Autumn from Back Where

This a maple tree outside Mom's kitchen window.

 Back in the Midwest, it was as if my world took a deep breath and said, "Finally." Then overnight my life would be surrounded by gold and red.  But now, my world is a desert in southern California and rich color exists in another place.

It makes me hunger for and a little bit jealous of “back where” there is such a thing as autumn.

Instead, we have wildfire season in California and the fall colors don’t exist, except for a few odd trees. What I do have are photos I took in late October 2009 on a walk with my brother, Don.  The photos taken were put into an album to give as a Christmas present for my mother who was in fading and failing health.

These are memories of Autumn and a small town, in 2009:

Tracks will go on for miles and miles, connecting

with other tracks.

An old house next to the bank

Mom's neighbor.  Mom could tell me who they are, who there parents were...

Small rental apartments next to the train track.  This

used to be a veterinarian office when I was young. 

A house near the local funeral home

After my father retired from farming, he visited with other farmers at the John Deere

store every day.  Sometimes he drove to another John Deere store to pick

up parts.  Now they are ordered and delivered through computer 

magic.

The Methodist Church from mid 1800s.  Young couples 

would meet on benches (out of sight) and talk/kiss.

This log house was saved and then moved to this site.  It dates back to 1820 

and across from Stark Nursery, where the first Delicious apples were

created by someone who brought up a "scion" from Kentucky which

was grafted and cross-pollinated.

This house was restored and is now occupied by some very hard working 

people whom my mom knew.  Yes, she could cite their lineage. We

stopped and peeked in the windows while it was still

under construction.  Mom had no shame, and was friendly with everyone, who 

also knew her own lineage.

This is a cornfield after harvest. Soon Canadian
geese will fly in to grab up corn kernels.
Deer will also be foraging.

Somewhere this road will come to an end.

These are Autumn memories from a past shared by my late Mom, brother Don, and me in 2009. My eyes ache to see the leaves and this part of my family, those whom I love.

A repost from 2014

They fly so fast, Grammy!

A three-year old boy can seldom be depended upon to be still and quiet. He can seldom wait until something will happen, but my grandson Thomas will watch carefully while life buzzes around him. He examines, analyzes, and finds it.

My "girls" (gr-daughters) were eleven and nine at the time, and he thought they were his, that they belonged to him. Between them, they filled our house with joy.

In 2015, my little man walked with me to meet a friend across the street from our house. He and his parental units were visiting from England, so we raced about from ocean to museums to playground to...

But, this day Thomas was mine to enjoy. And that was what we found across the street: amazement.

She wasn't home, but her hummingbirds were. Thomas squatted down quietly like a statue, wordless and eyes wide open. They were there, in their bold flight. Thomas held his hands folded in his lap, watching intently. And I watched him.

We didn't go back, why I don't know. Thomas wanted to see my friend who was gone for a few days. But the hummingbirds were there and we didn't go to see them.

Instead, Thomas ran and played with his cousins. They laughed, threw stuff, read books. I laughed, but I didn't throw stuff.

I watched them, my "girls" and my "little man". Good times.

For the next few postings, we will be heading back to the Cow Chipping Country to visit my brother. Please leave a comment, simply because I like to hear your thoughts. 

The Shivaree

14th century Charivari

The wedding was all that Brenda hoped for and that her new husband Hal was relieved was over. All the planning that Brenda had spent doing was over in ten minutes. Walking down the wooden plank aisle to the pulpit, being surrounded by his and her families, was painless but embarrassing.

And then there was the reception at Aunt Betty's house where the church ladies brought the best potluck any country community could have produced.

But Hal? Forget the wedding cake made by his mother. Forget the beef pot roast Aunt Betty made. Get me outta here. 

When nightfall neared, Hal experienced an eagerness for this night with his new bride. For two months, Hal had dreamed of this night, when clothes came off, when he leaped into the bed with voluptuous Brenda. Oh boy Oh boy Oh boy.

Lights flickered off and darkness fell. Step one, step two, and then--oh boy--step three.

Step three was about to start until outside every window, the worst racket exploded.

Entire farming community was there, beating pots and pans with utensils. Every child raced around the house yelling and screaming as only children can do. It was a hell of a racket that could not ignore.

Barely pulling on clothes before the invasion, Brenda was bright red and Hal was as furious as any new groom could be when step three was about to commence. Then all his farmer friends and wives burst through the kitchen door, carrying leftovers from the reception. 

When the newly wedded couple emerged from their rumpled bed, cheers went up. Men clapped Hal on the back saying vulgar obscenities. The women embraced Brenda and giggled, whispering unknown words.

When the laughing farming community left after a few hours, newlyweds dropped into their wedding bed. Looking fondly at each other, both agreed that tomorrow morning would be better for step three.

*****

When I was an innocent ten year old, I was part of the screaming children group while my parents carried pots and pans. 

Here is a telling from a man earlier in the 1900s telling how the old shivarees were done:

Time for a shivaree

From early 1900s, one Kansan recalls when he married, he was "shivareed good":

"Those shivaree clowns and their wives busted right into our house and dragged us out by force. I fought, but it was no use.

They set my young bride in a wheelbarrow that hadn't been greased for years. And they made me push her in the wheelbarrow down our main street to a beer palace. It seemed like miles.

They forced me, and I mean forced, to treat all that crowd to beer and salami and rye bread and to cigars and candy and so on, in fact to about everything eatable and drinkable in the joint.

Then they put my bride back in the wheelbarrow and made me push her home again..." 

Oh, those good old days. 

Ever been part of a shivaree?  Give details.

W.W.--It's a rough life--but someone has to live it.

Wallowing in self-pity

I am tired of wallowing in a life that swirls  around on a figurative spindle with no results.

I am tired of smelling smoke of bratwurst wafting from that neighbor just below my apartment.

I am tired of blaring music from another neighbor above me from Trinidad.

I am tired of big boob blonde neighbor across the hall, who parades around in new purchases from Victoria's Secret, 
down around the courtyard. (Actually, I don't mind that part at all, being a red-blooded American male.)

I am tired of that toothless, knobby knees codger on first floor apartment 
ogling the blonde as she struts around applying sunscreen.

Dammit, I am just plain tired of it all.  In fact, I may move out of Mom's apartment when graduation comes (after five years of studying ancient Sumerian history) 
and get a job as a shelf stacker at Barnes and Noble.

The underlined words are Wednesday Words, 
a meme began by Delores from Under the Porchlight who wanted to challenge bloggers to enjoy a break from their chosen genre.

Fighting computer frustrations, Delores handed this challenge off to various bloggers.  This month's words are provided by Mark Koopmans, with Elephant's Child posting the word lists.

If you would enjoy a change of pace, visit E.C. site to collect the words!  If you plan to post at your own comment section, please let us all know, so we can hunt you down.  Or you can write your poem, prose, short story, whatever, posting it in the comment section in E.C. comment section!

Hidden from sight

Wet clothing pinned and clipped on lines
Towels and pants on one high end,
Sheets and shirts other end of twines,
Hanging down low as centers bend.

But, in the middle, too shy to publicly fly,

Hangs the underwear, bleached and white.

Playing hide and seek from those near-by,

Wanting oh-so-badly to take flight.

Oh, for a strong wind to play,
Coming across and sweeping away
The blues, the whites, and the gray,
Onto tractor windows, passing this day.

Bras, panties with hearts, boxers brave

Landing square on a farmer's face,

No dignity there is left to save,

Underwear at last has found a place.

I have had much experience with laundry on the line, years and years of it.  

I wrote this poem with a head full of memories and my mother's commands to hang the underwear in the middle of the second line, out of sight.  "We don't want neighbors to see what we wear." 

 Neighbors?  The nearest lived one half  a mile away.  The lines were behind the house.  But I was obedient. 

If anyone wants to sing the praises of laundry drying on clothesline, go ahead. I will not be agreeing with you. Too many memories of laundry basket after each other has left me with a desire to never dry clothes out blowing in the wind. Sorry.