“Mom, have you seen my heart?” my daughter asked as she rounded the corner to go search in the kitchen. “The last time I saw it it was on your bed.” I replied. “Oh, that’s right!” she yelled as she went running into her room. My Heart My heart just happens to be a little, red, fabric heart with frayed edges that was once filled with lavender blossoms – a sachet. Seven years ago, my husband bought me a delectable box of hazelnut chocolates from France for our sixth anniversary. When the package arrived, the ornate box of chocolates came with a bright red sachet attached to the top. The fabric was thick – maybe a denim or a canvas – and the French lavender flowers that were inside the sachet perfumed the air as soon as I opened the box – a nice surprise. I remember savoring those chocolates. I’d eat a piece of the creamy hazelnut treat once per day – letting them melt in my mouth. Sharing was very limited. I know my husband had a few pieces, but the kids (who were one and two-yrs. old at the time) shared only one piece. The chocolates didn’t last long, but I kept the sachet in a drawer for years, until my daughter started to sleep with it at age five. My daughter was going through a phase of being afraid of going to bed. “What happens if a tornado comes during the night?” “What happens if our house starts on fire?” “What happens if a robber comes to our house?” My daughter would think up every bad situation, and worry herself sick, which prevented her from going to sleep at a regular hour. My husband and I were getting very tired staying up late, and we were running out of ideas on how to help her through this phase of unrest, until I remembered the red heart. The Lavender Sachet One night when my daughter came to our room, unable to sleep again, I went to my drawer, pulled out the heart, and sat down with my daughter. “Smell it!” I instructed her. “Mmmm… that smells good.” she replied as she exhaled after taking in the still-sweet scent of the lavender sachet. My daughter sat quietly as I told her the story of how I acquired the heart. “Would you like to bring this heart with you to bed?” I asked. “It will help remind you that my heart is with you always.” I offered my daughter. She and I walked back to her room, my daughter snuggled into her covers, and put the sachet up to her nose to smell the sweet, calming lavender. It’s been years now, and my daughter still sleeps with my heart. The bright red heart is a little more muted, the edges are a little more frayed, and a hole in one of the seams allowed all of the lavender to fall out. She still has bad nights of sleep here and there, but when she does, you can bet you’ll find the red heart with her. The Boutique Just recently, my parents found out that they will be running a small boutique on their farm come May of 2019. I asked my daughter if she would like to make hearts, and sell them at the boutique. “Yes!” she said. “I can make hearts for other kids that have a hard time sleeping.” Last weekend, my mother dropped off some of my grandmother’s old thread and some red felt that my mom had found at a thrift store. I ordered two pounds of fresh lavender blooms from France, and a small bag of polyester fill. First on my to-do list was to hand-wash my daughter’s old heart, stuff the sachet with a little bit of fill and lots of lavender, and stitch up the hole. My heart is now clean, and smelling sweetly of lavender once again. We have spent the last few days cutting out hearts, stitching them up using the simple, but showy blanket stitch, and then filling them with sweet lavender. We have many more my hearts to make before the boutique in the spring, but our hearts are in it – we’ve been enjoying ourselves. Love My heart began with the celebration of love – a wedding anniversary, and will hopefully continue on for years – bringing love and comfort to others. My Heart – the perfect project for this Valentine’s season. Happy Valentine’s Day to you! I hope you have love surrounding you, even if it is just a small, red, heart to remind you.
Love
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Grandpa: A Surprise Watercolor Painting
Last November we lost a special man in our lives. My husband’s grandfather, Norm, passed away just shy of his 91st birthday. It was a hard time as Norm has been a staple in our lives since I met my husband (23 year ago). But, for my husband, he has had a special relationship with his grandfather for as long as he could remember. Before I tell you about my new painting, “Grandpa”, let me give you a little background on Norm: Tickled Pink Tickled pink – the first time I heard this phrase was when Norm was voicing his pleasure after learning about my engagement to his grandson. At first, I thought the phrase funny, but it evoked feelings of happiness, warmth, and acceptance. I can still see the light in Norm’s eyes, the rose in his cheeks, and his wide-mouthed grin when he exclaimed “I’m just tickled pink that you will be my grandson’s wife.” In the years to come, I heard this phrase repeated often – after my husband and I were married, when Norm learned I was pregnant for the first time, and when my son was born and would be carrying on the family name. Goodness, was Norm excited about this. But, it wasn’t just with our family happenings that I heard this phrase, whenever Norm learned of any other positive happenings; not just with his family but with friends too, he’d let the phrase fly. Norm cared. My husband and I met when we were just 15-years old through our love for the game of soccer – hence, I met Norm. I had never met another grandparent who was so involved with their grandchild’s sport. Norm was at each and every game, cheering loudly from the sideline. I soon learned that his support for his grandson reached much further than sports; it was woven throughout his life. Norm visited with the family every weekend, celebrated every holiday with the family, and attended every special occasion. He was a grandparent who lived for being with his family. Within a few years of meeting my husband, Norm started giving me birthday cards, Christmas cards, and notes that were addressed to his “granddaughter”. He extended the love and support he had for his family to me. He treated me like his own granddaughter. As the years passed, my husband and I continued to spend a lot of time with Norm. In college, I cleaned his townhome for him every week, which led to deep conversations out on his porch after I was done cleaning. We spent hours talking on the porch swing while sipping on soda. After my husband and I married, we had Norm over for dinner often, and he even joined us for weekends up North. Once our children were born, Norm turned into the best great-grandpa. He never missed a birthday party, baptism, or any other special event we had for our children. He also attended many of their soccer games – sitting on the sideline, cheering on the kids, just has he had done for my husband for years. Norm had definitely been our family’s #1 fan. For the past year, Norm had numerous health issues, and I was fortunate to witness something special – my husband stepped up and supported his grandfather in many different ways, just as his grandfather had done for him for so many years. The love had come full-circle. The Painting Just after Thanksgiving, Norm passed away. My husband and his family went back and forth, cleaning out Norm’s place. My in-laws stopped over one day to bring us a bag with a few of Norm’s belongings. In that bag was a photo I had taken 12 years ago. The photo was of my husband and Norm fishing on the old pontoon at my family’s cabin – I knew I had to paint this scene for my husband. Norm had kept this photo framed in his house. For weeks I hid the painting of the photo from my husband. I’d work on it while he was at work, while he was at his indoor soccer games, and while he went out ice fishing (he later revealed that he wondered why I was suggesting he go ice fishing so often). After my husband’s soccer game last week (yes, he still plays year-round), I revealed the painting “Grandpa” to him. He’s not the emotional type, so there was no crying, or “oohing” or “aahing”. Instead he stared at the painting, and continued to stare at it throughout the evening. He thanked me multiple times, and said it was “great”. He was thankful. “Grandpa” will be hung in the office among the fishing decor and soccer trophies – just as grandpa Norm would have wanted. In fact, I’m certain he would be tickled pink.
Accomplishment, Cooperation, and Love: A Day of Working Together
My family arrived at Westfalcon Farm just after noon – the sun was shining, a slight breeze was blowing across the open fields, but not hard enough to turn Mr. Squeaky (the 103-yr. old windmill that my children named), and temperatures were holding steady at 70F. The day had come – 2,000 three-year old Christmas trees had arrived, bare root, and ready to plant. We all slipped into our work boots, grabbed our water bottles, and headed for the trail that would lead us to the old hay field. Long grasses, sumac, birch trees, and white pines lined the foot path that had been recently mowed by my father in anticipation of the arrival of his helpers. The kids ran ahead with the dogs after hearing the distant hum of the tractor. I heard my mother exclaim “Well, look who’s here! How are you?” as we entered the clearing to the field. The kids replied “Hi, Grandma! We’re good.” and the dogs started whimpering with excitement as they love seeing Grandma and Grandpa. “Boy am I glad you all are here.” my mom said as we neared the table where my mother and aunt were working diligently at trimming long tree roots, and dipping them in root gel. “Where do you want us? We’re ready to work!” I greeted them with a smile. Truth is, I had been looking forward to this day for the past month. I want, more than anything, to be a part of starting this Christmas tree business on the farm that my ancestors homesteaded in the late 1800’s. From the time I was a little girl, I have dreamed of living in the country – working hard on a farm. Thanks to my parents, I get a little taste of that. “We really need stompers.” my mother said. I looked out over the dusty field and saw my grandfather on top of the ’62 Massey-Ferguson tractor, waiting for my father. My father had been riding on the mechanical Christmas tree planter behind the tractor planting trees, but had stopped to help my uncle straighten the trees that had been planted, and stomp the ground around them in order to secure the roots. “You got it.” I said. Our family ran out to the old red tractor and began stomping. With additional stompers we were able to keep up with the tractor and the mechanical transplanter as my father plopped the young trees into the holes that the machine was opening up in the earth. Seeing the ease with which trees could be planted astounded me. A whole row could be planted as quickly as just a few trees planted by hand. As I tended to the trees, I had time to think about my great-grandfather and his family farming this very land. In one of my great-grandfather’s memoirs, he reflected on working on the farm and wrote: We children were very active as we planted all the potatoes. We would take a one-row walking cultivator and one horse and walk behind that for weeks. I started plowing on a 25 acre field using a Janesville walking plow. I was rather short and the plow handles would knock me over when I hit a rock – being just 12-years old. I would sit down on the edge of the furrow and cry. Soon I had mastered the job and loved to plow, although walking all day behind one would tire even a kid. When cultivating season was over and the last hilling done, we would walk up and down the rows of potatoes pulling the weeds that had escaped the cultivator. Usually we planted 25 acres, but the year of 1914, we planted 42 acres. We kids picked all the potatoes and it was a heavy crop. At harvest time, we dug about 22 acres with our Hoover Digger, and 20 acres we dug with a fork. I can’t imagine the awe my great-grandfather must have experienced as he transitioned from the hard manual labor of the early 1900’s to owning his first John Deere tractor in 1950. There is one entry in his memoirs where he mentions this exact thing: I think as I look back that the lives that had the fate to be lived during this period 1900 to 1974 have been blessed with the richest experiences of any lives. Because in this time, we have seen the first automobile, the first phonographs, and the first airplanes. In other words, all major improvements have come within these years. After half of the field was planted, my mother drove back to the house to prepare lunch for the planting crew. By this time, my brother and his wife arrived to help with the trees too. Within a half an hour, my mother had returned with a potato bake, fresh fruit, coffee cake, and more. The adults sat on chairs surrounding a large wagon, and the kids climbed right on top of the wagon and sat right next to the food. “Mom, I love that you brought the food out to the field – thank you!” I remarked. “Oh you’re welcome! That’s how they used to do it back then.” She responded. “Serving the food on the side of the field makes sense. It would take a lot longer to get the crew to the house, have them eat, and then come back out. This saves a lot of time.” I commented. Everyone finished eating in no time, but grandpa had taken off somewhere, so I turned to my dad and asked him “Do you trust me to drive the tractor, Dad?” “Absolutely!” he responded. After a quick lesson, I was the one behind the big black wheel. The Massey-Ferguson jolted a couple of times as I eased off of the clutch a little too quick the first time. I looked back, crinkling up my nose, and yelled “Sorry, Dad!” He smiled and gave me a thumbs up as he braced himself on the
“Home”: Watercolor Wednesday
Spending a week or two at my great-aunt and uncle’s farm every summer is one of my fondest memories. Waking up each morning to the sun shining in the upstairs farmhouse window, playing in the open fields, caring for the horses and ponies, and enjoying delicious homemade food made it a little girl’s dream, but the best was just being around my great-aunt and uncle. Both were happy, loving, and gentle people – the kind that everyone liked to be around. But, this post is dedicated to my great-uncle. The man you see below with that fantastic smile – a smile he wore often. My great-uncle was the one responsible for igniting my horse passion. He taught me how to care for his horses and ponies – feeding, brushing, and spraying the coat to repel flies. He also taught me how to saddle up Danny (the pony I learned to ride on), adjust the stirrups, and control the reigns. It takes a patient kind of pony to let a learning child take control. From the awkward first saddle tightening to letting me braid his mane into several dozen braids (tying each of them with red ribbon) – Danny was just as patient as my great-uncle. My great-uncle sure loved his horses and ponies, but he also loved his tractors. At about the same time my great-uncle trusted me to take Danny for a ride on my own, my great-uncle talked me into driving his tractor for the first time. I remember the gentle, yet thorough, explanation of how to work the tractor. I also remember his giant belly laugh as I lurched the tractor forward in a not-so-smooth manner. My eyes must have been the size of saucers. My great-uncle urged me to go faster – so I did. He laughed the entire time I was on that tractor. Not ceasing until I parked it back in front of him – relieved, but safe. A few years ago, I was up visiting my great-aunt and uncle, and my great-uncle was proud to show me his tractor that he had restored so perfectly. The 1950 Ferguson TO-30’s gray paint was flawless, and its low rumble continued without a hitch. He even had a small replica of the exact tractor wrapped up in a small blanket and placed safely into a small compartment under the hood – that smile of my great-uncle’s never faltered. That was one of the last times I would see him. My great-uncle passed away this past winter, but he wasn’t alone. Just two days before he passed, Danny, his pony, passed away too. I believe God had a hand in that one. I picture them both in the country – my great-uncle on his tractor and Danny in a field of long grass. After attending my great-uncle’s funeral, and learning of Danny’s passing, I felt the need to paint a picture for my great-aunt – one that I hope will make her smile for years to come. Here is my great-uncle and Danny at “Home”:
Happy Birthday, Mom: Thank You for Being You
Since beginning my writing journey, I’ve wanted to write about two important people in my life – my parents. Today is my mom’s birthday, so what better time to tell you about this special woman. Mom, thank you for being you – this post is for you! Last evening my family had my parents over for a birthday dinner for Mom. We served homemade lasagna, breadsticks, and spinach salad followed by ice cream with warm peanut butter cookies for dessert. Great conversation ensued, games were played, and laughter was common throughout the night. The kids had Grandma and Grandpa sit through five different Coyote Peterson (wildlife educator) episodes, which spurred conversation about different insects, and lots of cringing as we watched Mr. Peterson purposely get stung – one insect after another. The bullet ant sting (the most potent sting in the insect kingdom) was the final episode we watched, and let’s just say we hope we never experience that sting. Our night encompassed much of what makes Mom so special – laughter, fun, homemade food, outdoor adventures, learning, and a love of family. Growing up, I had a wonderful childhood, and Mom was very involved. She coached my soccer team for years, joined my school’s PTA, volunteered to chaperone my field trips, lead my Girl Scout troops, volunteered as an artist-in-residence (through the Minneapolis Institute of Arts) where she would teach art lessons to classes in my school – my favorite part of elementary school, and she volunteered during many of our youth church activities. I remember being excited to have Mom with me – wherever I was. All of these activities were very special, but one of the most meaningful and memorable acts was her choice to stay home with us when we were little. Mom went to college at the University of Minnesota and got a nursing job right out of college. She took an extended leave once I was born so that she could stay home and raise me, and later, my two younger brothers. Once my brothers and I were in school, Mom chose to go back to nursing, but only part-time. My parents worked it out so either my mother or father was home for us at all times. I remember home-cooked meals in the evenings (Mom’s wild rice soup was my favorite), and warm after-school snacks – oatmeal muffins were the best. Mom made all of our Halloween costumes, often dressing up along with us. One of my favorite memories is Mom playing the piano at Christmas while we sang songs by her side. What Child Is This has always been her favorite Christmas song. Our summers were filled with swimming at the many beaches on White Bear Lake, trips to the library, weekends at the family cabin, and the occasional camping trip. As I grew, Mom was not just my mom anymore, she transitioned into a friend. We picked up the habit of taking one or two long, brisk walks every day. To this day, we still take walks together when we visit each other. These walks are, and always have been, filled with deep conversation, catching up on the day’s events, and our way of staying healthy – physically and mentally. While I was in high school, we started enjoying girl’s weekends when the boys were away hunting or fishing. Whether we were hiking the North Shore of Lake Superior, visiting my grandparents in Texas, gazing over the Fourviere district in Lyon, France, exploring the canyons in New Mexico, snowshoeing in seven feet of snow in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, or horseback riding in the Absaroka mountains in Montana, special memories were made and our relationship grew stronger. Some weekends we chose to stay home where shopping, dinner out, a game of Canasta, and popcorn and a movie on the couch were just what we needed. “Now and Then” was always our go-to movie. I can’t wait until my own daughter is a little older so my mom and I can introduce her to this classic film. Marrying my high-school sweetheart was best described as bittersweet. I was more than excited to marry my love, but I was sad and a little nervous to move out of my parent’s house for good. A sure sign of a wonderful childhood, right? Both of my parents walked me down the aisle, and I couldn’t stop the tears from falling. The emotions I felt when I saw my future-husband waiting for me at the end of the aisle, and the love and support I felt from my parents as they linked their arms with mine, was overwhelming. I was celebrating and mourning the changes that were taking place – all at once. Life did change, but the relationship with my mother continued to grow and get stronger. My mother now works alongside of me as I run a small gardening business. Throughout the growing months, we spend hours each week working in gardens, talking, and creating together. On the days that we don’t see each other, we talk on the phone – sometimes twice per day. When we are not working, my family still spends many summer weekends with my parents at the family cabin where games, fishing, swimming, long walks in the woods, and roasting marshmallows fill our time. Four years ago, my parents bought the family farm, which changed all of our lives. After retirement, my mother became engrossed in researching her family history. During this time, she discovered that one of the homesteads still existed. Long story, short (you can read the full story here) – my parents ended up moving onto the farm, starting a tree farm, and are still unearthing family secrets as they explore their new home. This has been something my mom has loved and cherished. Consequently, this is what ultimately guided me back to writing – a long time passion of mine. I needed to tell their story. I needed to tell my family’s story. My mom