Garden Party

Between us, my Lawn Man and I have five adult daughters. When we met, his Oldest was away at college. During our first year together, his Youngest went away to school too. So my friendship with them has been mostly long-distance.

After the tragic passing of their beautiful mama when they were little babies, he raised his daughters on his own, with loving support from family and close friends.

Both girls are beautiful inside and out, and easy to love.


It's been a busy year for our family, with the Oldest and her College Sweetheart announcing their plans to marry.


The festivities were held in the garden of dear friends of the groom's parents. They were wonderful hosts. It was pure pleasure being in their company.


The gardener/host in this lovely place works with the groom's mother. Coincidentally, they design and maintain gardens for their living, just like me.


This was our table for the wedding feast. And I do mean feast - the food was extraordinary.

We had a wonderful time. Our garden party was a great success.

The weather was perfect.

Every detail was beautifully realized.

This kind of joy is what life is all about.

What a privilege it is being part of this lovely family.

What a joy it has been getting to know the groom's family and friends.

The best things in Life are made from moments like these.

The enchantment, love, beauty, grace, elegance, joy, warmth of this day made memories to last a lifetime.

When children find true love, parents find true joy. Here's to your joy and ours, from this day forward.

Soul Mates

What greater thing is there for two human souls than to feel that they are joined together to strengthen each other in all labour, to minister to each other in all sorrow, to share with each other in all gladness, to be one with each other in the silent unspoken memories.
~George Elliot~

A parting shot from our visit to southwest Wisconsin -
Shortly after our arrival at the small potato farm, M&M (Mom and her Gardening Buddy,) are first to notice the old barn. Walking down the lane hand in hand, they're off for a closer look.

I'm so glad they found each other. They go together like peas and carrots.

Our Big Backyard

I wasn't quite sure what my parents saw in the little ranch house. Surely the tri level with the sparkly paint and white carpets in the bedrooms and the freshly-sodded lawn would have been so much better. That's what my 10-year-old self was thinking and trying to convince my parents of that 1967 house-hunting summer. I so wanted sparkly walls in my bedroom.

My parents had another plan. The little ranch had a bigger yard. I mean a huge yard. At least, it was huge through the eyes of this skinny, prepubescent, city-dwelling girl who'd grown up surrounded by two- and three-flats with postage-stamp yards and tiny pesticide-laced kitchen gardens.

This was the moment my parents had been waiting for. This was the fulfillment of their American dream - a home of their own with a back yard where they could grow an organic garden and where their five kids could climb trees, eat mulberries and green apples, play softball with the neighborhood kids, throw sticks for the puppy they'd soon bring home, and help take care of the garden.

They weren't planning any old small-scale backyard raised-bed spot for tomatoes and a few salad greens and peas. No sir, we are talking more like, um, mini farm. without the livestock. (Cats, dogs, guinea pigs, a pet rat, gerbils, goldfish, and even an occasional tarantula don't count as livestock.)

So the yard needed to be big. No new house on a treeless soulless lot in a white bread tri level subdivision with a chain link fence and a yard the size of a postage stamp would do for this family, no sirree! If that's what they were after, they may as well have just bought a house in the city.

They found a place with the perfect yard - lots of trees for shade on the kid side so their fair-haired freckle-faced brood wouldn't get sunburned playing outside in the days before sunscreen. Grandpa, with his horticultural degree and passion for trees had a little orchard on his little farm in the Ozarks. He was proud of his daughter and son-in-law when he came to visit, seeing all the trees my mom had described in her frequent letters back home. They talked pruning, fertilizing, mulching, and how trees were good for the environment, and I could tell my parents were proud of those trees too.

Their pride was infectious, and we kids became proud and awed after moving into our house when one day we decided to count the trees. Forty-six trees in the backyard, I kid you not. Being a city kid, I had never known anyone besides my grandparents who owned that many trees. Some of them were tall and slender and lined the fence and parkway, and others with lush canopies became bases for hundreds of summer softball games where girls and boys played together and no one got harassed by overzealous parents or coaches.

The garden side of the yard, well, that's a whole other post. The garden had a life and a soul of its own. Next time I'll tell you about that.

Blackbird Singing in the Dead of Night

Well, it wasn't really singing!


Our very own, first little house in the southwestern suburbs of Chicago, had such a big yard and so many trees. It had been farmland that was gradually suburbanized, and many of the old elm trees had been left standing. Our little house started it's life as a four-room, built by owner. Nothing about it was really square or level. There were a couple of additions done over the years before we bought it. But it was what we could afford, and it was all ours! Maybe more about that another time. But, on to the topic at hand.

Linda and her sister shared a bedroom off the dining room. Next to that was the room of the three bears, er - the three boys. At the other end of the house was our bedroom. Since the sun came in the windows very early in the morning, we had them well-draped, so the room was fairly dark. It was rare that I slept past sunrise, but it did happen on the few weekend occasions that our five little ones played quietly upon arising. Since their rooms were at the opposite end of the house, occasionally I could sleep past their getting up. Usually, however, they announced early summer sun-up with delighted squeals, shouts, or other noises purposely designed to get motherly attention, not to mention breakfast.

Their Dad could be nearly as playful as his offspring. He had quite a little-boy penchant for mischief, and was not above playing pranks of one kind or another. One or the other of the children, sometimes all five, were usually the object of his attention, but he was definitely not above showing his devotion to me by sharing the wealth.

Once in a while on a weekend morning, Dad would get up early, and quietly closing the door behind him, see to the children's breakfast. On occasion, I would even be served breakfast in bed. This particular Sunday morning was dark with clouds left over from a downpour during the night. In other words, it was a perfect morning for sleeping late. He must have gotten up before dawn. The house was very quiet and I didn't even hear the stirrings of the children. What a treat! I snuggled down and continued whatever dream I was having.

You know how sometimes you awake very suddenly, and for no reason you can identify? Well, I don't know what it was, but I remember my eyes popping open, with a vague sense of something - I didn't know what - being not quite right. I didn't shift position. Only my eyes were looking around, trying to see what seemed to have caused the sense of unease I felt.

It was still very dark in the room with just a kind of gray light coming in around gaps between the drapes. Did I see something?

SQUAWK!!!

Holy @$&%!!

That got me really awake. I still didn't move, but I thought there seemed to be a vague, dark shape, maybe a small movement, above the window on the wall opposite the bed.

OMG! as the younger ones would say these days. I sure didn't want to turn on the bedside lamp, nor give any other indication that there was a living, though barely breathing, being under those blankets. I tried to focus my eyes in the dusky light so that I could see what that dark, shadowy "thing" was. A bat?? But how? My eyes playing tricks?

SQUAWK!

Well, I'd never heard a bat, much less seen one up close and personal, but I was pretty certain they didn't sound like that. Hmmm, was that some rustling I heard outside the closed bedroom door? Uh, huh! Something is definitely afoot. But, I'm not moving until I can get a better idea of what's going on and what my options are.

Slowly, I uncovered one hand just enough to reach the small flashlight on the night stand next to me. I pointed it downward and turned it on, trying not to let the little slider click. Then I gradually moved the light to focus on the "thing". And, holy "pallid bust of Pallas", the "thing" resolved itself into a very wet, very bedraggled rather largish black bird. It was perched, not above my chamber door, but on the pleats of the window drapes. Since those kept bending under it's weight, it was shifting from one foot to the other trying to stabilize its perch.

Of course, there could only be one culprit responsible for setting up this dastardly morning surprise. And he, no doubt along with some accomplices, was outside my chamber door. I suppose they were waiting to be rewarded with screams of fright. Or at least some indication that this little trick had gotten a response. Which they didn't get, by the way.

Evidently, a puppy had needed to be let out early, and just outside the back door, Dad had found this poor, wet, young crow. How could he possibly let such an opportunity pass? Well, he could have, but having a rather twisted, (in my opinion), sense of humor, he didn't.

Though we had rescued several little birds, among them our little Robbie, and the now-famous Chipper, this one was perfectly able to be rehabilitated to the great outdoors. Which happened very quickly. With great glee, Dad opened the door and retrieved the "raven".

"Were you scared?", the accomplices asked with anticipation.

"Not on your life!", I said.

(Darn. Moms aren't supposed to tell fibs.)

Grandpa's Contraption-Part 2

Now, a contraption is usually something no one has ever seen anything quite like before. It is usually, but not always, something you can't buy ready made. If you could buy something, it would be either way to expensive or wouldn't work quite the way you wanted it to work. It is created for some special use, a figment of imagination made material, a dream made real. Grandpa was wonderful at drawing. From the tip of his pencil flowed drawings of parts that somehow might fit together into some useful contraption. He could see the finished item in his mind, along with exactly how to get it put together.

Between 1909 and 1916, a very small automobile manufacturing company operated out of Detroit, Michigan. Kenneth Crittendon designed a car and provided financial backing for the company to manufacture it. The car was named the KRIT. It was a small, four cylinder car and its symbol was a white swastika on a blue background, (not related to the red swastika used by Germany). The accompanying photograph is of a KRIT car.

At some time Grandpa acquired one of these cars. He drove it as a family car for a number of years. At some time, probably in the late '20s or early '30s his oldest son, my Uncle Mike, inherited it. Uncle Mike thought it was a little too stodgy for a young man about town, so he made some modifications to it. After Uncle Mike stopped driving it, the KRIT wound up on the farm, housed in a large equipment barn with the tractors. It wasn't used for transportation any longer and the body was beginning to rust from disuse. Now, if there is anything anathema to a frugal person it is something that isn't being used. So, Grandpa got out his pencil and sketch paper and went to work. He dreamed and he sketched, and he dreamed some more and he sketched some more.

One day he called Grandma. "Dora, I think I have an idea for a contraption for the garden. What do you think of this?" And he showed her his sketches. Shortly afterward he got out his pipe, put it unlit into his mouth, and went out to the equipment barn. He hauled pieces of this and that to the machine shop, and then he closed the door. Grinding, banging, and pounding noises, interspersed with intervals of silence, came from inside the shop.

Later, he got my Uncle and together they brought out the old KRIT and got it down to the shop. Periodically, Grandpa would appear outside. He would have a drawing in one hand, and he'd look from the paper to that old car as if he was sizing things up. Then he would disappear inside and more banging and grinding ensued. This went on for several weeks, as he had time between other chores.

One day, at the end of summer, he told Grandma and all the children to go into the house and not come out, nor to look out the windows until he called them. Soon they heard the putt-putt of an engine coming up the road from the machine shop. In a bit they heard Grandpa call out, "O.K., come and see!"

There, in the middle of the remains of the summer garden, was Grandpa proudly seated on his latest contraption - the dandiest garden tractor anyone in the family had ever seen.

A new frame surrounded the body of what used to be the old KRIT car. There was only one front wheel, which he had scavenged from an old tractor.He had fastened a fuel tank to the back. Underneath the tractor was bolted a set of cultivating tines. Grandpa had added a tractor seat with levers for raising and lowering the tines, and a hitch on back for hooking up a cart or other equipment. He had replaced the floor board with a metal foot rest, and made the foot controls larger for booted feet to manage.

That fall the garden was duly manured and plowed. In the spring, Uncle Mike tilled the garden. Through the next spring and summer, Grandma and her daughters planted, weeded, dusted for bugs, and picked the produce.The cycle of growing, harvesting and putting up began anew.

In the 1940s, as a little girl, I spent some summers on the farm. Grandpa's contraption was still running. He had replaced some parts as they wore out, but the last time I saw it, it looked much the same as it does in this photo. Grandpa passed away in 1952, but the stories of his contraptions, and especially of that old KRIT car that he transformed into a garden tractor, are still repeated in our family.

Grandpa's Contraption

I come from a long line of "Contraption Makers". In fact, one of the most enjoyable and satisfying activities my Gardening Buddy and I engage in is contraption inventing and building. As we stand back and admire our work, we congratulate each other on our ability to make something useful from bits and pieces of this and that. Sometimes we buy bits and pieces. Mostly though, we look around for the odd pieces of wood cut from some other project, a bit of fencing wire, or some leftover piece of conduit.

My Grandfather was a maker of contraptions. Born in the late 1800s, he originally had a career as a pharmacist. Later, he became a Lincoln motor car dealer. But then, fate intervened. My Grandmother inherited a quarter section of farm land when her parents died. Her brother, my Uncle Charlie, inherited the adjoining quarter section.

Grandpa called a family council, including his five children, and spoke about what it would mean for them to leave the city and move to the farm Grandma had inherited. The family conferred on what work would be needed, who might take on what responsibilities, how life would change from living in a city brick home, to a small, frame house in the country. The family voted to move. They would raise cows, pigs, poultry, corn, milo...and have a garden. These activities would have to feed the family and provide income. Each of the children, of whom Mom was the third oldest at age 14, would have tasks. The boys would tend the larger animals and do the field work, the girls would take care of the poultry and the garden. To help with income, the girls would sell eggs, poultry and butter. With their plans laid, they moved to their farm in 1923.

The photo to the left is Mom with part of the flock of poultry. There were ducks and geese. and chickens of several breeds, such as Barred Rocks, White Leghorns, and Rhode Island Reds.

My Mom liked the Reds the best. She had several pets from among the Reds.

In this picture she was about 15 or 16 years old. She was always very tiny for her age. When she was full grown, she was all of 4 feet 9 inches tall.

A quarter section of land is 160 acres. In addition to fields and pastures, there would be a garden. It would have to be large enough to feed a family of seven during the season, and yield enough produce to put up for the rest of the year. Equipment - tractor, cultivator, planter, harvester - would be needed for plowing, planting and harvesting in the fields. Grandpa and Uncle Charlie decided that they could share larger equipment and help each other with field work. But a garden of the size needed would be very hard for my Grandma and her three daughters to handle alone. The hardest work would be turning under the manure and garden waste in the fall, and loosening the soil in the spring.

When you turned off the main road onto my Grandparent's farm road, you went over a wooden bridge that crossed "The Branch", a creek that ran into a small, local river. On the right side of the road, past the bridge, was Grandpa's machine shop. I still recall the smells of oil, gas, and metal inside. Next to the machine shop was the windmill. In addition to the tools inside the machine shop, there was a bank of batteries. The windmill charged the batteries, which provided electricity before the county came through with power lines.

The machine shop was a magical place. I was never allowed inside without Grandpa or one of my Uncles. Most of the equipment Grandpa had was purchased used. Tractors needed repairs, parts needed welding - something was always needing maintenance and fixing up. Out of Grandpa's shop also came "contraptions".

To be continued...