Hint of New England in autumn

Late summer yellows and browns are dotted with white and purple asters. The geraniums in their glazed blue pots are blooming furiously along with the gone-wild petunias in the kitchen garden. But word is out, autumn is landing.

I couldn't decide if I should mow the lawns once more or call it done. The quack grass is bold and in places was tall and the back lawn was sprouting with pople seedlings so the mower came out. Just past mid-day the air was warm and dry. Usually I start mowing where the grass is thickest and highest (east and north lawns) just in case the mower breaks down or I run out of gas, but today I mowed in long paths--front by the road to the back edge before the woods. I mowed slowly, no hurry to be done.

More than cutting grass, I surveyed my little landmarks. The deer have pruned up the cedars high enough now it is easier to mow under them. And the white pines, so soft to touch, have had their skirts shortened a bit. More mushroom that need to be picked and thrown away so the dogs can't get them, and a few noxious weed like burdock and stinging nettle need to go soon.

Along the edge near the back side of the garage, a blackberry bush held a beautiful cluster of late ripening shiny berries to the sun and they were a treat for me.

Near the Cocker Garden, where my beloved dogs are buried, I clumsily ran over some tiny volunteer Love-In-A-Mist flowers that fringe my Fancy's grave. Some are still there, but won't bloom anymore this year. Ami's grave is spilling over with bouquets of blue forget-me-nots and white sweet alyssum--on ground that rarely grows anything. It is Ami, my darling Ami, who brings such beauty to life.

Moving between the shade of the majestic centurion maple into the sunny grassy lawns I felt content. Serene. Life is so fragile but this moment is perfect.

I had a sense of New England spun from some memory of a book or a film--Then I remembered... Newhart! Safe. Predictable. Honest. If only make believe.
Our reality now is it is time of the harvest--what we've all worked for and now hope to store for the long winter. Life is ripe for the picking.

Pea Patch Morning

The past couple of days have been cool. Bright but with high temperatures around 60 degrees. Good weather for growing sugar snap peas--if we had a little rain to go with it.

Lawns in town are brown as they go dormant for lack of rain. Mine here are still pretty green, but then they are mostly wild flowers and weeds who might be hardier than cultivated lawn grass. I'm hauling buckets and milk jugs of water to all the flower beds every day, and have started to water the day lilies, too. I noticed their leaves rolling and some turning yellow--drought stress.

Crystal wrenched her rear leg in the run late yesterday afternoon. I'd put her outside in the run with her daughter Molly, littermate brother Freeway, and little elder Meghan to exercise. Somehow she lost her footing. She is very old and recovering from a stroke in March, and still suffers from bouts of vertigo. One rear foot dropped between the grid floor of the run and the chain link panel and sShe couldn't pull it up. She panicked and wrenched it before I could get to her. I gave her baby aspirin last night and she slept comfortably near me, but this morning she looks sore. After she eats I will give her another aspirin. She's putting weight on the foot so it likely is soft tissue bruise.

The pea patch is still blooming and as if shamed into existence, the second planting of sweet peas is pushing up a spindly few plants mixed into the morning glories that will soon create too much shade for the sweet peas. Morning glories seem more vigorous than sweet peas. Or the soil is better for them. But the weather is sure pea patch weather if only we had a little more water. The coolness is perfect and the sugar snap plants continue to bloom.

Now if only I could wait until the pea pods were more mature! Between me and the dogs they never make it into the house for that extra special stir fry.

Soon the green beans will flower and we'll snack on fresh green beans. Wild raspberries are ready and when I take Lexi for her walk we stop at the wild raspberry patch, pick a few sweet berries and share them--tart and sweet-- and then move on. Wild blackberries are fruiting, but lack of water may take that crop yet. We'll see. Those are harder to pick on a walk because of the thorns.

Summertime--at least I am not mowing lawns every fourth day!

Warriors from a Forgotten War--Korea and Dad

The Wisconsin Korean War Memorial was dedicated in 1997 in Plover. Chet Skippy, a realty developer and Korean War veteran worked hard to make it happen. On that summer day my brother, mom and dad came up for the dedication.

Dad stood apart from us, apart from everyone... on the sandy shore of the island memorial looking towards the Statues yet beyond them. He looked so vulnerable, so alone even though we all tried to reach him but none of us could.

After the ceremony with state dignitaries including David Obey who talked about the forgotten war (it wasn't even called a war until recently, but rather the Korean Conflict) we wandered in a discount tool vendor's tent on the grounds. Dad bought me a set of little clamps to use when I went to dog shows, then we went to a nearby restaurant for lunch.

I'm the toughest sonofabitch
this side of the Rio Grande.
If you think you can take me, come on, let's go.
Think you have it in you?
Think its going to be easy? ...you've another guess comin'
'cause I'll fight til I die and I'll not die easy.
I'm the toughest sonofabitch
this side of the Rio Grande.
--excerpt from "My Dad" by Bobbie Lee S. Kolehouse

Dad was tough. He had grit and stamina, but he wasn't a street brawler. He admired street brawlers. What he seemed to search for was confidence and he mistook reactionary possessiveness for it. He tried to tap it through other people. He depended on them to "have what it takes" in case he didn't. He wasn't possessive, he was introverted and spent much of his life in his head, then fogged it up with alcohol trying to escape. Thoughts made uglier from what he'd lived in Korea.

Now my dad was a farm boy and knew better than many about life and death and survival, but he didn't know about war except for the romanticized stories. His father and mother were farmers, not warriors. Quiet, stable, dependable people. He was ambitious and a bit willful. He always considered himself a bit of a rebel--but he wasn't one by nature.

He tried to enlist and was rejected because of a heart murmur, but he cleared the second time and landed in the Army. He was close to his brother Lee who was in the Merchant Marine. Lee was scrappy, and bold--different from my dad and most of his family. Dad was the youngest of eight. At home with his family he was always Bobby.

Throughout his life he grappled with and clung to his military experience. His closest friends were veterans, some highly decorated for valor and courage--all alcoholics. It was a nightmare they all shared and gloried in and fell victim to in the end. Throughout his life he'd quip, usually in an alcohol stupor, "Think you got what it takes?" He never got home again and we all miss him yet.

With planning this time we can provide resources to assure good transition programs are in place for our current military veterans returning from war. Their service doesn't have to cost them their lives, and the lives of those who love them, even if make it back safely.

All military veterans, thank you and your families for your service.

**Wallet pictured was a gift from my father to my mother's sister, Gloriann Meyn, brought back from Korea. My aunt gave it to me as a keepsake of my father.**

From the WKWM website, http://www.koreanmemorial.org/index.html

The Korean War - June 25, 1950 thru July 27, 1953

Forgotten by all but those that served.

War is truly hell and those who fought would never glorify it. Those Wisconsinites helped save a nation and then returned home, without honor or fanfare.

Wisconsin has long forgotten the 132,000 of her sons and daughters who served in the cause of freedom in the Korean War

	801 were killed in action
	4,286 were wounded
	111 were prisoners of war (54 of these died in POW camps)
	84 are still officially listed as missing in action

Amidoll--Amigurumi

The past few months have been a bit challenging and to get a grip I am knitting --and crocheting. Public television's Create channel with its Knitting and Crochet Today program, (as well as the garden programs) has helped.

If television doesn't have an influence on behavior, someone needs to rethink their studies...

So having invested heavily in fancy yarns, tools and books (and a small fortune in glass beads for one lovely project) I saw this cute little project the other night for a toy--a teacup. The craft is Japanese and is called "amigurumi". Most of these small, soft toys are distinguished with oversized heads, small arms and legs and bright eyes.

The tea cup was a free pattern and I added a saucer. It is cute but I don't think it is quite right. I captured the darling expression typical of the design, but think maybe my cup is too roly-poly cup when it should be a cylinder.

Not content with it and thinking maybe it is because I didn't use the exact yarn mentioned in the KCT pattern, I bought a new skein of Seafoam as noted on www.knitandcrochettoday.com. The artist Ana, doesn't say what yarn to use in her directions other than it be blue and worsted weight. I'll see if the second one looks more correct or if these will vary because they are sculptured a bit.

For my little blue tea cup, I made do with batting salvaged from one of my Cocker's fleecy beds. Danny, (the Ripper) loves to pluck batting out of the little roll around the edge of his beds. Because batting can kill a dog (block their intestines) I have to take it all out once he's got one open. That is what I used in my little blue tea cup-- used dog bedding. Not to worry, it is clean and to be sure it doesn't smell like dog, I dumped lavendar oil on it. Enough to choke us all, so my little blue tea cup doubles as an air freshener.

Today when I was in the yarn shop again, I bought a skein of white and a skein of Irish setter red for a new toy I want to make. A Cocker Spaniel and name it for my Ami, my beautiful red and white Cocker who died tragically on May 2. I can't write much because it hurts too bad, but she is my model for my own Amigurumi Cocker Spaniel doll. The doll's name will be Ami, for Ch. Kindred Playin' By Heart. Part of the reason I paid attention to the pattern was because of the name of the craft--I heard Ami.

When I have pictures of my new Amidoll, as well as my cute purses, lovely shawl and this awesome knitted vest pattern I bought today too, I'll share them with you. In the meantime, here is my fat, little blue tea cup--sweet expression, don't you think?

Oh, too, I'll share pictures of my strawberry pot next. It is another project I learned about on Create's Cultivating Life program.... Check it out! http://www.cultivatinglife.com/Alpine-Strawberry-Pots.html

Peepers

It never grows old, this watching the world wake up. It teems with life. And though it is always there, in spring it is as if everyone shakes off winter's wait to stretch and feel life tingle.

Songs fill the air. Cardinals, bluebirds, buntings, goldfinches, phoebes, and busy robins sing warnings of territories and mating lures. Somewhere in the still stick-bare woods a jay calls, an echo that is the spirit of wildness. As each day grows longer, warmer and moist, the maples push redbuds into the air and popples start to look like children's sponge paintings with their yellow-green shadows of new leaves.

Bulbs push through to the air, some trapped by dried maple leaves that bind them until they cannot hold them in their dry embrace. Then the bulb leaves snap the tight hold of last year's leaves. Flower heads of hyacinths, jonquils, daffodils, fill the air with scents of spring.

I arranged a group of them in a pretty blue-grey pottery vase I bought at a local gift shop. The vase is the first piece in my remake of my front room changing from the warmth of ruby, burnt orange, and browns to ocean blues, sunshine yellows, sandy tans and sage green to freshen this farmhouse for the new year.

The vase sits on my desk holding four fresh daffodils and one blue-violet hyacinth. Next to it is a charming egg jar decorated with drawings by Beatrix Potter. The lid is the top of the egg and has the little rabbit with his blue coat as the handle--Peter Rabbit. It was a birthday gift from my mom and was filled with the most exquisite floral arrangement of carnations, mums, freesia, a blue spiked flower I don't know the name of, and flat waxy leaves. It was breath-taking with flowers, and is beautiful as a jardiniere.

Twilight closes in. Earlier I opened all the doors and the kitchen window so a gentle breeze filled the house. The kitchen window is still open and sounds of peepers are loud as they pick up where the birds left off.

Spring.

Celebration of Hope and Faith

When people talk about holiday celebrations, their most memorable stories are usually about making-do. Maybe because less-than stories are easier to tell, are not so threatening than stories about plenty.

Maybe we feel less guilty telling the making-do stories but Christmas memories are as different as the people who remember them and the most treasured are often those threaded with sharing, the capacity to give, and renewed hope.

There were six children in my family, a large working class family. My father had a small glass and paint sales business and our lives rattled up and down with the economy. Usually Christmas meant oodles of brightly colored paper wrapped gifts tied with curling ribbon mounded around our tree. Never mind that most of them were socks or underwear, we knew there was the one special one buried there with our name on the tag signed, “From Santa”.

But then there were less happy times, when our Christmas toys came from charity organizations. One year a group of used toys almost didn’t make it to our house, but were delivered to my aunt’s house Christmas Eve where my mom wrapped them and then carried them home for us the next morning. Another year there were boxes of nameless foods delivered to our house where logs of processed cheese were stashed among canned vegetables and a frozen turkey. And then there was the year we received one present each, but we did get that one.

These are sad, futile memories. Not because there we didn’t get many toys, but because my parents’ struggle left them emotionally empty. No tree, no gifts, no gentle snowfall could mask the defeat in their hearts, but they put one foot in front of the other. Despair pushed aside.

When I was five there were only two children in my family, me and my brother. Christmas was young and joyous. We stenciled our big picture windows with elaborate scenes using Glaswax, a kind of pinkish wax for windows, coached by our mom. Sometimes she’d use poster paints with the window as her canvas and Santa would sail across a starry sky with the little family nestled below.

Christmas was golden. Tiny Tears dolls, Barbie, Tonka trucks, coloring books with a new box of 64 count Crayola crayons, not an off brand, were under our sparkly tree for me.

Cookie bake days at my aunt’s farm usually ended with us throwing up all the raw dough we’d snitched. Mom and Aunt Dynie helped us make snowy Christmas trees out of cardboard thread spools from the local sock factory. She'd whip up Ivory Flakes soap into a frothy mix that dried hard on the cones. We dusted them with glitter and topped each with a tiny glass ball. We made net trees, and plastic dry cleaner bag wreaths, and decorated them with small colored glass balls and we'd give them to our aunts and uncles on special holiday visits.

Times and fortunes change with some years more plentiful than others, but most haunted by sadness. Disappointing not because they lacked for gifts, or because they didn’t look like the scenes in department stores or stories on television, but because they were spiritless.

This year department stores look a bit like those used toys from so long ago, a little plain and hollow-- without soul, even a cold commercial one.

Still, days will grow long and spring rains will bring growth and plenty. Goodness and compassion twinkle at the edges if we look for them. “Kindness matters,” it really does, and this season we celebrate our gifts, our chance to be, and our potential for genuine contribution to this world in ways that will give us all sustainable peace though shared purpose and unity.

Happiest of holiday seasons to you and yours.

Poppy People

My father stood at the water's edge to watch the memorial dedication to Korean war veterans. A local war veteran and businessman had rallied community support to create the small, isthamus monument, and my dad had come up from down state to see it dedicated.

Standing there in the fading autumn light, years of sadness seemed to flood over him. Losses too deep, could not be erased by bronze, rock and official speeches.

My dad was a gentle man who grew up on a farm in the 30's and 40's and wanted to be like his older brother he admired. So he enlisted in the Army. He spent 18 months on the ground in Korea, seeing things no sane person could endure, like so many before him and after him. They called him home when his father was dying, but all the bravado faded. Time and again he'd try to collect fragments of his spirit, but he could not hold them together. No marching songs sung in the car, or drunken claims to toughness could change the broken man who tried over and over to be himself again.

In those days military veterans were not screened or treated for Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, (PTSD). They weren't treated for anything, but told to be men. Be tough. Warriors.

But they were warriors without a warrior society. Cut loose, left to find their way when the nightmares raged inside of them. Dad kept a few warriors close to him; mostly older men who served in WWII and kept ribboned medals in velvet boxes. One man died when his house burned down from an eternity candle meant for his grave. He fell into a drunken sleep mesmerized by its flame. Another died bloated with liver failure.

As he grew older, the conflict raged more fiercely inside of my father with ghosts more taunting and frightening. We thought it was some failure of character.

Only last year did I learn his behaviors are typical of veterans with PTSD; a problem that must be treated, it only grows worse left untreated. We know now that PTSD is increasingly reported in our military veterans returning from war, and it is our duty to help them through early screening and treatment. We need to save their lives, the lives of their families, and to save their communities from the loss of their unique capacity. Military service must not ask them to lose a living life too.

My gentle-spirited dad, a misplaced warrior, died of cancer the following spring. You can see the little island where the memorial is built on, from the highway. Its bronze bigger- than- life soldiers stand side by side supporting each other. Warriors in a warrior society. You were not flawed, dad, just left behind in time. We will not leave anyone behind again. Promise, dad. I promise.