Missing the Seasons

I remember seasonal changes and I remember loving each and every one of those changes as they each meant something different and meaningful. Seasonal changes always gave me cause for pause, for reflection, for hope and anticipation. They brought about excitement for the new season and all that it held.

Most of you know I'm not a fan of spring and summer because of the heat and I think part of that is we don't get a winter or at least not much of one anymore so there's no need to look forward to spring when you've been having summer and spring all during fall and winter. It's like fall and winter are gone away and I miss them terribly.

The last 10+ years have given us summer-like weather all during autumn and spring-like weather in winter and I find it depressing. How I long for those seasonal changes of my youth.

When I was growing up summer meant the end of the school year, days at my grandparents helping Grandmother snap beans, shell peas, shuck corn... Summer meant sleeping with the windows up and the window fan going. It meant playing freeze tag and baseball in the yard. It meant climbing trees to read books and riding my bike all day long. Summer meant fourth of July with BBQ, watermelon, potato salad, deviled eggs, churning ice cream, and fireworks galore. Summer meant going to the lake and water skiing and having cookouts in the backyard and our annual week-long trip to Myrtle Beach. Summer meant fashioning flower crown wreaths from clover and running about in the yard with them on our heads. Summer meant going to the community swimming pool, chasing fireflies, running between the sheets hanging on the line, and glorious late afternoon summer thunderstorms.

Fall was exciting as the first coolness in the air came about and stunning, vibrant colors began to appear on trees that only weeks ago were a million different shades of green. There were holidays to prepare for, pumpkins to buy, weekend camping trips to the mountains where we always stopped and bought apples and apple cider from the roadside stands. Fall was Halloween costumes and Thanksgiving dinner and sweaters and jackets and long pants. Fall was football on television and in the backyard. Fall was school and friends and school supplies and new school clothes. Fall was full of energy and color and fun.

Winter meant cold and snow at least once a year enough to warrant getting a sled for Christmas. Winter was trees shed of their colors, stark spindly and beautiful black against lovely gray skies. Winter was the excitement and anticipation of Christmas, New Year's, my birthday. Winter was Grandmother's Christmas goodies all made from scratch and with love and yes, you could taste the difference. Winter was snuggling up by the fireplace with books and Barbies. Winter was hot chocolate, warm coats, boots, and knitted hats. Winter was cozy blankets, warm socks that flopped around as I walked in them. Winter was brilliant red cardinals against a white background. Winter brought a blank page for spring to color.

Spring was cool in the morning and warm in the afternoon. Spring was first of colors on every street. Spring was Easter and the Easter Bunny and a new Easter dress, and Easter dinner at Grandmother and Granddaddy's house. Spring was Grandmother and Grandaddy's birthday and their anniversary. Spring was knowing that school would be out soon and summer was just around the corner. Spring was working in the yard on weekends with Grandmother whose yard exploded with vibrant color all during spring and summer.

This year, we've had summer and spring in the low-country once again. There is no looking forward to spring because winter was not allowed to happen. There was only the hope of winter. There was no fall as summer held on through November and then the weather was more like spring than fall but could, technically, have been fall. Sadly, there were no distinct seasonal changes again this year.

I suppose moving to a climate more conducive to seasonal changes would be the answer but when you are close to family and super close to your grandkids, that's not actually going to happen because grandkids are more important than just about anything else in the world especially personal preference.

It's not always easy missing the wonderful things of our childhood. If you're like me you still miss your grandparents all the time, friends, family gatherings, and the like. A simpler, happier time. A time of seasonal changes when we were in the spring and summer of our lives.

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What the Fig?

It's National Fig Week. Lawdy, they've got a national week for nearly everything, don't they? And BTW, who is this THEY who come up with the ridiculous things? Marketers of products needing a boost?

Figs. Really? We're going to celebrate figs? But then, when I thought about it I realized figs are one of many portals sending me to the nostalgia of my childhood. Yep, figs.

My cousins had a fig tree in their yard and my grandmother thought they were completely blessed to have that thing because she was a wizard in the kitchen and loved 'putting up' fig preserves. I've known folks to take a fig off the tree and eat it but not me. Something about them just didn't sit right with me but I loved Grandmother's fig preserves and I think that's the proof that she could make/bake/cook anything and it would be fantastic.

Or it was the sugar.

Let's face it, sugar and figs were the main ingredients to fig preserves and I imagine things haven't
changed much. In any case, Grandmother made delicious fig preserves whether you put them on a homemade biscuit or just stuck your finger in the jar, the preserves were delicious. Did this translate into me exploring figs and using them in my recipes? No, it did not. The closest I get is Fig Newtons.

I mean, all I remember Grandmother doing with figs is making the preserves and I never did that. I put up strawberry preserves with her help but not the figs. And there was sugar. Lots.

Every summer we helped Grandmother put up fresh straight off the farm fruits and veggies for the winter. Corn, green beans, peas, tomatoes, pickles, watermelon rind pickles, homemade vegetable soup...and the preserves- strawberry, fig, peach and then just the fruit itself. Goodness, but we had some delicious food all through the year because it wasn't just a few ears of corn but bushel upon bushel. Same with the other vegetables and fruits. Grandmother stayed with the task until it was completed to perfection all the while humming her favorite hymns.

Autumn does this to me, renders me nostalgic for some of the best times in my memory. And today, it's the whole National Fig Week thing because that took me straight to Grandmother's kitchen which was definitely the heart of her home all filled with warmth and love and fig preserves.

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A Haunted Tale

If you think you've read this post before, you might have. It's a repost from 2011 and 2015. I know, I know. But it's such a funny...I mean, scary tale and it's October and that means Halloween and I don't have anything else written so... Enjoy!

Growing up, I loved weekend camping trips to the mountains. 

When I was growing up our family took the usual annual vacation to either the beach or the mountains but we also got to go camping sometimes just for the weekend.  These camping trips were so much fun and we always went to the mountains.  One weekend we went to a campground in a town where friends of our parents lived. It was only an hour or two away and one other family, with 3 boys, came with us. My parents friends had one son and a daughter much younger than any of us.  Basically, it was going to be a weekend of boys what with my three brothers as well which wasn’t a terrible thing as I was a tomboy. When we got to the campground it was practically deserted --as it was the off season—with only 3 campers in the whole place.  Not a problem since there were plenty of us to have fun and go exploring.  Once we were set up, our freaking hilarious wonderfully enlightening parents began spinning a tale of a haunted house on the campground road.  Of course, being kids, we were completely enthralled with the story and insisted that we go and take a look.  Funny that no one remembers the story now. But we all remember visiting the house.

There has never been a better haunted looking house.

Once we hit just the right spot in the dirt road, we saw the old house looming ahead on the left.  There has never been a better haunted looking house in a Hollywood movie. This place was two stories high with a widow’s walk on top. The siding was old and gray looking with some slats hanging down at an angle from the rusty old nails that could no longer hold them in place. There were steps leading up to a porch that spanned the front of the house. Several of the boards curved up at the edge of the steps and the porch and there were holes where the wood had given up and rotted away. There was a porch swing hanging at one end of the porch and it creaked, just a little, in the breeze. Most of the windows had been broken, leaving half panes of jagged glass and, those that were intact, were covered in a film of dust and age. Through the windows, we could see old, tattered curtains hanging limp. The walkway leading up to the wide steps was no longer level and was cracked in places with weeds growing up through them. The front yard was overgrown with weeds and dead bushes and was surrounded by an old, gray picket fence that swayed in places and had more leaning slats than straight up and down ones. To enter the walkway leading to the house, we had to pick the gate, that was hanging by only one rusted hinge, up and place it to one side. Several old trees that had already shed most of their leaves were on either side of the house reaching out with their spindly arms. It was coming on dusk; there was a slight breeze; and not a sound was heard other than the ever so slight creaking of the porch swing and the occasional rustling of dead leaves. 

My brother said, "I'm not scared, I'll go in."

There were seven of us kids altogether and we decided that perhaps going up to the door and going inside that house was not the best idea we’d ever had. We discussed this in quiet whispers all the while keeping our eyes sharply focused on the house. Finally, my brave brother, Tony, said- in his best 11-year-old manly voice, “I’m not scared, I’ll go in.” The rest of us stood statue still in a bit of shock at hearing his words and Tony had an expression on his face that clearly indicated he, too, was wondering who the hell said that. Mere seconds passed as my courageous brother realized that it was indeed his voice and that now, because of his big fat mouth impulsive bravery, he was going to have to go into the haunted house. His steps were shaky and slow as he proceeded up the worn path to the first step. He slowly and carefully placed one foot up on the step and looked back. We were all still standing there with wide eyes and opened mouths. Tony walked up each step with uncertainty and paused to look back again when he stood, nervously, on the porch. We had not moved a muscle. Tony took small, careful, baby steps all the way to the front door and stopped. He gingerly reached out his hand to open the old door. At that very moment that insignificant breeze that had caused only slight movement of the porch swing and a gentle (albeit creepy) rustling of the leaves became a wind. And that wind was strong enough to blow the curtain hanging at the broken windows. that ran vertically beside the front door, out just far enough to brush my brother’s arm.  

His feet didn't touch the ground as he spun and took off running!

My fearless brother

To this day I do not think that my fearless brother’s feet touched any part of that house or the earth as he spun around and took off! He was beside us and then past us within a millisecond and there was dust behind him as he flew down the dirt road. The expression on his face illustrated terror quite well with the eyes bugging out and the extreme paleness of his color. As soon as we realized what had happened (and it took a few seconds), we laughed hysterically- half from my brother’s reaction to the curtain and half from sheer relief. Of course we had to go off after him because he was running in the opposite direction of our campsites. Along the way we met our parents’ friends who were driving out to visit- complete with Tony on the hood of their car.      

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Summertime Stringing

Of the beans. I've been getting string beans (green beans) in my CSA box lately and quickly realized that stringing beans is another one of those memory joggers. And, not nearly as much fun as it was when I helped my grandmother with this summer chore.

We had relatives who were mill workers AND farmers when I was growing up. Every summer, my grandmother and I and my brothers when they came to join our family, spent weeks 'putting up' fresh off the farm vegetables for the winter.

We put up corn and green beans and peas (of all sorts) and tomatoes and pickles (cucumbers) and water melon rind pickles (so good!). And then there were the preserves- strawberry, peach, fig. And the fruit- peaches, strawberries, blueberries, blackberries.

Our early summers were filled with canning/freezing these summer delights that we enjoyed year 'round thanks to Grandmother.

We would shuck bushel upon bushel upon bushel upon bushel of corn and Grandmother would scrape the kernels off the cobs. Her glasses and kitchen windows would be covered in corn spittle. It was hilarious! She put up the best corn I've ever eaten in my life to this very day. No matter what veggie or fruit she was working on, Grandmother took care and stayed with it until the job was completed to perfection. All the while humming her favorite hymns.

I don't put up bushels of anything around here. I've tried, but it's just not the same. I probably didn't pay enough attention to Grandmother's techniques or maybe I just don't have what it takes to take this on each summer.

Then there's the fact that the fruit and veggies that are made available to us these days taste nothing like the fruits and veggies Grandmother had access to. She chose all her produce from farmers who did not use pesticides. Most of them still didn't back then. We could eat all those goods canned with love by her hands without fear of the food making us sick over time.

Nowadays, we have to join a CSA and not all of them are certified organic. And, the ones that say they are, might be lying through their teeth. Even if they are telling the truth, who's to say that the very dirt they grow their veggies in isn't full of some sort of chemical death from neighboring farms or from pollution brought to the ground via rain or some other way that is known or unknown to the growers and to us?

I'm afraid that we are getting to that point in time where we have no escape from chemicals in our food and our water and our air. There is simply nowhere to run.

We didn't know how good we had it back in those days. Back when a good bit of our summer days were spent shucking and stringing and shelling and even picking. We could eat anything we picked right off the vine if we wanted to without downing more chemical pesticide than fruit.

A good many of our summer days were spent in laughter and love and learning from the company and wisdom of Grandmother while up to our waists in fresh, pesticide free produce.

Do y'all put up veggies? 

Do Y'all Have This Problem?

I was helping DoodleBug fold her laundry the other day and I came across a pair of what used to be white 'biker' shorts- you know, spandex leggings in the form of shorts. I commented, "Been wearing these much?" And laughed. Oh, she still wears them alright. And she's had them since she played softball. When she was 10. Are you kidding me?

I asked her whether or not she had others. She does. Several pair. She wears these under her shorts while playing Ultimate Frisbee. But she still has and wears the ones she wore over a decade ago. Why?

I think it has something to do with nostalgia.

I have a few things that I keep for no other reason than they belonged to someone close to me or they remind me of some wonderful memory of my childhood.

I tend towards old movies because the actors or the movies themselves remind me of my grandparents or the good things about growing up. I even get sad when an actor of that time passes on.

There are songs on my various playlists that take me right back to those same wonderful memories.

Even a sound or smell can take me back. And I am so grateful for that. I relish those memories. They keep me close to my grandparents, even though they've been gone for a long time now.

Sometimes, my nostalgia overwhelms me and makes me long for days long gone by. But even when it does that, it's not a bad thing. I quite appreciate my nostalgic moments.

Right now, they are taking me back to the long, lazy days of summer...

• the sound of the window fan in my bedroom at night lulling me to sleep with it's soft humming
• the sound of the cicadas singing as we ran around the yard chasing lightning bugs
• the sound from the neighborhood pool- kids having fun- laughing, squealing, splashing-- 'Marco!' 'Polo!'
• the sound of the screen door slamming
• the lawn mower, barking dogs, rain beating against the house, the ice cream truck...

When school starts back, and the weather finally starts to cool just a bit, I'll be transported back to my own school days and the glorious fall season that I loved so much. And still do. Some things never change.

Every season brings a revisit to my childhood. A revisit to the childhood of the lovelies. And a brand new opportunity to make new memories.

Where do your summer memories take you?






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