Filed under: Momma, Rememberance, True Story, short story | Tags: Al Di La, flowers, garden
It is now Spring. Not by the official date and not by the weather, but by amazing sights that I first saw as a child and did not appreciate. . Until the last few years here in the Midwest and while my Mother lived with us, I began to understand the joy of a garden. Previously, I never gardened in earnest. I tried in Arizona, but it was a joke. I had no idea how to gauge when to plant what plant so that it could live. All efforts could have been classed as “play” and the results were not very good.
During my adolescent and teen years I never picked up a green thumb on the farm, nor did my Father impart any farming information, particularly if it had anything to do with flowers. Momma often tried to interest me by letting me pick out annuals to plant and decide in what design a flower bed should be made. Back then I remembered thinking that picking out plants and designing was okay, but it would be even better if I could be inside making cinnamon rolls. It was a fine state for a young person growing up on an Iowa farm and so the years passed and my ignorance of plants continued.
When we first moved here Momma encouraged me to to make flower gardens and plant as many flowers as I could. We had already discussed flowers in Arizona before arriving and I had ordered two bush roses and purple day lilies from The Morton Arboreutum through my sister. Today I look at those plants and think how lucky I was because I didn’t know how to plant a rose. I planted them while my Mother was in the hospital that first year and they have beome the most dramatic of all my flowers when they bloom.
The first couple of years she sat on the porch, in the front of the house, while I attempted to turn soil and amend it as well as, planting flowers!! I was thankful she was there because some days I had no idea what I should do. Little by little, hint by hint, technique by technique Momma told me how to garden.
Slowly, these stunning sights of Spring were noticed by me in the garden. They became more poignant as I told my Mother each day what I had done in the garden. Momma lay in her bed, with head turned so she could hear every word, would stop me and interject he thoughts, her likes, dislikes and stories about her perennials she left in Iowa. She often said that the main ingredient to a successful garden was love and then lots elbow grease!
Momma loved all flowers, although her favorite flower was the rose, in particular she was partial to The Abraham Lincoln, deep red rose, a white, Empress rose just tinged in the palest of pink and the very charismatic Yellow tea rose. Each summer she looked forward to the many bouquets I brought from the gardens, but none of that would not have happened if she didn’t give me her love for making it all happen and appreciate how much a garden of colorful flowers can give you back.
It was during the second summer Momma started having difficulty getting out to the back yard and all the flowers I had in the back yard were off the patio. If you sat at the kitchen table you wouldn’t even know those incredible bush roses were there. Momma missed her flowers and that year I dug up a very large portion of the back yard to make a thirty foot long flower garden that wrapped the patio in a changing, fluid shape perfectly spaced so that when you were at the kitchen table the front border of the garden appeared to be just above the patio wall.
Momma and I shopped many days for flowers to fill up this giant bed, although, she and I decided that a miniature apple tree on each end of the bed would be great. We chose Macintosh, Momma’s favorite for apple pie, baked apples and canning. Below one of the apple trees became a huge strawberry patch. It is the same today and the strawberries, even in the chilly, “April Showers” are getting ready for their first harvest of fruit and are showing many little white flowers.
Spring came this year not many days ago. Yes, prior to now there was a premature, weatherman Spring and there was the official start of Spring that was followed by freezing temperatures, snow, sleet, rain, more rain, snow and rain. Finally, April Showers began, much the same as when I lived on the farm many years ago. There are days of rain and chill, a sky where clouds then break and warm rays of sun fall across the land, then possibly very windy days or nights are filled with more rain or fine showers and finally a small group of warm, warm days with bright cumulus clouds up above will arrive. Yes, it was that way this year and even though I should have been out earlier the gardens are fine!
As I begun my task of cleaning up my garden and yard I began humming an Italian song that my Momma and I always listened to every afternoon, as well as, her other favorite Italian Folk songs. It wasn’t until after my Momma passed away that I realized what the song, Al Di La, was all about. Al Di La is a place, far, far above the clouds, that to guess where it is you must follow the sky up and up and weave your way thru the clouds. Never stop the journey, just keep going as you eye can see. Then in your heart you have come as close to Al Di La as you can in your life time; Al Di La is a place where a loved one (one you miss very much) waits to guide you on to Paradise, when you arrive from your final journey. In the years prior to your arrival, Al Di La, represents to you the reality that you yearn for the past to become real again, although, you admit it can only be the stepping stone for you one day.
I realized why I hummed the song because I felt Momma was there guiding me, up there, far, far above the white, voluminous, cumulus clouds. At that moment I felt peaceful to know she was there and as I babbled to my garden, I shared everything with her as I always did.
As I chattered on, I first pruned the dead, perennial stalks and uncovered the little roses from their insulation of Canadian Peat Moss. Next, as I worked from one side of the first bed to the other cleaning off leaves and as I did the Spring came to me. There, under the debris, were the center of my perennials with tiny shoots of new life. In my way, they greeted me and we had our first individual chats for the season.
They are Spring, the little hidden, leaves signaling new life When I was finished all of the plants had little faces, smiling upward. The next day, after a night rain, I went back to the big bed and found that even more Spring had arrived for me. The rain had allowed the little leaves and stalks to triple their size overnight. They are amazing, they have returned to me one more year to please and bring color and texture to my garden.
Momma knew all this and simply gave me some hints, or told a story, as she imparted her knowledge of gardening to me. Now Momma still guides my hand as she watches far, far above the white, voluminous, cumulus clouds in a place that is called Al Di La.
Filed under: Memory, Movie, True Story, reminence | Tags: birthday party, family, happiness, Momma, Rememberance
It is Momma’s birthday, April 22 and even though she may not be physically here, Momma is with me today to celebrate her life and remember how much she enjoyed the many parties I gave her on her birthday. Even when I was young, Momma loved her day, especially if my sister and I planned something. As a very young boy I used to think for weeks to determine what my Sister and I could do to make the day special for her and then we spent an equal time trying to decide what was a perfect gift, a gift just for our Momma.
There was more than one time our funds were not as abundant as I thought they should be. Momma was always willing to give me a little money. I used to think I was pulling a fast one on her, but as I grew up I realized Momma always knew what I was after.
After Momma and I moved to Arizona, following my father’s death, the real parties began for her. The first big splash was for her seventy-fifth birthday, a day Momma was very nervous about having it arrive. It was the only time Momma didn’t yearn for tomorrow. Earlier in the year all three of her sisters felt she would never make to seventy-five. There Mother died when she was seventy-four and for some ridiculous reason they felt Momma would leave first and follow in her Mother’s footsteps. Sadly, Momma did leave before they did, but they had to wait an additional dozen years for it to happen. I often wondered if they knew how mean they were when they suggested that to her.
In the years following Momma had many wonderful parties and she never was hesitant to have another birthday. Her birthdays were like her tomorrows. They were something that she needed to keep looking forward to rather than dwelling on the past. Even last year, her last birthday with me, was joyfully embraced by her. Momma always adapted and that day her strength was paramount. She had just been in the hospital, very frail and barely could speak loudly, yet she was ready to get dressed, sit on the sofa, rather than stay in bed. It was Momma’s day and the hair, makeup and dress had to be perfect for her. When we sang Happy Birthday I lit candles on a plate of pastel White Chocolate Nips as Momma’s cake. Her swallowing had become very weak and she was not able to eat, yet even those little nips with candles were very special to her.
Momma was and is a very special person. I shall never be able to equal her in humor, wisdom or compassion. She has always been my guiding light and continues to be. Many days I know my Mother’s hand help direct me through what I am doing. I know Momma is here with me now as I write and as I prepared the movie that will help share our special feelings during her memorable birthdays over the last decade.
Please join me in sharing my memories–
From the time that I can remember, early every spring, Momma and Daddy took a trip to buy new, little Chicks. When they arrived home, my father took the large, gray, covered boxes (possibly 3 foot squares by 4 inch deep) from the trunk and went directly to the “Chick” house with the treasure! I thought the boxes were strange because their surfaces were waxed, but now I realize the wax made it easier to wash the “poop” out of the boxes after transport because they needed to be returned to the grower!!
The “Chick” house was preset for the new little birds with a thick layer of shaved wood chips. In the center of the room was a gray, metal, warming brooder, an octagonal, tent-like structure that was centered by a large, electric light to produce a warm area for the chicks. Around the brooder was two stations with water, although the bottom tray of the water feeder was very narrow so the little chicks couldn’t get in and drown and two or three narrow feeding trough where finely ground bits of corn and oats were put three times a day. The inside of the room was very warm, a slight, sweet, smell of wood and oats, mixed with the fragile smell of tiny little warm bodies covered with fluffy down. While the eye and the nose received little gifts while little feet climbing up legs or twenty little wings fluttering at your ankles teased the sense of touch. The most surprising was the gentle, sound of little peeps, each singing its own song, yet combining into a soothing sonata comparable to one for the wind instruments.
Warm under the Brooder!!
Very tasty oats they feed us!!!
Until I grew old enough to understand the importance of being careful as you entered the Chick House, I was told not to enter the room. The first time I accompanied my Mother to help her when the chicks arrived I was anxious to see them for the first time.
After the first minute inside the house I understood what the concern was. Little, tiny chicks become frightened very easily and instead of running from you they encircle your feet and you need pick them up and move them before you can take a step. Later on they get used to you and won’t panic. After that first visit I never asked to go for a very long time. As I grew more agile and less intimidated by stepping on them I found the little chicks fascinating. To pick up a dozen or so tiny little, squirmy, chirping chicks, while trying to get under my arm or in the fold of my coat for protection is a mighty experience.
As the weeks passed and the weather turned warm, the little babies grew not only in size, but developed new coats that signified if they were a rooster or a hen. Momma only wanted Rhode Island Reds. She said they had the tastiest eggs and the roosters were the most tender. I couldn’t argue because our eggs and fried chicken was much tastier than our neighbors. Not only were they tastier, but also as they grew they were much prettier than a plain, old white hen or rooster. The Rhode Island Reds were very sassy strutting around in shiny, red brown feathers, bright yellow legs and feet and beautifully formed tail of long feathers. The males, always chic, strutted around with their bright red, combs and wattles.
Hen on the right , the Rooster on the left,
These are full grown, a little older than I write about,
but just as nice looking!!!
Depending upon how fast they grew, usually by the end of June, my Father would let Momma know it was time!! I knew what that meant and I shuddered each year. From that moment all I could think of was after the young roosters grew, developed their own unique personality, strutted proudly through the crowd of young hens and tomorrow—well first take another look at the young stud!!
By the following evening there would be a dozen less “studs” freely enjoying their budding existence. Just before sunset, Momma, Daddy, Sherry and I headed for the younger Chicken House. Each of us would return to the yard near the Woodshed with three aspiring stars. Before I put my three in the wooden cages I waited for Momma to put hers in. Then she would take two of mine while I petted the third rooster in my arms. My Father would yell if I dallied long so each good bye was as quick as could be. After they were locked in the cages I sneaked another little pet and bid them a good night. Now I think how ridiculous I was –why would I ever bid them a good night!!
The next morning I was awakened by “Thunk—scritch—slump!” Next came a rustle of feathers, the tone quickly slowly until it stopped. I covered my head because I didn’t want to count…….I didn’t want to know how many more to go…………..I knew and I didn’t want to remember that with each rooster Momma would take them one by one from the cage, walk over to the huge old maple tree and while holding them down onto the bark with her left hand the hatchet swiftly came down with the right hand. First it went through, then pull the hatchet across the bark and then use it to push the head off to the side. Whenever I mowed I tried to stay away from the bottom of the tree. The bark had permanently been stained red by decades of murder!!!
Murder yes, to a young person, but as I aged I realized that was how we got much of our food on the table. I never liked what happened and for weeks after I pined for Momma’s fried chicken, but I refused to eat!! But the best was to come. After I knew the axe had dropped for the last time I quickly got out of bed, dressed and ran down stairs. My sister already was with my Mother helping her carry the roosters into the summer kitchen. My job was to put away the cages and clean up the yard and the hatchet. Then, while my Mother and sister prepared the rooster to be take to the locker in town to be wrapped and frozen, I was to take charge of making dinner and supper.
The Killing Tree!!!
I had that wonderful, easy job because what was too happen in the summer kitchen was even worse than hearing the thump of the axe. When I was young I tried helping my Mother do the things she needed to do. First she dipped the roosters in boiling water to loosen the feathers. The smell was indescribable or so I thought. Next she had me sear the pinfeathers from the rooster by holding the raw skin close to an open fire. Now I was getting a little nauseous. Not only did it smell like flesh burning the damp feathers combined to give you the effect of a dead body in a sauna.
Even though I was holding my own at this time, I didn’t look forward to anything, although I wasn’t sure what was going to take place. I was standing near my Mother as she took a huge, sharp knife and cut the bird open. She did this with such ease. I watched with horror, disgust and a new wave of nausea. I had never smelled warm innards and the warm, strange odor really did carry with it an aura of death. Immediately following that first cut I grabbed my stomach and barely made it outside to let my breakfast out!!!
Momma was worried, came out to me and told me it was something that I had to get used to and in time probably wouldn’t even be bothered by it. Well, the little man decided to give it another try and so returned to have my sister show me how to cut the gizzard in half and clean it. I asked Momma what was in that gizzard……as she answered me I took my second trip out to the yard. This time I really felt sick. It was the last time I was expected to help inside the summer kitchen! God works in wonderful way!!
Ah, nonetheless, I yearn for another piece of Momma’s fried Chicken! It was the best!!
