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Posts in Category: Spirituality
It’s A Dad Thing
Today, I did a Dad thing. It was not just a little Dad thing, but a classic. It was one of those goofy things that you think you would never do in a million years. I was so tickled with myself afterward, I wanted to call him and say; Dad, guess what I just did! But of course, I cannot. Though I often feel him with me, and even talk to him from time to time, it is not the same. On this day though, if he could have replied, I know he would have grinned ear to ear and said; “Well now! That’s my girl!”
So what did I do? I fried my cereal. That’s right! I made little patties out of the slimy stuff, threw them into a frying pan with butter, and sprinkled them with cinnamon. When the edges were crisp, I put them onto a plate, added a little more butter, and drizzled them with raw honey. It was by far, the best thing I have eaten all week.
My father used to make something called cornmeal mush. Just the word “mush,” was enough to keep me from ever eating it. For those of you who may not know, cornmeal mush is cornmeal cooked in water or milk until it thickens. Then, it is poured into a small cake pan to harden. Once hardened, it is sliced and fried.
My father’s oil of choice was always bacon grease, but any cooking oil would do. The key, for him, was that it had to be a lot of oil. Enough, in fact, that it would, not only, generously splatter the stove top, but also, the wall behind, and the floor below. After the mush was crisp, or perhaps, when it could saturate no more oil, he would put it on a plate, add an inordinate amount butter, and smother it all in maple syrup. This left the end of the kitchen table both sticky and greasy.
My fried cereal did not resemble my father’s. None-the-less, it was inspired by him. First, it was Bob’s Red Mill Mighty Tasty Gluten Free Hot Cereal, not cornmeal. After eating it in the form it was intended, I decided “Mighty Tasty” must have come from the marketing team, and not the taste testers. Next, there was only a little butter in the frying pan. Not even enough to splatter the stove top, wall, or floor. And lastly, raw honey was used sparingly, leaving no sticky residue on the table.
How many more “Dad things” will I remember and embrace as the years pass? Too many to count, I hope. No, I doubt I will take up hunting or trapping, or master cussing as he did. But I am sure there are other softer gentler parts of him that I will rediscover. I can hardly wait!
If you enjoy the photo in this blog please consider: http://www.lakehousephoto.com/
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© Gail Howarth and Living At The Lakehouse, 2014. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Gail Howarth and Living At The Lakehouse with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.
My Mother’s Garden
On August 31, 2014 by Gail Howarth With 2 Comments
- Beauty, Death, Inspirational, Parents, Spirituality, Uncategorized
Today I raked my mother’s garden. It was not my intention to rake the entire garden, but the task was one of overwhelming and unexpected joy. In February of 2010 my mother was diagnosed with Lung Cancer, and the garden had been sadly neglected ever since. As I tended to the garden, a flood of memories came to mind. The clearest though, was that spring of 2010.
That year I bought flat after flat of blooming annuals. The colors were bold and bright, and I chose varieties that would last all summer. I wanted to provide my mother with the most stunning garden of her life. I wanted the beauty to counter the pain and discomfort of her disease. I wanted to give back something in return for all she had done for me.
As the spring progressed, mom grew tired quickly. Though I had planned the most stunning garden ever, I was only able to plant about one flat of flowers before my time needed to be spent doing other things for Mom. The garden was not beautiful. In fact, it was less than beautiful. It was not raked, and the flowers that were normally thinned were overcrowded, and, some even died. I gave away the flats of flowers and let go of the dream of giving mom the perfect garden. Mom did not seem to mind. But, I did.
Mom passed away in February of 2011. That year came and went without a thought of the garden. Then, spring of 2012 arrived and I was determined to dismantle Mom’s garden. I even promised any interested friends, co-workers, and neighbors that I would dig and deliver Mother’s beloved perennials. But I could not.
Again in 2013 I have offered flowers to friends and family. So today, I began to make Mother’s garden beautiful one last time. As I raked I thought of how much she loved this garden, and how much I did not. It is not particularly organized, nor does it follow any of the rules for creating the perfect flower garden. It is truly a hodge podge of perennials that were added as she received them, with the edges of the garden moving outward into the yard farther and farther.
I was suddenly struck by the whimsy of this haphazardly planted flower garden. Without a doubt what my mother did best was to control, organize, and manage people, places, and things. This garden with no clear boundaries had no rules, nor need to be perfect. Finally I got it! This was the one place my mother had that did not have to be perfect, as it was beautiful of its own accord, just by being. All she needed to do was to love it, tend to it a bit, and enjoy the gift of colors and scents, and the birds and butterflies that were attracted to it.
My mother’s garden is beautiful again. Three years of leaves and branches removed. Three years of blackberry bushes and small trees that threatened to take over removed. The soil relieved of its heavy burden can breathe, feel the sun, the rain, heat. and cold. And like the garden, I too have begun to shed the heaviness, the sadness, and despair. I, too, can once again feel the sun, the rain, heat, and cold. I am but one of my mother’s flowers, frequently difficult to control, organize, or manage. My boundaries are often fluid, and I am not perfect. But I am a beautiful flower that she loved, tended to, and mostly enjoyed, and I am forever grateful.
Mom and two of the creatures she loved most.
If you enjoy the photos in this blog please consider: http://www.lakehousephoto.com/
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© Gail Howarth and Living At The Lakehouse, 2013. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Gail Howarth and Living At The Lakehouse with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.
The Perfect Evening
On July 5, 2014 by Gail Howarth With 0 Comments
- Beauty, Birds, Inspirational, Nature, Spirituality
The Perfect Evening
It is the perfect evening to sit on the back porch and enjoy the sights and sounds of the Lakehouse. Even the birds are savoring this spring evening. Their songs, so plentiful that it is difficult to distinguish one from another. There are Cardinals, Chickadees, Nuthatches, Tufted Titmouses, Red-Winged Black Birds, Cow Birds, Eastern Tohees, Mourning Doves, Gold Finches, Bud the Sandhill Crane, Sparrows, and Woodpeckers at the feeder. And not to be forgotten, the Loons, Canada Geese, and various ducks are calling from the lake below.
The cats, Mini and Laila, accompany me. I am certain they will be exhausted tonight, as they are diligent in their attention to the birds, and the first chipmunk of the year. Laila quivers and chirps back at the birds. Oh, what might fill her dream tonight! Mini races back and forth following the chipmunk’s path. The chipmunk, intuitively, knows he safe, and is enjoying tormenting poor Mini. They all make me smile and laugh.
There is something timeless about a night like this. The stresses of the day are far from consciousness, the worries for tomorrow non-existent. Only the moment, this very moment, matters. This moment so rich, so full of life, love, and beauty, fill me up, and I am overwhelmed with gratitude.
And so, I have remained upon the back porch long enough for the day birds to roost for the night. A chorus of spring peepers, whip-poor-wills, and other night birds welcome the night with a different song. Tom Turkey is gobbling his last few gobbles, the loons are crying their mournful tune, and the geese are settling in with a few last honks. The sun set an hour ago, the air is cooling, and I know it is time to go. But I do not. How does one end the perfect evening? Perhaps, I could sit here, for just a few more moments.
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The Loons
If you like my blog, you may also like my photos at: www.lakehousephoto.com
© Gail Howarth and Living At The Lakehouse, 2013. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Gail Howarth and Living At The Lakehouse with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.
Ode to Mrs. Pollack
When I was in 5th grade my teacher, Mrs. Pollack, gave the class a creative writing assignment. As a reward, the best would be displayed in a cabinet in the hall. I do not really remember much about what I wrote. Although, I do recall that I compared monarch butterfly orange to that of a pumpkin. That comparison pleased Mrs. Pollack very much, and I was awarded first place. As promised, my writing was placed in the glass cabinet for all who passed by to see. However, she rewrote it in calligraphy on an orange butterfly-shaped piece of construction paper. The re-write was necessary because my handwriting was and still is atrocious. Though Mrs. Pollack tried harder than anyone to improve my penmanship, her efforts in that area were for naught.
I was proud to have what I had written in view of all the students and teachers at my school! Mrs. Pollack even invited my mom for a private viewing of the display. But even more than this special honor, what I remember most, is when Mrs. Pollack removed the butterfly scrawled paper from the cabinet. She gave the class some busy work, and then, asked me to help her take down the display. I followed her down the empty hallway. The echo of her heels clicking on the too shiny floor was the only thing that broke the eerie silence. She opened the cabinet, removed the butterfly, and gently placed it into my ten-year-old hands. She then leaned in close, and whispered in my ear, and said, “Someday, you are going to be a writer”. What I felt in that moment I cannot really say, but it felt true.
As the years passed I have heard Mrs. Pollack’s whisper again and again. “Someday, you are going to be a writer.” In my twenties, I dreamed of having my own column in the newspaper called “Chronicles From the Robinsnest”. In my thirties, I attempted to write a book. After 40 pages, life became too busy and I gave up on the project thinking someday I would get back to it. In my forties, I wrote technical documents for seminars I was conducting for work. And now in my fifties, I decided to begin a blog.
The mystery for me is this: Am I a writer because I have a natural ability to link words together in a way that others might enjoy or learn from, or is it because a teacher placed a notion in my head when I was ten years old? My belief is that I most likely would have found my words at some point, but would I have had the courage or confidence to put them out there for all to see? The answer is impossible to know. What I know is that Mrs. Pollack’s whispered words planted a seed. The seed rooted deeply within me and has been germinating ever since. As I write these words I feel the small sprouts of leaves bursting from within. I feel the unstoppable momentum of something being born and I can hardly wait to see what grows!
Mrs. Pollack, I am a writer. I am the author of technical documents and blog entries, and maybe someday, I will even finish the book I started so long ago. Thank you for planting that seed, for believing in me, and inspiring me. I am blessed.
Song of the Blog: Elusive Butterfly By Bob Lind https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IKWpdEdAKGw
Me / 10 years old
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If you enjoyed my blog you may also enjoy my photos at www.lakehousephoto.com
© Gail Howarth and Living At The Lakehouse, 2013. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Gail Howarth and Living At The Lakehouse with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.
Spring At The Lakehouse
Spring has come to Michigan. We know this because it is April 20th. It must be spring! And yet, the bitter wind is howling, the temperature is below freezing, and it is snowing. This followed by a week of flooding like I have never seen in my more than 50 years. So many of us are convinced that spring has not come, and that it may never come this year.
Still, the plants and the animals know that spring has come! Each year there are signs that spring is on its way to the Lakehouse. First the Red Winged Black Birds arrive in mid February. They come in droves, noisily ending the quiet solitude of winter. Some folks find them annoying. They are, indeed, a greedy bird and often bully others. But, I find myself grateful as I watch and listen to them at my feeder, as they replenish their bodies from their long journey North.
By the end of February I start looking for my favorite couple. Each year I worry, hope, and pray, for the safe return of Bud and Lydia, the nesting pair of Sandhill Cranes that live at the Lakehouse. This year they were a week later than usual and I feared they had perished over the winter. As a result, Bud wasted no time in dancing for, and throwing twigs at Lydia to entice her to do whatever birds do to get babies. The courtship is comical and tickles me to no end.
Shortly after the cranes come home, a variety of migrating ducks and Canada Geese begin to arrive. Each year, all the birds share a small patch of water where the ice has melted, with the two Mute Swans that are here year round. The swans at the Lakehouse are extremely antisocial and it is often amusing to watch their less than hospitable interactions with the new arrivals. I have come to consider Canada Geese the clowns of all waterfowl. They honk all day and night for no apparent reason. They tease and taunt all the other birds until they get a reaction. I have even watched them fly up high above the lake, circle, only to drop back down onto the ice, chest first, to slide across the slick surface.
As the lake begins to thaw the Bald and Golden Eagles stop by for a fishing trip. One year there were at least 28. Quite a sight to see! The Eagles have two fishing methods. The first fits the classic image of the Eagle swooping down into the water, and reemerging with a fish in its talons only to fly away to some unknown destination to eat its prey. The second, less spectacular or publicized method, is for the Eagle to stand upon an ice ledge, grab an unsuspecting fish from the frigid water, place it on the ice just inches away, and unceremoniously begin to eat. The second, less glamorous method, is the most common at the Lakehouse.
At the end of March, the Crocus began to bloom and the foliage of other plants, such as primrose, hyacinth, and daffodils begin to peak through the soil or snow. Soon, the first morel mushrooms will appear. For me, just the thought of morel mushrooms in the early spring, induces obsessive night time dreams of hunting for and finding bushel upon bushel of the delicacy. The reality of mushroom hunting is that it seldom, if ever, matches the imagination.
Lastly, on April 18th, I awoke to the haunting call of my beloved Loons. The loons have not always lived at the Lakehouse. They came one year after a terrible, yet, magnificent thunderstorm. The thunder and lightning was constant! Light flashed brilliantly all about, lighting its erratic path from heaven to earth. The thunder rumbled and the house groaned and shook. Lying in bed I thought of Dorothy and The Wizard of Oz, and wondered if the house would still be standing when I awoke. In the morning, the house was, indeed, still standing. The sun came out, and for the first time, I heard the call of the Loons. I wept with joy.
The spring of 2013 is certainly not the spring we all dream of during the dark days of winter. But spring is most certainly here. The plants know it. The animals know it. And the light grows longer each day. The cold and dreary days have not stopped nature from its annual rebirth. It is the time of year for all of us to renew our hopes and dreams, and to be born again. Thus I take my cue from nature and embrace and rejoice in the spring of 2013. I hope you will too.
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If you enjoy the photos in this blog please consider: http://www.lakehousephoto.com/
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© Gail Howarth and Living At The Lakehouse, 2013. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Gail Howarth and Living At The Lakehouse with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.
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