our daily trials will always be there, along with joys.  We need to sit and watch the sun set.  A change in our point of view can bring us comfort and hope for all the tomorrows yet to come. 

  

 

 

 

Pushing the button

An idea came to me today as I was walking down my road.  I have been looking for signs of spring for a few weeks now.  The snow is gone.  The temperatures have been close to ideal for March.  I search the likely places where some flowers should be trying to break through with a green shoot or some tentative leaves.  The picture above shows the daffodils we planted before our house was built.  They have survived a few snowstorms and cool weather during that time.  You can see the buds filling out.  I am encouraged.

But...what if, just for fun...there was a button you could push and suddenly, miraculously, it would be the middle of May?  Wow.  I can see it all now.  The trees are leafed out.  There is my favorite little flower hiding near the blackberry bushes, covered with white. The butterflies are fluttering.  My garden is beginning to grow. Birds are building nests.  I can hear bees.  And the air is full of the lovely scent that only spring can bring.

Wonderful.  I close my eyes and dream.  But then I wake up.  What if it were actually May?  What did I miss?  That's right.  What would we miss if we had that magic button?. For one, my daffodils.  Redbud trees full of blossom.  Dogwood flowers. Seeing the first bluebird building a nest in the box near my house.  That haze of green showing early leaves on the trees.  The soft light of sunrise as it moves along my porch, casting new shadows on the wall.  Discovering a wildflower that I had never seen before. Feeling the warmth of  noon and then the refreshing cool of evening. 

No.  I don't want that magic button.  I know I am as anxious as so many are to have spring come...sooner rather than later.  But be careful what you wish for.  You might miss those bright and beautiful days that are just around the corner.  The wait is worth it, don't you think?     

 

Warmth from a Sunset

Can you feel it?  Isn't it just the best treat in the world?  I stand on my porch looking west toward the sunset. 

After what seems like 100 days of grey skies and ragged, freezing wind, snow up to your eyeballs, frozen tundra, ceaseless trips to the barn for yet another load of wood to feed the stove, we see this beautiful sunset.

I know.  We have probably had lovely sunsets in the few days before I wrote this.  But I am a sissy.  I don't like to stand on my west facing porch with the wind from Siberia blowing in my face.  Right, right, Siberia is the other direction.  But give me a break.  If I say it feels like Siberia...IT IS SIBERIA.

This was the first big snowstorm that we have had this decade. It seems like it lasted forever even though it was only here a few days...turning our usual warmish "here comes Spring" February into a visit to the deep freeze buried somewhere in the Arctic north.

When the thermometer rose to above freezing today, I felt as if a heavy gray blanket had been lifted from my shoulders.  The snow was pretty.  When the sun shone it was a wonderland of sparkles and diamonds, reflecting the blue sky overhead.  I watched from the warmth of my living room.  I made endless pots of tea.  Lots of warm soup and sandwiches.  But I was missing something.

I usually go for a walk everyday.  I have a new hip, and even with my trusty hiking poles, I dare not  take my daily stroll to examine just what might be going on out to the east and then back to west.  I miss my daily talks with the trees, and rocks along my path.  You'd be surprised what wisdom I gather from them.

This evening I finally went out on the porch, just before supper, to see the sunset.  And this is what I heard.  "Don't despair.  This frozen view will soon be gone.  The gentler breezes will blow the budding trees.  Here. Touch my hand.  Better days are coming.  Just close your eyes and feel the warmth I am sending you."  And that is just what I did.  Who knew that a sunset could be so warm?