“Let’s listen to some man-talk,” my mother-in-law said pointedly to this new bride who was away from her family for her first holiday. Believe me, I had not been monopolizing the conversation. There were few of us around the dining room table, only two men. Her sons. They were clearly all that mattered to her. So, for the rest of the meal, her female guests ate silently, listening only to the ticking clock and the words issued by my golden-tongued husband and his brother. And, as I’m sure you’ve discerned, this short discourse set the tone for this mother-in-law and daughter-in-law relationship for the rest of her days. Thank goodness not all of my Thanksgivings have had such a surly tenor.
When I was a young girl, I enjoyed two dinners each Thanksgiving. We drove more than two hours to my parents’ hometown, Litchfield, and then ate at Grandmother Davis’ and Grandpa and Gram Bandy’s houses. Later on, we had shorter drives to one of the houses of my mother’s siblings. Sickness or weather would occasionally prevent us from hitting the road, and then we’d be especially thankful that my mother always had the assignment to bring the desserts and not the salads! Once an old chicken my mother found buried in the freezer had to be our “turkey” for the day. It was so tough that we finally just passed the carcass around between the three of us, and I declared that we were eating as the Eskimos did (according to some random fact I had read) as opposed to Pilgrims and Indians.
I don’t remember exactly when the extended family quit sharing the holidays, but, sometime after I was married, my husband and I became the hosts of the feast. We were joined by my parents, my mother-in-law, stepchildren (and, eventually their families/significant others), and, perhaps, close friends. My mother usually made us go around the circle and proclaim what we were thankful for. This turned into a family love fest as each mentioned a spouse and/or children. It was refreshing to read the local paper last week and see what others mentioned:
- touchdowns and turkey
- Legos, family, Oreos, ice cream, friends. Football, baseball, swimming, Humor, school, personality, Thank-you God
- Reading words like stop, country and my very favorite word is pepperoni pizza.
- I’m truly blessed because I could change myself, I wouldn’t
- I am thankful that my family loves me even though I am really naughty all the time, and I can’t help it. P.S. Those burger patties were THE BOMB!
-Tango the dog
and, two of my favorite:
- I’m thankful for the pencil I can pick up to make ideas into art.
- The incredible pages of books that are long, many words, make my mind explode!
This Thanksgiving we enjoyed a delicious buffet at a favorite restaurant on the lake. My husband downed at least one dozen oysters on the half-shell, and I tried to match him with desserts. We had a three generation family sit near us. The six children, all grade school aged, entered first and declared one-half of the long table the “kid’s table,” and then were followed by their grandparents and parents. After most had finished eating and were beginning to head to the dessert table, we were given our chuckle for the day. The most sanguine of the children, a boy probably an eight-year-old, stood beside his chair with one knee on it and said, “Wow, this is really the way to go,” followed a minute later by, “Just look at that view.” Truthfully, he couldn’t have said it better.
Wednesday, November 28, 2012
Wednesday, October 31, 2012
Little Women
Happy Halloween! Today’s topic isn’t about tricks or treats, nor is it about ghosts and goblins. I know, you thought it would be about my eating all of the Halloween candy before today came. Amazingly, I haven’t. Instead, I want to share with you some thoughts on the latest book I’ve read.
I read vociferously as a child, and although my family wasn’t rich, they regularly took me to the library, bought me Scholastic Books from school, and enrolled me in various book clubs such as The Story of . . ., We Were There . . ., Best in Children’s Books, and so on. I have vivid memories of it all. I could walk into that old library and pick up a copy of Little House on the Prairie from the bottom shelf of the beautiful built-in dark wooden bookcase on the right just inside the children’s section. I can feel the excitement of receiving the Scholastic Books flyer, reading the synopsis of each offering, and checking off those books I had most interest in. And, I can still see myself ripping into the cardboard packaging of the new book that had arrived in that day’s mail and plopping down in my dad’s chair by the fireplace that had the best reading light.
It was through one of the book clubs, the “Junior Deluxe Editions,” that I became familiar with Louisa May Alcott’s work--Jack and Jill, Little Men, Under the Lilacs, and Little Women. Little Women, inspired by Alcott’s own family, fascinated me most, not only because of the story, but because one of the characters had “my name,” Beth. That was a rare event. At the time, it didn’t matter to me that the Beth character was the delicate, sickly child and died before the end of the novel, although later on I would accuse my mother of naming me that in hopes that I would die young too. It was a hateful thing to say and far from the truth! But I digress.
It was because of my feelings toward Little Women that I became very curious about Geraldine Brooks’ novel, March. In Little Women, the girls’ father is absent for most of the story, and we follow the life of the rest of the family at their home for a year, from Christmas to Christmas. Brooks, in her book, spins the story of what Mr. March was doing during that time and draws upon the many works by and about Alcott’s father, Bronson, for her inspiration.
In this book of historical fiction, we find Mr. March, an idealist chaplain and vegetarian, in the Union camps during the first year of the Civil War. It is a difficult life, and he is revolted to find that even the Union soldiers are capable of “acts of barbarism and racism.” He wrestles with his faith, with the horror he sees and experiences, and finally with a most serious illness that reunites him with his wife. Like all who go off to war, at the end, he struggles with reintegrating himself back into his family and a life at home. Unlike Little Women, March is an adult tale about idealism, temptation, and marriage.
All of you who count Little Women as one of your favorite childhood books, I urge you to read "the rest of the story," the story of the absent father in March. It is a beautifully written novel, and you will not be disappointed.
I read vociferously as a child, and although my family wasn’t rich, they regularly took me to the library, bought me Scholastic Books from school, and enrolled me in various book clubs such as The Story of . . ., We Were There . . ., Best in Children’s Books, and so on. I have vivid memories of it all. I could walk into that old library and pick up a copy of Little House on the Prairie from the bottom shelf of the beautiful built-in dark wooden bookcase on the right just inside the children’s section. I can feel the excitement of receiving the Scholastic Books flyer, reading the synopsis of each offering, and checking off those books I had most interest in. And, I can still see myself ripping into the cardboard packaging of the new book that had arrived in that day’s mail and plopping down in my dad’s chair by the fireplace that had the best reading light.
It was through one of the book clubs, the “Junior Deluxe Editions,” that I became familiar with Louisa May Alcott’s work--Jack and Jill, Little Men, Under the Lilacs, and Little Women. Little Women, inspired by Alcott’s own family, fascinated me most, not only because of the story, but because one of the characters had “my name,” Beth. That was a rare event. At the time, it didn’t matter to me that the Beth character was the delicate, sickly child and died before the end of the novel, although later on I would accuse my mother of naming me that in hopes that I would die young too. It was a hateful thing to say and far from the truth! But I digress.
It was because of my feelings toward Little Women that I became very curious about Geraldine Brooks’ novel, March. In Little Women, the girls’ father is absent for most of the story, and we follow the life of the rest of the family at their home for a year, from Christmas to Christmas. Brooks, in her book, spins the story of what Mr. March was doing during that time and draws upon the many works by and about Alcott’s father, Bronson, for her inspiration.
In this book of historical fiction, we find Mr. March, an idealist chaplain and vegetarian, in the Union camps during the first year of the Civil War. It is a difficult life, and he is revolted to find that even the Union soldiers are capable of “acts of barbarism and racism.” He wrestles with his faith, with the horror he sees and experiences, and finally with a most serious illness that reunites him with his wife. Like all who go off to war, at the end, he struggles with reintegrating himself back into his family and a life at home. Unlike Little Women, March is an adult tale about idealism, temptation, and marriage.
All of you who count Little Women as one of your favorite childhood books, I urge you to read "the rest of the story," the story of the absent father in March. It is a beautifully written novel, and you will not be disappointed.
Thursday, October 11, 2012
Monday, October 8, 2012
Antiques and Memories
Antiques. I have never been an antiques shopper, but I have treasured the few old family pieces that we have. However, I have a friend who loves to shop for antiques, and when we have the opportunity to get together, we usually have lunch and try to visit a shop or two. I am a child at her knee, as she is knowledgeable about everything from sleigh bells to china. Teddy bears, postcards, crystal, many things catch my eyes, especially items that were in my house when I was a young girl.
Recently, on one of our forays to a newly-discovered antiques mall, I found a set of Childcraft and looked through each volume until I found what I was after. (For you who many not be familiar with Childcraft -- The How and Why Library, it was a series of books created in 1934 by the publishers of World Book encyclopedia. It was based on the interests of preschool and primary school-aged children and encouraged learning in a fun way. Subjects included Literature and the Language Arts, Science, Social Studies, Creative Activities and Fine Arts, Health and Safety, and a final volume for parents and teachers.) I had a set of these books, 15 volumes in all, but I especially enjoyed the stories and poems. It was one of the poems I had wanted to find.
My heart beat a little faster when I saw the pages with Dorothy Aldis’* poem, “Hiding.” Although this was the 1975 edition, the illustrations were just as I remembered. To this day I can recite the first stanza:
I’m hiding, I’m hiding,
And no one knows where;
For all they can see is my
Toes and my hair.
I can hear my mother reading this to me. Perhaps this is my first memory. And, undoubtedly, it started my life-long love of literature.
*Of course I didn't know it then, but Dorothy Aldis was recognized as "a major contributor to children's literature" and was called by some "The Poet Laureate of Young Children."
Recently, on one of our forays to a newly-discovered antiques mall, I found a set of Childcraft and looked through each volume until I found what I was after. (For you who many not be familiar with Childcraft -- The How and Why Library, it was a series of books created in 1934 by the publishers of World Book encyclopedia. It was based on the interests of preschool and primary school-aged children and encouraged learning in a fun way. Subjects included Literature and the Language Arts, Science, Social Studies, Creative Activities and Fine Arts, Health and Safety, and a final volume for parents and teachers.) I had a set of these books, 15 volumes in all, but I especially enjoyed the stories and poems. It was one of the poems I had wanted to find.
My heart beat a little faster when I saw the pages with Dorothy Aldis’* poem, “Hiding.” Although this was the 1975 edition, the illustrations were just as I remembered. To this day I can recite the first stanza:
I’m hiding, I’m hiding,
And no one knows where;
For all they can see is my
Toes and my hair.
I can hear my mother reading this to me. Perhaps this is my first memory. And, undoubtedly, it started my life-long love of literature.
*Of course I didn't know it then, but Dorothy Aldis was recognized as "a major contributor to children's literature" and was called by some "The Poet Laureate of Young Children."
Sunday, September 16, 2012
Apples
No, iPads, iPhones, and iPods are not the subject of this piece. Nor am I going to address all of the things that apples, the fruit, have signified over the years, from forbidden fruit, knowledge, temptation and sin, to immortality and eternal youthfulness. This piece is just about those apples that we especially enjoy this time of year, sometimes even handpicked by us.
When I was a child, Jonathan apples were the only variety that was ever available in our house. My mother preferred the firm texture and medium size over the very sweet, large yellow-skinned Golden Delicious. Besides being good just by themselves, Jonathans are also great cooking apples, and my mother used them to made pies and roly-polies, her specialty. Is there anything better than smelling apples baking in the oven?
In England, most days Debbie and I walked from the British Infant School where we were “student teaching” to the neighborhood center to purchase our lunch - two Granny Smith apples. Green as grass, we enjoyed their firm texture and their ability to satisfy our hunger. Perhaps they were so abundant in England because they originated in Australia.
Our farmers’ markets and grocery stores stock so many more varieties of apples now, and I enjoy trying new ones. Fuji and Gala had become my favorites until Honey Crisps appeared. We bought some from a Michigan farmer last week. They weren’t pretty and had various skin flaws, but the taste was exquisite. Sadly there won’t be many available. Michigan had summer-like temperatures in March which caused the cherry, peach, and apple trees to sprout, and then April brought some below-freezing nights that killed off the buds. This year’s production is expected to be 3 million bushels instead of 23 million.
Red, yellow or green, now is the time for us to enjoy this limited harvest. What variety will you choose and in what form?
When I was a child, Jonathan apples were the only variety that was ever available in our house. My mother preferred the firm texture and medium size over the very sweet, large yellow-skinned Golden Delicious. Besides being good just by themselves, Jonathans are also great cooking apples, and my mother used them to made pies and roly-polies, her specialty. Is there anything better than smelling apples baking in the oven?
In England, most days Debbie and I walked from the British Infant School where we were “student teaching” to the neighborhood center to purchase our lunch - two Granny Smith apples. Green as grass, we enjoyed their firm texture and their ability to satisfy our hunger. Perhaps they were so abundant in England because they originated in Australia.
Our farmers’ markets and grocery stores stock so many more varieties of apples now, and I enjoy trying new ones. Fuji and Gala had become my favorites until Honey Crisps appeared. We bought some from a Michigan farmer last week. They weren’t pretty and had various skin flaws, but the taste was exquisite. Sadly there won’t be many available. Michigan had summer-like temperatures in March which caused the cherry, peach, and apple trees to sprout, and then April brought some below-freezing nights that killed off the buds. This year’s production is expected to be 3 million bushels instead of 23 million.
Red, yellow or green, now is the time for us to enjoy this limited harvest. What variety will you choose and in what form?
Saturday, September 15, 2012
An Autumn Weekend
Calling all former Boy Scouts! You won’t want to miss Wes Anderson’s latest movie, Moonrise Kingdom. Set in 1965, we’re drawn into a story of young love between an orphaned Boy Scout and a bookish girl. The star-studded cast includes Bill Murray and Frances McDormand as the attorney parents of the girl, Edward Norton as the Boy Scout camp leader, and Bruce Willis as the sheriff who becomes involved when the young pair meet and begin their adventure. It’s delightfully entertaining - Roger Ebert awarded it 3 and one-half stars. It was a perfect Friday night date movie and lead in to the weekend.
These fall weekends are my favorite, filled with moderate temperatures, cool winds, and the passes, runs, blocks, tackles, kicks, and scores of football. Saturday’s college games are my favorite, but I enjoy Sunday’s pro games, too. Any good game will do. Sadly, my love of football isn’t shared by the other half of the management, so I tend to watch alone most times and am even sometimes pressured to participate in some other activity, rarely willingly.
This love of the game comes from my dad, who began taking me to the University of Illinois football games when I was ten. We always walked from home to the stadium, quickly. I tried to take my longest strides to keep up with him. We’d weave through the crowds and arrive in time to watch both teams warm up. I don’t remember ever being bored, and I’m sure that was because he taught me about the game so that I could focus my watching. I became a rabid fan, more than enthusiastic and bordering on the fanatical. I yelled and cheered too loudly long after it was age-appropriate. As was his nature, my dad was quiet most of the time except when caught up in some excitement. All of these memories well up inside me as I watch the first kick-off of the day.
Ah, these autumn days. Precious indeed.
These fall weekends are my favorite, filled with moderate temperatures, cool winds, and the passes, runs, blocks, tackles, kicks, and scores of football. Saturday’s college games are my favorite, but I enjoy Sunday’s pro games, too. Any good game will do. Sadly, my love of football isn’t shared by the other half of the management, so I tend to watch alone most times and am even sometimes pressured to participate in some other activity, rarely willingly.
This love of the game comes from my dad, who began taking me to the University of Illinois football games when I was ten. We always walked from home to the stadium, quickly. I tried to take my longest strides to keep up with him. We’d weave through the crowds and arrive in time to watch both teams warm up. I don’t remember ever being bored, and I’m sure that was because he taught me about the game so that I could focus my watching. I became a rabid fan, more than enthusiastic and bordering on the fanatical. I yelled and cheered too loudly long after it was age-appropriate. As was his nature, my dad was quiet most of the time except when caught up in some excitement. All of these memories well up inside me as I watch the first kick-off of the day.
Ah, these autumn days. Precious indeed.
Sunday, September 2, 2012
This is the day the LORD has made
For a week I have been witness to the first colors of fall, the red and gold especially catching my eyes. Hurricane Isaac has only brought a little wind and some light evening rain to Holland. Since all of Michigan has been declared a natural disaster area due to this year’s heat and drought, we were hoping for a bigger impact.
The first of the 15 boats that dock at our pier has been taken out for cleaning and winter storage. With temperatures that are sometimes still peaking in the high 80s, it seems too soon to plan for the cold. (I guess I wouldn’t make a good squirrel!)
The other day instead of having my first cup of coffee in bed, I sat on the balcony in the quiet and watched the stillness of the water. As flocks of birds flew close to the lake, their numbers doubled with the mirror-like reflection. “This is the day the LORD has made; let us rejoice and be glad in it,” (Psalm 118:24) I recited as I was felt filled by nature’s beauty. No sooner were the words out of my mouth than a hummingbird appeared not more than 6 feet in front of me and paused facing me. I must have passed inspection as then he turned and fed from the blossoms of the pink fuchsia. I could even see his beak parted, drinking the nectar.
the LORD has done this, and it is marvelous in our eyes. - Psalm 118:23
Monday, July 30, 2012
An Olympics Junkie
I admit it. This couch-surfer is an Olympics-watching junkie, and I am enjoying every minute. I turn on the television when I awaken and turn it off well after midnight. It is amazing to watch the very best athletes in the world perform, whether in kayaks or at ping-pong tables, on parallel bars or in swimming pools.
This morning the cross-country dressage event was televised, the second of the three-day contest. The horses were not as colorful as those on merry-go-rounds, but they were beautiful, athletic specimens in shades of chestnut, brown, black, and gray. Each dynamic duo of rider and horse jumped various obstacles proceeding uphill and down, through water and sand, hopefully completing the course in about ten minutes.
One of the most amazing jumps was over the bottom of a crescent moon with the city of London in the background. Others included a rattan chessboard, a train, a castle, a bed of logs being pulled by a tractor, Saturn, an outdoor market, a tribute to Big Ben, and so on. Large trees providing dappled shade and charming beds of flowers added to the beauty of the course. I was mesmerized by it all.
Well, time for the evening segment. Signing off.
This morning the cross-country dressage event was televised, the second of the three-day contest. The horses were not as colorful as those on merry-go-rounds, but they were beautiful, athletic specimens in shades of chestnut, brown, black, and gray. Each dynamic duo of rider and horse jumped various obstacles proceeding uphill and down, through water and sand, hopefully completing the course in about ten minutes.
One of the most amazing jumps was over the bottom of a crescent moon with the city of London in the background. Others included a rattan chessboard, a train, a castle, a bed of logs being pulled by a tractor, Saturn, an outdoor market, a tribute to Big Ben, and so on. Large trees providing dappled shade and charming beds of flowers added to the beauty of the course. I was mesmerized by it all.
Well, time for the evening segment. Signing off.
Friday, July 20, 2012
I'm sick of it
Yes, I'm sick of awakening on beautiful sun-filled mornings and finding that yet more innocent people have been killed and injured because of guns, especially semi-automatic weapons. Can you imagine if you had let your child (middle/high school) off at the movie theatre in Aurora, CO to enjoy the big opening of the "summer blockbuster movie," the new Batman, and the next thing you received was a phone call from your child saying that a gunman was shooting at people? Or what about a call from the hospital? Or a visit from a policeman?
There is only one thing that guns cause, and that's blood. I'm sick of our American "gun culture" that originated hundreds of years ago and still plays out today. How can we have aggrandized our gun-toting westward expansion, when in fact it resulted in the deaths of many Native Americans. We were immigrants who wanted their land, and we were not going to negotiate with words when our guns spoke more loudly.
We still have some Annie Oakleys, but too many men are all caught up in the power and masculinity of guns. You know, the bigger, the better. They claim they have guns for hunting, so they can hang animals parts up in their homes. It's pathetic. And my bet is that the larger the gun, the smaller the...well, you know what I mean.
I'm sick of it. I'm sick of the NRA, and the control it has of our government. I'm sick of the concealed weapons that so many people are running around with. I'm sick of the children who are killed or kill because there are guns in their homes.
Our country was built through blood and wars, but let's put an end to it. NOW. (Not Owning Weapons.)
There is only one thing that guns cause, and that's blood. I'm sick of our American "gun culture" that originated hundreds of years ago and still plays out today. How can we have aggrandized our gun-toting westward expansion, when in fact it resulted in the deaths of many Native Americans. We were immigrants who wanted their land, and we were not going to negotiate with words when our guns spoke more loudly.
We still have some Annie Oakleys, but too many men are all caught up in the power and masculinity of guns. You know, the bigger, the better. They claim they have guns for hunting, so they can hang animals parts up in their homes. It's pathetic. And my bet is that the larger the gun, the smaller the...well, you know what I mean.
I'm sick of it. I'm sick of the NRA, and the control it has of our government. I'm sick of the concealed weapons that so many people are running around with. I'm sick of the children who are killed or kill because there are guns in their homes.
Our country was built through blood and wars, but let's put an end to it. NOW. (Not Owning Weapons.)
Monday, July 16, 2012
Sunset
The sky broke like an egg into full sunset and the water caught fire.
- Pamela Hansford Johnson
After enjoying City Vu's flatbreads for dinner, Bob asked if we wanted to go to the Lake Michigan beach and watch the sunset. It was Amy's last summer vacation day in Holland, and it seemed like the perfect conclusion to her time here.
Sunset comes late in western Michigan, and summer days stretch out endlessly with more than fifteen hours of sunlight, so it was after 9:00 p.m. when we reached the beach. Sunset is live theatre and well-attended. People gather on benches, walk out on the breakwater, or just stand and watch in wonder, all faced west with the light bouncing off their faces. This evening, a number of pleasure boats were anchored near the channel, and a lone man on a paddleboard moved back and forth just outside of their reach, perhaps preparing for this weekend's competition.
It was cloudless and the sky blue, as the earth turned, and the sun started its descent toward the lake. It's magic, and it's art, and it's all part of a mystical creation that draws us to this rhythmic phenomenon. Soon the sun began to dip and a deep purple was painted across the horizon, and as it sank further, a swath of pink fell upon the purple. We stood and waited until the very last sliver of sun had disappeared.
As always, the show was breathtaking, and we should have all applauded. Instead, I think we each offered a silent "amen." Amen.
Sunday, July 8, 2012
Sunday Service
After the sermon, we recited A Statement of Faith:
We welcome that where people are gathered together in love
God is present and good things happen and life is full.
We celebrate that we are immersed in mystery that our lives are more than
they seem, that we belong to each other and to a universe of great creative
energies, whose source and destiny is God.
We celebrate that the spirit of God beat in the heart of Jesus of Nazareth
and God’s good news was heard by the broken and wounded. We are glad
that the spirit of peace is present with us, the church, as we gather to celebrate
our common existence, and the fidelity of God.
And most deeply we believe that in our struggle to love, we incarnate God in
the world. And so aware of mystery and wonder, caught in friendship
laughter, we become speechless before the joy in our hearts as we celebrate
the sacredness of life.
We have been searching for a church since we began spending time in Holland. Locally we tried The Beechwood Church, a Reformed Church of America (almost every church in Holland is a “reformed” church). From Father’s Day until Labor Day people are encouraged to bring their camp chairs, dress casually, and share in an outdoor contemporary 10:00 A.M. service. Sometimes one thousand people congregate, including many campers enjoying Holland State Park. The warm homemade donuts and snow cones that are available after the service are a great draw. However, we were concerned about some comments made about Muslims during two sermons and decided to search again.
I attended a Writing the Psalms workshop at the Douglas Congregational United Church of Christ in Douglas, MI (about 5 miles/20 minutes from our condo) and found their minister and the mission intriguing. Today was the second time we have worshiped there, and we were told that our permanent name tags will be awaiting us next Sunday.
The written mission of the church is one I can support with my Christian Church (Disciples of Christ) membership:
To grow together spiritually
as progressive Christians, welcoming all;
pursuing peace, justice, love
and healing for all creation.
It turns out that the young minister I met has left the church, and an interim, Rev. Kathryn Davelaar, has been installed. She and the rest of the congregation have been very welcoming to us. The service is mostly traditional, not my favorite, but I appreciate having communion again each Sunday. I went forward and the minister offered me the bread saying, “Beth, the body of Christ,” and then I proceeded to my left to the person who stood with a cup of wine. He said, “Beth, the blood of Christ,” and I dipped my bread and then took it. Had I walked to the right of the minister, I could have drunk an individual cup of grape juice.
After communion, the congregation made a circle around the pews, held hands, and prayed the Lord’s Prayer together. It started, “Our Mother/Father, always and everywhere, hallowed be thy name…”. This is the usual routine.
Probably the most unusual thing about the church is that we are in the minority because we are a heterosexual couple. It is the second time in my life that I have been in a situation where I am in the minority, and, once again, I think that I have an opportunity to grow from the experience. There are a few other heterosexual couples, and there will be a new one after their wedding next Saturday, but most of the congregation is composed of gay men. Some are in partnerships. Some are not, or their partners don’t attend church with them. There are some lesbians but not many. I feel very comfortable.
Sometimes we are hugged during the “passing of the peace.” Room is made for us in the circle for the Lord’s Prayer. We were even invited to the potluck after church. And, now, we’ll have name tags. I appreciate all they have done to make us feel included and accepted. They are showing us hospitality. I look forward to worshiping as part of this congregation next Sunday. Amen.
Friday, July 6, 2012
Excessive Heat Warning
A few days ago, Bob said, "It's amazing how the birds are chirping and singing in the mornings. I'm surprised with this heat." I replied, "They're sending out the excessive heat warning."
The only thing worse than a mild winter with no snow is a summer with 90-plus-degree temperatures, especially in June and July. This smothering abomination has struck much of the United States, and we can't seem to get away from it. Today it's 100-degrees with a 72-degree dew point in Michigan, and Amy and Bob have taken the boat out to the "big water" for some swimming. I couldn't bear the thought of leaving the air conditioning and have caught up on a week's worth of e-mails. I really can't tolerate heat, and it plays havoc with my usual charming personality.
When I was in my teens, we didn't yet have central air conditioning in our house. Because of my scoliosis, I wore a back brace made of steel and leather. Not only was it unsightly and uncomfortable, it was hot. Blessedly, my Uncle Eugene came to my rescue with the gift of a huge, used, room air conditioner. (This was one of the greatest kindnesses that has ever been done to me.) My parents had it installed in our den (the precursor to today's family room but on a much smaller scale), and the coolness bathed us while we watched TV. It also wafted into our bedrooms and made sleeping bearable.
However, the steel and leather made me never like hot weather again. Witnessing the brown dormant grass and the struggling annuals in the garden just reinforces this feeling. Please send cooling rains our way...and send them soon.
The only thing worse than a mild winter with no snow is a summer with 90-plus-degree temperatures, especially in June and July. This smothering abomination has struck much of the United States, and we can't seem to get away from it. Today it's 100-degrees with a 72-degree dew point in Michigan, and Amy and Bob have taken the boat out to the "big water" for some swimming. I couldn't bear the thought of leaving the air conditioning and have caught up on a week's worth of e-mails. I really can't tolerate heat, and it plays havoc with my usual charming personality.
When I was in my teens, we didn't yet have central air conditioning in our house. Because of my scoliosis, I wore a back brace made of steel and leather. Not only was it unsightly and uncomfortable, it was hot. Blessedly, my Uncle Eugene came to my rescue with the gift of a huge, used, room air conditioner. (This was one of the greatest kindnesses that has ever been done to me.) My parents had it installed in our den (the precursor to today's family room but on a much smaller scale), and the coolness bathed us while we watched TV. It also wafted into our bedrooms and made sleeping bearable.
However, the steel and leather made me never like hot weather again. Witnessing the brown dormant grass and the struggling annuals in the garden just reinforces this feeling. Please send cooling rains our way...and send them soon.
Tuesday, June 26, 2012
Women's Spiritual Writing Retreat - Day One
This is the Day… is the theme of this year’s Women’s Spiritual Writing Retreat. Just that phrase calls to mind scripture, special days of blessing (like birthdays and weddings), and those days that Bob and I have named Before and After (from the movie of the same name), the ones that occur and nothing in one’s life will be the same afterwards (like a serious disease diagnosis or car accident). Then there are ordinary days, and sometimes there are ordinary days that become extraordinary. We were going to explore and write about them all.
However, although the fourteen women attending are very interested in writing, the fellowship between us is just as important. With laughter and tears, we will share parts of our life journey, sometimes even secrets we’ve been keeping. My cousin is here, two members of my church, my writing partner, a former leader, two women who have suffered serious losses since I’ve last seen them, a woman facing chemotherapy and/or radiation for breast cancer, three women I’ve not met, and two women I’m looking forward to getting to know better. These are my sisters.
Our centering scripture that we’ll often repeat is: This is the day that the Lord has made; let us rejoice and be glad in it. - Psalm 118:24 We wrote our own versions and shared them. This is mine: This is the day that I have looked forward to for over a year. I will catch up with women I have missed and care for and make new friends. Amen and amen.
After thinking about all the things that “day” brings to my mind (clustering), I wrote the following poem:
The Days
From time unknown, Love breathed
and with some clacking of needles,
knitting and purling,
I was formed in my mother’s womb.
I emerged the day of my birth,
nestled in the calendar
just after cousin Ruth
and before Aunt Dorothy.
I lived early days as an explorer
of unchartered territory,
where everything was a new adventure,
and I was filled with unbridled curiosity.
There were teenage days I wore a back brace
when all I wanted was to look like everyone else,
while college days I was seen in hip-hugging bell bottoms
and didn’t want to fit into a sorority.
Most days I was ambitious and wanted society
to be my experimental ground for new ideas.
I was always eager in the creation,
but cared little for evaluation.
It was a mum-wearing crisp day
at a college football game when I
introduced myself to the ringless
Omar Sharif in front of me.
Almost two thousand days later,
I had my princess day at the altar,
made my promises before God and community,
and then learned to lower my expectations.
Each year of days saw my marriage improve
and my family care-giving increase,
first a teenager, then a broken stepson, and,
all too soon, elderly parents.
In the early morning hour of an ordinary day,
with just a tick of the clock,
my grief exploded, mother dead.
How terribly sad the passing of days became
as I watched my beloved dad’s memory
unravel, one stitch at a time.
After I lost him,
it was also through a passing of days
that I was able to heal.
I enjoy every one of my now “autumn” days
with a new awareness. I more often have
eyes to see and ears to hear.
These days are less filled with
scheduled activities, and yet
God calls me to a new thing
and to a time unknown.
However, although the fourteen women attending are very interested in writing, the fellowship between us is just as important. With laughter and tears, we will share parts of our life journey, sometimes even secrets we’ve been keeping. My cousin is here, two members of my church, my writing partner, a former leader, two women who have suffered serious losses since I’ve last seen them, a woman facing chemotherapy and/or radiation for breast cancer, three women I’ve not met, and two women I’m looking forward to getting to know better. These are my sisters.
Our centering scripture that we’ll often repeat is: This is the day that the Lord has made; let us rejoice and be glad in it. - Psalm 118:24 We wrote our own versions and shared them. This is mine: This is the day that I have looked forward to for over a year. I will catch up with women I have missed and care for and make new friends. Amen and amen.
After thinking about all the things that “day” brings to my mind (clustering), I wrote the following poem:
The Days
From time unknown, Love breathed
and with some clacking of needles,
knitting and purling,
I was formed in my mother’s womb.
I emerged the day of my birth,
nestled in the calendar
just after cousin Ruth
and before Aunt Dorothy.
I lived early days as an explorer
of unchartered territory,
where everything was a new adventure,
and I was filled with unbridled curiosity.
There were teenage days I wore a back brace
when all I wanted was to look like everyone else,
while college days I was seen in hip-hugging bell bottoms
and didn’t want to fit into a sorority.
Most days I was ambitious and wanted society
to be my experimental ground for new ideas.
I was always eager in the creation,
but cared little for evaluation.
It was a mum-wearing crisp day
at a college football game when I
introduced myself to the ringless
Omar Sharif in front of me.
Almost two thousand days later,
I had my princess day at the altar,
made my promises before God and community,
and then learned to lower my expectations.
Each year of days saw my marriage improve
and my family care-giving increase,
first a teenager, then a broken stepson, and,
all too soon, elderly parents.
In the early morning hour of an ordinary day,
with just a tick of the clock,
my grief exploded, mother dead.
How terribly sad the passing of days became
as I watched my beloved dad’s memory
unravel, one stitch at a time.
After I lost him,
it was also through a passing of days
that I was able to heal.
I enjoy every one of my now “autumn” days
with a new awareness. I more often have
eyes to see and ears to hear.
These days are less filled with
scheduled activities, and yet
God calls me to a new thing
and to a time unknown.
Saturday, June 16, 2012
Let Your Light Shine
A while ago, cousin Nan gave me a collection of Mary Oliver's poems, Thirst. I have recently returned to the book, reading a poem a day as part of my morning devotional time. The one below reminds me of my walks through Dunton Park and my sisters from the group "This Little Light of Mine."
When I Am Among the
Trees
When I am among the
trees,
especially the willows and the honey locust,
equally the beech, the oaks and the pines,
they give off such hints of gladness,
I would almost say that they save me, and daily.
especially the willows and the honey locust,
equally the beech, the oaks and the pines,
they give off such hints of gladness,
I would almost say that they save me, and daily.
I am so distant from the
hope of myself,
in which I have goodness, and discernment,
and never hurry through the world
but walk slowly, and bow often.
in which I have goodness, and discernment,
and never hurry through the world
but walk slowly, and bow often.
Around me the trees stir in
their leaves
and call out, "Stay awhile."
The light flows from their branches.
and call out, "Stay awhile."
The light flows from their branches.
And they call again, "It's
simple," they say,
"and you too have come
into the world to do this, to go easy, to be filled
with light, and to shine."
"and you too have come
into the world to do this, to go easy, to be filled
with light, and to shine."
~ Mary Oliver
~
(Thirst)
Friday, June 15, 2012
Hospitality
Although simply a stopgap measure, President Obama took executive action to allow young undocumented people under age 30 who came to the US before age 16, have lived here at least five years, are in school, have graduated HS, or are military veterans in good standing, and have no criminal records to no longer face deportation. They can work legally, attend college, and obtain necessary documents, like a driver's license, that they may need. The US will benefit from this workforce, its labor and ideas.
Alone in the condo when I heard about this change, Zoe was the only one to hear my cheers. A new outlook on immigration has long been needed. We have forgotten those words at the bottom of the Statue of Liberty, forgotten that most of us came from families who were once immigrants. And, we have forgotten our charge to be hospitable to strangers.
If you go to the Sojourners website at sojo.net, you can sign the Evangelical Statement of Principles for Immigration Reform that will be sent to political leaders. Below is the information I received from Sojourners:
Washington politicians refuse to fix America’s broken immigration system. Instead, they use extreme rhetoric, demonizing people created in God’s image, and purposefully distort the positions held by their political opponents. This failure to lead has created a moral, economic, and political crisis that breaks up families and harms children.
Now, leaders from across the evangelical community are speaking out. Drawing inspiration from scripture, these leaders are trying to change the debate about immigration and encourage elected officials to find practical, bipartisan solutions that reflect the biblical commitments to hospitality and concern for the least among us. Specifically, immigration reform is needed that:
- Respects the God-given dignity of every person
- Protects the unity of the immediate family
- Respects the rule of law
- Guarantees secure national borders
- Ensures fairness to taxpayers
- Establishes a path toward legal status and/or citizenship for those who qualify and who wish to become permanent residents
Your voice is needed so legislators will know where the faith community stands on immigration.
Sign the Evangelical Statement of Principles for Immigration Reform and send a clear message to our political leaders: People of faith agree that we need both parties to work together and pass bipartisan immigration reform.
Now, let's celebrate this change, as we pray for more.
Alone in the condo when I heard about this change, Zoe was the only one to hear my cheers. A new outlook on immigration has long been needed. We have forgotten those words at the bottom of the Statue of Liberty, forgotten that most of us came from families who were once immigrants. And, we have forgotten our charge to be hospitable to strangers.
If you go to the Sojourners website at sojo.net, you can sign the Evangelical Statement of Principles for Immigration Reform that will be sent to political leaders. Below is the information I received from Sojourners:
Washington politicians refuse to fix America’s broken immigration system. Instead, they use extreme rhetoric, demonizing people created in God’s image, and purposefully distort the positions held by their political opponents. This failure to lead has created a moral, economic, and political crisis that breaks up families and harms children.
Now, leaders from across the evangelical community are speaking out. Drawing inspiration from scripture, these leaders are trying to change the debate about immigration and encourage elected officials to find practical, bipartisan solutions that reflect the biblical commitments to hospitality and concern for the least among us. Specifically, immigration reform is needed that:
- Respects the God-given dignity of every person
- Protects the unity of the immediate family
- Respects the rule of law
- Guarantees secure national borders
- Ensures fairness to taxpayers
- Establishes a path toward legal status and/or citizenship for those who qualify and who wish to become permanent residents
Your voice is needed so legislators will know where the faith community stands on immigration.
Sign the Evangelical Statement of Principles for Immigration Reform and send a clear message to our political leaders: People of faith agree that we need both parties to work together and pass bipartisan immigration reform.
Now, let's celebrate this change, as we pray for more.
Monday, June 11, 2012
Swans
Just out of bed and with my glasses on, I rubbed my eyes to be sure of what I was seeing. Swans. I was seeing a whole group of swans swimming toward our shore. I rushed to Barbara's closed door and gave it some hard raps. "Barbara, are you awake?" "No," she replied. Not put off a bit I added, "Come quick, it's a flotilla* of swans!"
Isn't life full of wonderful surprises?
*Okay, so a group of swans isn't called a flotilla but a herd. I really think flotilla is better.
Isn't life full of wonderful surprises?
*Okay, so a group of swans isn't called a flotilla but a herd. I really think flotilla is better.
Tuesday, May 29, 2012
The Peaceable Kingdom
Give me a book and I am like a dog with a bone. I can’t put it down. Such was the case with my latest choice, The Peaceable Kingdom by Jan de Hartog, 1971. “Massive book” “epic fiction,” and “sweeping saga” are just a few of the descriptions given it by various newspaper reviewers. My paperback copy ends on page 896.
Having adopted the motto, “So many books, so little time,” I had stopped reading anything of this length, so it was with some trepidation when I started it. But the book was mentioned by E. Glenn Hinson in an essay entitled “Elpisizing*” (Weavings - A Journal of the Christian Spiritual Life, Volume XXVII, Number 2), and I was intrigued.
How did someone bring hope to young children who were imprisoned in a windowless, smelly, bug-ridden cell in 17th-century England? It was a Quaker, Margaret Fells, the wife of a judge, who did it by moving in with the little ones and improving their conditions. Throughout the narrative in Part One (the first 446 pages), the reader is informed of the origin of the Quaker religion and its tenets and sees it in action.
It’s about one hundred years later when Book Two begins, and the descendants of the Quakers in Part One are residing in Pennsylvania. The theme is no longer prison reform. Slavery and conflict between settlers and Native Americans are addressed. I was spellbound, and so today I decided to just read until I came to the end.
Let me digress a bit. I assume the book is out of print because I had to order a used copy on the Amazon website. I’ve had fairly good luck ordering used books, and the one I chose was supposed to be in good condition. I was a bit surprised when it arrived with the back cover torn (a piece missing) and the page edges looking well-worn. I was more surprised when I was on page 168, opened the book wide, and that entire part of the book just fell off! However, I was the most surprised when I read page 880, and the next page was 893!
What??? What??? How can this be? Here I am at the end of the book, a new generation of Quakers is heading westward, and the narrative stops. It’s gone. I’ve read 880 pages and have no end to the book. I begin stomping around the house in disgust.
I’m not thinking such peaceable thoughts about the bookseller from whom I bought my book. I can think of only one solution to my dilemma. I sit down at the computer and order another copy of the book. A hardbound this time, $7.00. It says I will receive it in A MONTH! I can hardly believe it. By then, I will have met other characters who will have taken over my imagination. But still, I need a resolution after 880 pages.
And now I am going to digress once more. Probably a year ago I received from a friend an e-mailed survey that would reveal how my beliefs related to the tenets of various religions and Christian denominations. Turned out the Quakers and I were in 100% agreement. With my anti-war stance, it shouldn’t have been unexpected, but I knew little about the Friends. Now I understand more, and from what I’ve read, I think my beliefs are very similar to theirs. As it says on page 701, If God is anything at all, He is what St John said he was, what George Fox [who began the Quaker religion] said He was and what Margaret Fell, bless her soul showed He was: love. All other definitions are efforts on our part to evade the demands of that final realization. Yes, that’s what I believe, 100%.
This blog? It’s twofold. It’s the story of this frustrated reader who couldn’t finish her book, and it’s about my continued spiritual quest. It’s about peace and love. I recommend that you read the book, but before you start, be sure all the pages are there.
*the Greek work for “hoping”
Having adopted the motto, “So many books, so little time,” I had stopped reading anything of this length, so it was with some trepidation when I started it. But the book was mentioned by E. Glenn Hinson in an essay entitled “Elpisizing*” (Weavings - A Journal of the Christian Spiritual Life, Volume XXVII, Number 2), and I was intrigued.
How did someone bring hope to young children who were imprisoned in a windowless, smelly, bug-ridden cell in 17th-century England? It was a Quaker, Margaret Fells, the wife of a judge, who did it by moving in with the little ones and improving their conditions. Throughout the narrative in Part One (the first 446 pages), the reader is informed of the origin of the Quaker religion and its tenets and sees it in action.
It’s about one hundred years later when Book Two begins, and the descendants of the Quakers in Part One are residing in Pennsylvania. The theme is no longer prison reform. Slavery and conflict between settlers and Native Americans are addressed. I was spellbound, and so today I decided to just read until I came to the end.
Let me digress a bit. I assume the book is out of print because I had to order a used copy on the Amazon website. I’ve had fairly good luck ordering used books, and the one I chose was supposed to be in good condition. I was a bit surprised when it arrived with the back cover torn (a piece missing) and the page edges looking well-worn. I was more surprised when I was on page 168, opened the book wide, and that entire part of the book just fell off! However, I was the most surprised when I read page 880, and the next page was 893!
What??? What??? How can this be? Here I am at the end of the book, a new generation of Quakers is heading westward, and the narrative stops. It’s gone. I’ve read 880 pages and have no end to the book. I begin stomping around the house in disgust.
I’m not thinking such peaceable thoughts about the bookseller from whom I bought my book. I can think of only one solution to my dilemma. I sit down at the computer and order another copy of the book. A hardbound this time, $7.00. It says I will receive it in A MONTH! I can hardly believe it. By then, I will have met other characters who will have taken over my imagination. But still, I need a resolution after 880 pages.
And now I am going to digress once more. Probably a year ago I received from a friend an e-mailed survey that would reveal how my beliefs related to the tenets of various religions and Christian denominations. Turned out the Quakers and I were in 100% agreement. With my anti-war stance, it shouldn’t have been unexpected, but I knew little about the Friends. Now I understand more, and from what I’ve read, I think my beliefs are very similar to theirs. As it says on page 701, If God is anything at all, He is what St John said he was, what George Fox [who began the Quaker religion] said He was and what Margaret Fell, bless her soul showed He was: love. All other definitions are efforts on our part to evade the demands of that final realization. Yes, that’s what I believe, 100%.
This blog? It’s twofold. It’s the story of this frustrated reader who couldn’t finish her book, and it’s about my continued spiritual quest. It’s about peace and love. I recommend that you read the book, but before you start, be sure all the pages are there.
*the Greek work for “hoping”
Monday, May 28, 2012
Memorial Day Observed
Out my window, I see four little children. The two girls stand almost knee-deep in the calm lake water and chat. The two little boys, feet buried in the warm sand, hit each other with water noodles. It’s a perfect example of why women should run the world.
Monday, May 14, 2012
Green Commute Week
Bob was looking across the lake this morning and commented that he had seen only one car go by on South Shore Drive. I replied with a “halleluiah” and an explanation
“Go Green!” It’s the cry of many in Holland, Michigan who participate in caring for our planet. This week’s special emphasis is on using green modes of transportation, such as bicycles and public transportation, to get to work and around town. There are a lot of incentives being offered too, from free rides to goodie bags to special discounts at business “recharging stations.”
We’ve joined the event and bicycled to a greenhouse, hardware store, and “Captain Sundae.” It felt good. How about you? This week can you let the car stay in the garage for one of your trips to work or to run an errand? It will make you feel good, too.
“Go Green!” It’s the cry of many in Holland, Michigan who participate in caring for our planet. This week’s special emphasis is on using green modes of transportation, such as bicycles and public transportation, to get to work and around town. There are a lot of incentives being offered too, from free rides to goodie bags to special discounts at business “recharging stations.”
We’ve joined the event and bicycled to a greenhouse, hardware store, and “Captain Sundae.” It felt good. How about you? This week can you let the car stay in the garage for one of your trips to work or to run an errand? It will make you feel good, too.
Sunday, May 13, 2012
In Memoriam
My mother grew up in Litchfield, in southern Illinois, the second of five children. She was a child of the depression, and, like others of that generation, it forever colored her life.
Her father, James, started working in the coal mines at age 14, served in WWI, and believed in the tenets of the unions. My mother thought he should have worried a little bit more about putting food on the table.
Her mother, Ruth, worked at the Brown Shoe Factory, did beautiful handwork, and loved to garden so much that she had to “cook on the high burner” to have dinner on the table in time to suit her husband.
Part of what Tom Brokaw called “The Greatest Generation,” my mother married her high school sweetheart, Glenn, in 1944, when my dad was home on leave from the Army. After the war, they moved to Champaign so that he could attend the University on the GI Bill. They were married for 62 years, and my dad said, “That wasn’t long enough.”
I was just two when they built their own home, relying on the help of family and friends. I grew up during those “Leave it to Beaver” years, but, instead of June Cleaver, my mother was “Ethyl” to her friend Jane’s “Lucy.” Only once did they ever have a real falling out. They did not speak for perhaps two hours, before “Lucy” came to our door bearing a broomstick with a white flag attached.
But we all know that real life was much more complicated than that depicted in the sit-coms on television. My mother suffered for decades with near debilitating agoraphobia. However that never affected her ability to provide a home rich in love for my dad and I and all her extended family. She never ceased trying to conquer the disease and finally did after many decades with the help of a newly-developed medication.
My mother was known by other names in addition to “Ethyl.” She was named “Sweetie” by Mark, her nephew, when he was quite young. The nickname stuck because it was so appropriate. She generously knitted numerous baby blankets and more than 150 Christmas stockings for family and friends. For many years, she and I made Christmas cookies by the thousands, something the neighbors especially anticipated. But most of all, my mother was generous with hugs and kisses, whether welcomed or not!
My dad often called my mother “Patty Perfect,” as she strove to do things perfectly and usually succeeded. Quite an accomplishment for a mere mortal. Only recently did I realize that when something unexpectedly went wrong, my mother was quick to assign blame to someone else. My dad and I were easy targets.
A “Disciple of Christ.” That was another of my mother’s names. As a child she walked with her family to church every Sunday and upon the move to Champaign, she and my dad joined the Disciples church there. She loved her church family and enjoyed being with it through worship, women’s circle, and book club. She made so many golden glow Jello salads for church-served funeral dinners, that every Easter when she made it for our family, she just told us she was serving “funeral salad.”
Yes, she was known by many names: daughter, sister, beloved wife, mother. But, best of all, she has always and will forever be a child of God. She is at peace. She is home. All is well.
Her father, James, started working in the coal mines at age 14, served in WWI, and believed in the tenets of the unions. My mother thought he should have worried a little bit more about putting food on the table.
Her mother, Ruth, worked at the Brown Shoe Factory, did beautiful handwork, and loved to garden so much that she had to “cook on the high burner” to have dinner on the table in time to suit her husband.
Part of what Tom Brokaw called “The Greatest Generation,” my mother married her high school sweetheart, Glenn, in 1944, when my dad was home on leave from the Army. After the war, they moved to Champaign so that he could attend the University on the GI Bill. They were married for 62 years, and my dad said, “That wasn’t long enough.”
I was just two when they built their own home, relying on the help of family and friends. I grew up during those “Leave it to Beaver” years, but, instead of June Cleaver, my mother was “Ethyl” to her friend Jane’s “Lucy.” Only once did they ever have a real falling out. They did not speak for perhaps two hours, before “Lucy” came to our door bearing a broomstick with a white flag attached.
But we all know that real life was much more complicated than that depicted in the sit-coms on television. My mother suffered for decades with near debilitating agoraphobia. However that never affected her ability to provide a home rich in love for my dad and I and all her extended family. She never ceased trying to conquer the disease and finally did after many decades with the help of a newly-developed medication.
My mother was known by other names in addition to “Ethyl.” She was named “Sweetie” by Mark, her nephew, when he was quite young. The nickname stuck because it was so appropriate. She generously knitted numerous baby blankets and more than 150 Christmas stockings for family and friends. For many years, she and I made Christmas cookies by the thousands, something the neighbors especially anticipated. But most of all, my mother was generous with hugs and kisses, whether welcomed or not!
My dad often called my mother “Patty Perfect,” as she strove to do things perfectly and usually succeeded. Quite an accomplishment for a mere mortal. Only recently did I realize that when something unexpectedly went wrong, my mother was quick to assign blame to someone else. My dad and I were easy targets.
A “Disciple of Christ.” That was another of my mother’s names. As a child she walked with her family to church every Sunday and upon the move to Champaign, she and my dad joined the Disciples church there. She loved her church family and enjoyed being with it through worship, women’s circle, and book club. She made so many golden glow Jello salads for church-served funeral dinners, that every Easter when she made it for our family, she just told us she was serving “funeral salad.”
Yes, she was known by many names: daughter, sister, beloved wife, mother. But, best of all, she has always and will forever be a child of God. She is at peace. She is home. All is well.
Thursday, May 10, 2012
A Real "Tulip Fest"
Bob and I were in the Netherlands for the tulip bloom several years ago, and it was truly indescribable. Look at these photos:
Keukenhof, known as the Garden of Europe, is the one of the best places to view the abundance of spring flowers in the South Holland region of the Netherlands ..
Amsterdam's flower market, the Bloemenmarkt, reflects the country's passion for cut flowers and plants.
Around seven million bulbs are planted each year in the park at Keukenhof, in an area of 32 hectares.
(Hectare equvalent to 2.471 acres x 32 = 79.1 acres)
The Bloemenmarkt - set on the capital's Singel canal and said to be the world's only floating flower market - has a score of stalls where you can buy all sorts of plants, flowers, bulbs and seeds.
The mild climate of Holland, with its wet springs, makes it an ideal place for bulb cultivation.
Tulips originated in the east and were brought to Holland from the Ottoman Empire in the mid 1500s.
In springtime, the lowland area by the North Sea is carpeted with fields of gladioli, hyacinths, lilies, daffodils, crocuses... and, of course, tulips.
Keukenhof - literally 'kitchen garden' - is part of the hunting grounds of the ancient Teylingen estate.
This year, the theme for the Keukenhof exhibition is Germany : Land of Poets and Philosophers.
The patchwork quilt of colours in the Keukenhof park, just outside Lisse in South Holland , is a veritable feast for the eyes.
The bulbs of Keukenhof are re-planted each year according to the current trends and in collaboration with a number of gardening magazines.
Spring in Keukenhof is one of the main tourist attractions of the Netherlands .
The best way to appreciate the full glory of the Dutch spring is to hire a bike and cycle one of the tourist routes among the bulb fields.
Keukenhof, known as the Garden of Europe, is the one of the best places to view the abundance of spring flowers in the South Holland region of the Netherlands ..
Amsterdam's flower market, the Bloemenmarkt, reflects the country's passion for cut flowers and plants.
Around seven million bulbs are planted each year in the park at Keukenhof, in an area of 32 hectares.
(Hectare equvalent to 2.471 acres x 32 = 79.1 acres)
The Bloemenmarkt - set on the capital's Singel canal and said to be the world's only floating flower market - has a score of stalls where you can buy all sorts of plants, flowers, bulbs and seeds.
The mild climate of Holland, with its wet springs, makes it an ideal place for bulb cultivation.
Tulips originated in the east and were brought to Holland from the Ottoman Empire in the mid 1500s.
In springtime, the lowland area by the North Sea is carpeted with fields of gladioli, hyacinths, lilies, daffodils, crocuses... and, of course, tulips.
Keukenhof - literally 'kitchen garden' - is part of the hunting grounds of the ancient Teylingen estate.
This year, the theme for the Keukenhof exhibition is Germany : Land of Poets and Philosophers.
The patchwork quilt of colours in the Keukenhof park, just outside Lisse in South Holland , is a veritable feast for the eyes.
The bulbs of Keukenhof are re-planted each year according to the current trends and in collaboration with a number of gardening magazines.
Spring in Keukenhof is one of the main tourist attractions of the Netherlands .
The best way to appreciate the full glory of the Dutch spring is to hire a bike and cycle one of the tourist routes among the bulb fields.
Tuesday, May 8, 2012
"Tulip Time" without Tulips
Two weeks too late. Yes, Holland, Michigan’s “Tulip Time,” May 5-12, has turned into a “Stem Fest.” The very warm weather of March and April encouraged the bulbs to bloom the end of April, and all that remains are some misshapen spent flowers and lots of stems.
“Tulip Time” is the largest tulip festival in the United States and celebrates Dutch heritage and culture. The city plants one-half million bulbs in parks and along streets, while Veldheer gardens, a tulip farm, grows 5 million tulips, 50,000 daffodils, 10,000 hyacinths, and 20,000 crocus. I’m sure it was all very pretty…earlier… but it’s a disappointment for the main draw to be a no show.
There are parades, street cleaning, Dutch dancing, an art show, carnival and other events throughout the festival, but, oh, how I miss the star - tulips of every color and shape - parrot, fringed, triumph, Darwin, lily, peony, and even some that are fragrant! Oh well, better luck next year.
Saturday, April 28, 2012
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)