Scattered Seed

A February 27th doesn’t go by, that I don’t think of Grandpa Dick. I really miss him. He gave a sense of steadfastness, of continuation, of belonging. He was something of the family historian, through his journals, his words. He could tell you so much history of his place and time. Grandpa was part of the community fabric. Everybody knew him. He knew everybody. It was fascinating to listen to his stories, no matter what age you were, you could find the humor or the intensity of his narration, and you had to hear him to the end. He had delivered mail with a horse and wagon in the early 1900’s and stayed with the post office into the 1950’s. He had so much to tell.

Grandpa was born in 1892, he was 61 when I was born. I always remember him looking the same throughout my life, though I do remember him becoming lamer as the years went on, and his glasses changed prescription, so that his eyes seemed bigger, more magnified. He had a bald spot on his head, and he carried a cane, sometimes leaning on it while he visited.

I can see Grandpa in his recliner chair in his livingroom, watching a football game on a Sunday afternoon, or at his desk in the corner, the one with the cubbyholes, that I thought was so neat. He wrote in his journal there, recording the comings and goings, the births and the deaths, the weather statistics, the years the lake froze over – he could tell you each one. I can see him getting in or out of his car. He would sometimes pick me up after school, waiting out front, with the engine warming. He would never forget.

I can see Grandpa at the lake, checking the rain barrel, carrying out the corn cobs or watermelon rinds from dinner. He could line peas up on his knife, and slide them into his mouth, just to make you smile. He methodically would wipe the gummy ketchup from its lid, so that it was always tidy. You could count on it. The cottage belonged to him and Grandma. He had built it. It was a great gift they shared with the whole family.

Every birthday, till he went into the nursing home, Grandpa would send me a birthday card, and started it out “Jan, old girl” or something like that, and it would warm my heart. I miss those tokens of his affection for me.

Today, my affection is for Grandpa, his birthday, never forgotten.

Yesterday seemed a pivotal day. When I went outside to pull the newspaper from its box, something felt different. The sun was at a different angle (or maybe it was just sunny for a change). The air felt less harsh, fresher. More birds were singing. There was the sense of spring. That, however, is a few weeks off, and we were brought back to reality today, with weather warnings, and a dumping of snow. Four inches so far, I would guess, and it will continue through the night. They say we may get 6 to 12 inches. I don’t think we have to give up on spring thoughts though. I saw the first robin today. Three red-winged blackbirds have returned, a long-lost cardinal, and two Canada geese flew over the house towards the swamp. Spring can’t be far off.

I started cleaning out my desk a couple of weeks ago, at which point I pulled out my 1973 diary, thinking it would be interesting to read. I stuck it in the headboard bookcase above my pillow. One day Dad asked me if he could read it, as he had noticed it there. I hadn’t really spent any time with it, but Dad took off reading and was soon through the entire year. He asked if I could pull out 1974, so I did. He was reading through that one night, when he came upon the time period where I had started the crewel embroidery picture of a grist mill. I worked on it, sitting by a pond in a field in Oklahoma while Dad fished. I remember that well. It was my first project, and my one and only time to do crewel work. There was a complimentary picture that Dad thought we should have, and I remember going to purchase it. I remember Dad framing both pictures. I have never remembered actually doing it, and according to my writing, that was because Dad embroidered the picture. He read me the part where I said I was very amused to watch him at work on it, which I’m sure I was. All these years later, 34 to be exact, the two pictures hang side-by-side over the piano, the grist mill done by my hand, the windmill done by Dad’s. I totally forgot, but now you know.

It was the fall of 2005,  and I remember looking out at the willows on a pretty fall day,  while the leaves were still on the trees,  and noticing a blue bird that I had never seen here before.   It got me to wondering what other birds might be frequenting the willows,  and I just never paid attention.   It was a weekend,  so I asked Dad if he would drive me up to Cornell.   We had talked about a trip to Sapsucker Woods,  but had never been there.   He had taken school groups there,  and had mentioned that I might want to go someday,  and this was the day.     We spent a few minutes checking out the gift shop,  and there, on a mug,  was the bird I had seen here in the willows.   I simply knew it as a blue bird,  but found that the correct name was Eastern Bluebird.   How simple,  but precise.    I picked up a brochure that day for Project Feederwatch,  thinking it would be interesting to document the bird visitors we have here in the yard over the winter.    Over time I’ve discovered eBird,  and numerous books that have enlightened me about bird habitats and bird feeding.    I have nine feeders out now,  and have attracted over 30 species to the yard over the course of the last two and a half years.   This morning I looked out with my binoculars and spotted an Eastern Bluebird in the maple tree by the deck,  and it reminded me of how it all started.

I am ready for spring.   It seems that it has been too cold for too long,  and I’m tired of it.   When I consider where I live,  I wonder what compelled my ancestors to put down their roots here.    Actually I am a little south of their chosen homesteads,  but not by much.   I wonder if the farming was really good in the summer.   I’m sure they appreciated the lakes and the countryside and the wildlife.   Did they know about the cold?   Had they experienced winter before deciding?   They were surely younger than I am now.  That was in their favor.   The cold probably didn’t bother them as much,  although they had to endure the elements in ways I can’t imagine.    I feel an isolation in winter.   They were truly isolated.     Anyway,  they settled here,  here I am.   Spring will be a celebration……when it comes.

Deja vu…..it was just a year ago that we had a bad snowstorm,  Dad really didn’t feel well,  doctor’s appointments a week apart,  then the hospital for a week.    Here we are again….a snowstorm,  Dad doesn’t feel well,  the doctor tells him he has pneumonia,  again….and a week goes by,  Dad still doesn’t feel well,  his chest doesn’t seem to clear,  then coughing up some blood….back to the doctor.     I think we both had the hospital in the back of our minds today as we left the house for the lab,  then the doctor’s office, then back for an xray.     Off to the pharmacy for a stronger cough med and a different antibiotic.      Coumadin dosage is reduced – perhaps the cause of the blood?   Repeat labs in a week………we made it back home,  no hospital.    Whew.