Family

Family.

Some of you are fortunate to all live in the same city.  Generation after generation.  Coming together for weddings, funerals, births, baptisms, graduations, holidays, weekends at the shore.
Unfortunately, our family is scattered about.  Alaska, Utah, Iowa, Ohio, Virginia, Florida.  So family get-togethers rarely happen.  But when they do, it is great!

We had a grandson graduating in Iowa this past weekend and took that opportunity to fly to Cincinnati to visit grandchildren before heading on to Des Moines for the graduation.  We packed a lot of activity into those 4 days.  Grandsons' baseball games, museums, movies, board games, ice cream, pizza, pizza and more pizza!

Our daughter-in-law asked if I would take their family photos at a park before the graduation ceremonies.  "Of course", I said, only to stress myself out over it.  I can shoot birds, landscapes, beaches, skies, buildings  But people??  I'm so awful at it!  I definitely need more practice.  Thank goodness I have a arsenal of editing programs to clean up my poor images.

With that said, I'll share some with you.  All grandkids --8 boys, 1 girl -- except for one, made the cut.  He was busy working ... saving up for that car.

Family.

Part of something bigger than ourselves.

Where we will love and be loved.

No matter what.

John Wayne and me

We have returned from Iowa.

America's Heartland. 

Home of corn, soybeans, hogs, Iowa caucuses, University of Iowa.  Where American Gothic was painted.  The setting for the Field of Dreams.   Land of small towns where no one locks their doors.

Home to Buffalo Bill, Grant Wood, Elijah Wood, Cloris Leachman, Herbert Hoover, Ashton Kutcher, Johnny Carson and John Wayne.

Home to authors John Irving, John Cheever, Jane Smiley, Philip Roth, Michael Cunningham, and Paul Harding.

And home to me.

Although, many of the landmarks of my youth have disappeared, a few still remain.  Like the University of Iowa in Iowa City.  I have many fond memories of traversing that campus.

Or napping on the lawns in between classes.

When I drive across the state, it never ceases to amaze me of its beauty and openness.  So much land.

So much fun.

And so much baldness! ~snort~  Sorry, I couldn't help myself.  No ... Iowa isn't known for its bald men.  But it is known for my men.  My son, Jason, The Professor and my brother, Marty, posed for this beauty shot!  Aren't they handsome!

Iowa.

Home of beautiful farmland, barns, long country lanes.  And once home to me.  And John Wayne.

A long long time ago.

It's fun to visit and yet always sweet to return home after traveling.   Do you ever return to your childhood hometown?   I'd love to hear!

Sharing with Wordless/Wordful Wednesdays  and  Outdoor Wednesday
and Project Alicia

Later friends,

Morning walk

Early morning fog has greeted me the last several days for my morning walk.  I love fog.  Not to drive in, of course.  Nasty stuff.  But to walk in fog.  Something eerily charming about it.

I have a number of directions I like to walk in our neighborhood.  One of my favorites is down this lovely tree-lined lane.  At the end of the lane is a private gated estate.

Just a little mansion.  It kind of reminds me of Disneyland.  It's beautiful but not really my taste.  I'm quite content with my cape cod home surrounded with sycamore trees instead of a fence and gate.

And speaking of sycamores.  Don't you just love their trunk texture.  I have yet to capture their beauty.  The one in my front yard just begs to be climbed.

Over the weekend, my irises began exploding.  Such color and complexity.  I just want to squeeze them.  The flower has always had a special charm to me and reminds me of my grandmother's garden.  She had rows and rows of irises and peonies around her Iowa farmhouse. 

She's been gone for 30 years and I still miss her.

I wonder if she ever had a moment to examine the beauty of her flowers.  I hope so.

: :

reena

No worry mon!

It's a windy, rainy day up on the eagle nest in Iowa today.  Pretty much like that here on the east coast.  I keep tuning in now and then with the Decorah eagles.  The third eaglet hatched a few days ago so now they really don't need my constant surveillance.  Mom and Dad seem to be doing that just fine.

Although I still worry.  

Just like Eagle Dad today.  See, I've watched so much, I can tell the difference between mom and dad. 

Eagle Dad is very distressed this afternoon.  Flocks of geese can be heard in the background as they fly overhead frequently.  Probably returning from down south.  He watches them intently and steps up to give them the evil eye.  But then ...  he rather always has an evil eye appearance about him, wouldn't you say.

My worries don't really fall in what is happening outside the nest.  No sirreee!  I worry about other matters that are taking place in the nest.  

Like flying poop.

I bet that is something that never crossed your mind.  Eaglet poop.  What happens when little eaglets have to go to the bathroom?  Cause with all that food intake, there has to be an outtake.  Right?

Well, you will be happy to know that mother nature has designed these little ones with a remarkable solution.  Just how they know to do this, is beyond me.  But they do!  They just wiggle their little butts facing up and out of the nest ...  and shazaam ... ejectile poop!  

I know!  Right!  It shoots high up over the nest cup.  

They come out of the shell house trained!

So now you know.

And I can cross off that one worry on my list.

~

missing the mom gene

Two little eaglets sittin' in a tree

Today we are back to the eagles. 

The eagles, in Decorah, Iowa, who have been making the news all over the country.

Even NPR has picked up the story. 

http://www.npr.org/blogs/thetwo-way/2011/04/05/135148362/eagle-cam-soars-with-millions?sc=fb&cc=fp

I can't seem to get enough of them.

I guess like the other 11 million viewers.

Drop into NPR and sneak a peak.

And the best part yet.

There is one more egg to hatch any time now.

Holy camoly!

PS.  But if you miss it, you can catch clips on YouTube!

~

 Hope your day is filled with spring sunshine,

missing the mom gene

Intoxicating

Spring!  And with it, comes new life.

Being from Iowa and all, and if you are into bird watching,  I couldn't help but share this engrossing live web cam that was started two days ago as these eaglets near hatching. 

The Raptor Resource Project brings you the Decorah Eagles from atop their tree at the fish hatchery in Decorah, Iowa.   One of the eaglets hatched sometime through the night and unfortunately, I missed it. 

I can't seem to quit watching .... along with the other 150,000 live viewers!

The howling wind and surrounding bird calls are intoxicating. 


My goodness, I'll never get anything done now.


Like taxes.


But what better way to procrastinate than to spy on a couple of eagles.

Here's the link to the live cam and more information about this wonderful hatchery: 

Decorah Eagles from atop their tree 

Or, take a few minutes and watch this YouTube video of mom and dad at their shift change.

Hope you enjoy,
missing the mom gene

Lover's Leap Swinging Bridge of Iowa

This bridge does not swing above the jungles of South America
or over raging Colorado waters
it is a landmark in my small Iowa hometown, strung across a steep ravine
held together by cables, wires, and barrel staves
262 feet of wobbly suspension

when I was a young girl, it was a frightening encounter to cross
with its rotted planks and gaping holes
and I was sure I could fall through
though now I doubt it

it  would rock and roll under my feet as I walked across
older rambunctious cousins would swing it to and fro,
causing me to freeze in place,
clinging to its wire cable until they exhausted themselves
laughing

but I learned to wait them out, not giving in to their pleasure of stopping my trek
across
to the other side

because it was important to reach

as with all significant things in life
conquering the fear that can hold us in place
from reaching beyond what one thought possible

it was only a ravine
but it might as well have been a jungle or raging waters
underneath that bridge

and yet
I reached the other side
and looked back
and grinned
at those who thought I would never

cross over

Monday thoughts,
missing the mom gene

(Built in 1886, the Lover’s Leap Swinging Bridge is still there, waiting
for each soul
to cross to the other side)

Lost in the Land of Iowa

My father and mother

how I like to remember them
young with hope and wonder

before I was anything

she barely fifteen
and he twenty one
marry 

and like their parents

start a family 

in Cairo, Iowa

sons to farm the land
daughters to gather the eggs

me, 

 

in my father’s arms
first born


My father and mother
farmers
digging and plowing and planting
seed in the dark earth

season after season

life filled with rotated
soybeans
corn
and wheat
and the occasional
field of potatoes
plowed up
and exposed

along with innocence


My father and mother

 

how I remember them
a trip to Lake Tahoe
our first and last

ten years of marriage

soon
to be dissolved
and turned over
for a new season

a new family
stronger and sturdier
than the last

but the hope and wonder
has abandoned them

left somewhere back
in that small farming community
of Cairo, Iowa
when a fire stole their home

left with only the
charred remains of a life
to be started over again
but never the same

hope and wonder
disappeared
like all the other traces of their marriage

except for me

Still filled with hope and wonder,
missing the mom gene

I Do Not Dream of Faraway Places

A child on a farm sees a plane fly overhead and dreams of a faraway place.  A traveler on the plane sees the farmhouse below and dreams of home. ~Robert Brault

As a kid, I was not much of a dreamer of traveling to faraway places.  Up until my late twenties, the only places that I had traveled outside of Iowa was a road trip out west when I was 10 and a couple of high school field trips to Chicago.

Compared to today's standards of travel, my exposure to the world when I was young was very modest.  We were not a family of means, nor big dreamers.  Just farmers, small town folks, living on the salary of the menfolk who scraped out a living either from the land or other menial labor.  Travels on planes or trains or to large cities were for wealthy people.  Not us.

So I did not dream of faraway places. 

Even on the road trip out west, from the backseat of the car with my grandmother, I barely lifted my eyes from the pages of my books as we drove through mountains and canyons.  My grandmother would frequently chastise me for not viewing the countryside as we passed, even taking away my books as we drove through the Grand Canyon.  A spectacular sight that I found boring and uninteresting compared to the words in my book.  My disinterest so frustrated her.

Sorry Grandma Murry.

Of course, now as an adult, I more than understand her attempt to broaden my scope of the world beyond our little Iowa farm.  But back then, I had no interest. 

I don't know why.

I suppose the words in books brought the outside world to me.  I lost myself in between the pages to whatever adventure lied within.  Even though our lives were not filled with riches or travel or excitement, it did not matter.  All of that could be found in a book.

So I did not dream of faraway places.

I simply read.

Today, I have returned home after being away for a week.  From my writing desk window, I occasionally see planes fly high above me.  I imagine families and friends excited about their destinations.  Kids fidgety and fighting and crying.  I also think of the business traveler who is saddened to have left their families that morning, missing a ball practice or school play later in the day.

Over the last three decades of my life, I have had the good fortune to have traveled across the U.S. and to far away places across the seas.  I have seen ancient ruins and rain forests, been on safaris and sailed the ocean.

But never a site fills my heart with such warmth and glee, as when my eyes set upon my home.

I still do not dream of faraway places.

Instead, I write of faraway places within my stories, hoping to mesmerize the reader, as I had been in my youth, when grand canyons pass by.

Thanks for stopping by,
missing the mom gene

Forever Changed

Memories come to us sometimes, not in full sentences, but in images or groups of words that hold more meaning than any other narrative.

These words today reflect a memory of when I was four and struck by a car.  I was crossing the blacktop road that sat in front of our small Iowa farmhouse.  My mother, who was only 15 when she married, was on the other side, gazing down the road as my father steered his tractor to a nearby pasture for spring plowing.

Me at age 4 in Cairo, Iowa

When I Reached for Your Hand

I should  have known
you could not be there

when I reached
for your hand

you had already left

freeing yourself
of me
dreaming of another place
and time

I wonder

did you ache 
for what you left behind

or yearn for what
may never come

when I reached for your hand
and it was gone

left alone
I was not afraid

to cross over
to you

on that bright warm
early spring day
with the damp dark earth

beckoning to be split open

from the cold metal
that would carve through
its soft underbelly

not afraid
to reach for you
to call to you

but you would not hear
my cry

you had already left
and went away
to another place
that I was not allowed
to follow

you with your lost
innocence and wonder
and dreams

never to be realized

unaware
of what was left behind

me

who was reaching out
for you to take my hand

me

who was taking
that step
closer
to you

to bring you back
from that place that
stole you
and
left me behind

I reached for your hand
but it was gone

I was unafraid

to cross over
to you

and my life was
forever changed.


missing the mom gene

Stormy Winter Responds

As you know, I wrote a breakup letter to Stormy Winter the other day.  Today, I received Stormy Winter's response.  Mmmmmm...... I'm suspicious that The Professor, a close friend of Stormy Winter, had some involvement in this letter writing. 

Dear missing the mom gene,

Your recent letter desiring to end our relationship has taken me by surprise.   I can’t BELIEVE that you have cheated on me with Sunny Florida while I have remained steady and ever so faithful to you.   I know I can be sullen and dark and leave you bone chilled with my presence.  And, yes, we have had some stormy times lately, but those dark days will soon pass.

Please don’t forget the many days of magic we have shared.  The wonder of the falling snowflake,  the majesty of snow covered mountains.  Snow angels.  Sledding.  Santa Claus.  New Year’s celebrations.  And the wonderful world of skiing (although you have resisted my encouragement to explore my Black Diamond slopes.)

What would your summers be without my winters?  Your Sunny Florida cannot give you our Tender Spring and its first Robin’s call. Your Sunny Florida does not celebrate the beauty and wonder of each passing season that I share with you.  Seasons that are as much a part of you as night is to day. 
 
I defy you to show me one bit of Sunny Florida you would call majestic!  The ocean – sure, it’s pretty but not majestic.  Not like in Maine or Oregon – and there you can have me too!

Do not be fooled by Sunny Florida.  He has a dark side that you have not yet seen.   Alligators, swamps, mosquitoes, and hurricanes will show themselves once Sunny Florida believes he has won you over.

When you come to your senses, I’ll be here, waiting.  For God's sake, your were born in Iowa!  We were meant to be TOGETHER!

Love always,
Stormy Winter

When I Dreamed of Being a Horse

"Do not die before becoming the person you are meant to be. "

I found this in my notes and can’t attribute it to any one source.  But it made me pause.


When I was young, I wanted to be a horse. 

I played horses with my cousins probably from the age of 4 until I was around 8.

I know.

Pathetic.

But it was Iowa, before Star Wars, Darth Vader, Spiderman, and Ninja Turtles.

Summer evenings, my cousins and I would pretend to be horses, trotting, galloping and whinnying around the yard.  A herd of wild stallions. (But I was a GIRL stallion.)  One unlucky cousin would have to play the rancher, trying to catch us and lead us into an imaginary pen.

During cold Iowa winters, I would gallop through the house on my hands and knees with some little cousin running after to hop on my back and ride ‘em cowboy.

I would buck them off, too wild to be tamed and tackled.

I guess a little bit of that wild horse still lives within me.

Just a little.

Refusing to be tamed and tackled

into other’s ideas of who I should be or could be.

Instead ...

I will continue to grow into the woman I am meant to be.

Whoever that person is ...

because I have not met her yet.

Have you?

One day you're pushing and then .... poof, they're gone!

I can’t believe that my first born boy turns 40 today.  That’s right, 40 years ago I was in a delivery room during an Iowa snowstorm, laboring for 48 hours. 

Oh, yes, you heard that right.  LABORING!  48 HOURS!  Two DAYS!

I KNOW!  Who labors that long these days?  Moms would be lawyering up.  Dads would be suing for income losses. 

Prehistoric as it seems, it was not unusual in small Iowa hospital communities.  It was a time before birthing classes, epidurals, and fetal monitors became the norm.  It was a time that babies were swaddled so tight to be only briefly held before returning to the nursery.  It was a time husbands sat in waiting rooms, waiting.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

I had already had one day of beastly contractions and by the time I was heading into day two, I was being told to push.  PUSH?  PUSH WHAT?    (Remember, this was before birthing classes and Google.)

In my haze, I remember my doc telling my husband-at-the-time during my second day of NEVERENDING PAIN that “she thinks that baby is just gonna pop out by itself.” 

If only I could have gotten out of that bed, I would have POPPED his head RIGHT OFF.

Perhaps, doc ...  if you would have taken better stock of how BIG my baby was, and that it was my FIRST and that maybe being JUST 18, that MAYBE, JUST MAYBE, those combinations just might make my delivery a tad DIFFICULT!  

I had no clue how long this was going to go on.  Maybe days.  Years.  FOREVER!

This baby seemed to want to take his time coming into the world.  And why not?  He was going to be stuck through eternity with this country farm girl from the sticks ......  “no, no, no, not THAT woman.  Someone has made a mistake!  I want a different M-O-T-H-E-R!“ 

And then ... time to push.  I had no idea.  NO IDEA.  But my body did.  WE'RE THERE.

Once wheeled to the delivery room (WHAT in-room delivery?), and with the doc at the finish line, I hear the gush of water hitting the floor.

Doc: “I just broke your water. It shouldn’t be long now.”

And it wasn’t.  The urge to push was so beyond my control.  As if a Sigourney Weaver's alien had taken over my body and then .... a relief, a calm.  The head is out, the head is out!

Doc: “Stop pushing.”

HUH? HUHHHHH? WHAT?

Um, no. NO NO NO.

Doc: “You need to stop pushing for a moment.  The cord is around his neck three times. It will just take a second.”

THREE TIMES! My brain can’t focus.

I close my eyes, and freeze.  Be still, be perfectly STILL.

And then.

Doc: “Ok, one more push and we’re there.”

And we were.  INCREDIBLE.  All the pain and weight lifted away.

Doc:  “Whoa ... this is a big guy!”

Nurse:  “He must be 10 pounds.”

Doc:  “Betcha he’s easily 11.”

Nurse:  “I’ll take that bet.”

HEY! HEY!  HEEEYYYYY!  Quit all the jabber and bring me that baby!

He weighed 11 lbs and 3 oz., head temporarily bruised and misshapened, but totally healthy and strong from his arduous journey into the world.

Everyone in the hospital was talking about him.  He was almost twice the size of many of the other babies.  And I fell in love with him immediately.

With his thick red hair, Opey freckles and mercurial moods, he was his own man from the start.  Independent, reliable, disciplined and athletic, never one to fail at anything he set out to achieve. 

So now, 40 years later, through many hills and valleys of differences and expectations of each other, he is still as INCREDIBLE as he was from the first moment he arrived.

Where are you going, my little one, little one,
Where are you going, my baby, my own?
Turn around and you're two,
Turn around and you're four,
Turn around and you're a young man going out of my door.

I want to take back those 40 years and do them all over again.  With only one exception.  To do them BETTER, MUCH MUCH BETTER this time around with the clock moving slowly so I can watch frame by frame all the moments of his life.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY SON!

missing the mom gene

Christmas Past and Present

In all my bah humbug holiday spirit, I’m going to miss my three oldest kids. 
 

Actually, they aren’t kids anymore.  All grown up with families of their own.
 
Scattered about the country.

Celebrating Christmas in their own homes.

Bah humbug.

They say that the more things change, the more they stay the same.

I don’t know who “they” are, but I wonder.

My childhood holidays were spent in my grandparents farm house.  Most all family members were there, maybe with the exception of my cousins who lived in Nevada. I always thought there was something exotic and mysterious to have cousins who lived in another state so far away. 

Being in Iowa seemed small, safe, predictable.  Comforting to me as a child.  And crowded.  With my 23 cousins, plus or minus a few.

Our Christmas’ were loud, messy.  Filled with unrestrained chaos.  And fun.

Men at the card table playing Euchre, cigarette smoke curling up through the air, an uncle occasionally reaching out and grabbing some cousin sprinting by, ordering him to stop running.

Clinking and clattering kitchen sounds of women cooking in their flour smeared aprons, sauteing, whipping, slicing up the foods that we soon would devour.

Younger cousins fighting and bickering over what christmas songs they were going to sing for the unattentive adults.

Bored older cousins slumped on sofas looking through the stack of Life magazines, wishing they were anywhere but there.

Winter coats piled four feet high on my grandparent’s bed, inviting hide and seekers.

And the anticipation of the contents of the dozens and dozens and dozens of small, colorful packages filled with homemade gifts, mittens, socks, sweaters, Woolworth necklaces, dime store toys, scarves, cigars, meat and cheese gift baskets.

... feels like 3 lifetimes ago.

Sigh.

And yet the “more things change, the more they stay the same.”

The men no longer smoke but gather in living rooms to watch football games.

Bickering kids fight over which video game they are going to play.

Bored teens text their friends.

Women follow recipes on their IPads.

The same and yet

not the same

we are linked together

but oh 

so far apart

scattered across the 50 states, that no longer hold childhood mystery

The Holiday may be the same but the celebration with my family has changed. 

Bah humbug.

I miss it.

And I will miss these three kids this Holiday.

Best to you and yours,

missing the mom gene