Aunt Catherine

 My mother’s sister, Catherine, died last week. While it could be pointed out that I had not talked with her lately, it cannot be argued that her passing leaves me feeling sad.

Mom had four brothers and two sisters. Although I saw my uncles more frequently, it was when I was with my aunts that I would see my mother’s eyes, recognize her smile, and hear her voice. I would also learn about her as I listened to their stories.

I learned a lot about Mom from them – things that maybe Mom would not have told me herself. Mom was born in 1929, the year that saw the beginning of The Great Depression (that much I knew). As times were tough many families did not enough money or food to take care of their own children. As a little girl, my mother was sent to live with her aunt and uncle for a few months.

During World War II when their Dad and brothers were off to war, the three girls had to pick up the slack. Mom helped with the farm chores in the barn and fields, while her two sisters helped their mother keep house, prepare meals and sew.

They also had adventures on the farm. My aunts told about the time of they got chased up a tree by a bull. There was also the time when one of the girls had to be pulled out of an icy river that ran through their farm.

As Catherine got older she continued to have adventures, but now it was with her husband, John, and their three children.  They lived in the South American country of Chile, in the desert outside of Tucson, Arizona, and near the mountains in Boise, Idaho and Denver, Colorado. It wasn’t easy to see Aunt Catherine on a regular basis, as she often lived far away and kept moving.

Her husband, John, was a geologist whose work took him to many different locations. Even though he worked with rocks he never took his sense of humor for granted. He once asked my wife, Rhonda, and me when our birthdays were. When he found out that we were less than a year apart he said, “Well, geologically speaking, you’re really the same age.” I thought it was funny.

I have often wondered with all their moving (to some pretty desolate places) if Catherine didn’t get lonely. She once told me about the pioneer women who had lived by themselves, often for months at a time, when their men folk would be gone hunting and trapping. She said the women often lost their minds listening to the wind and wolves howling outside their tiny, cold cabins.

As the winter creeps in from the north and the wind and coyotes howl outside my warm farm house, I think of those pioneer women and Aunt Catherine. Catherine was sharp, witty and funny. She was a good mother, a devoted wife, a loyal sister and a loving aunt, and with her passing I feel the loss of my mother.

Monologue

There is a fine line separating genius from insanity. The perceived difference between a person talking to them self and keeping a diary (or journaling for the pseudo-sophisticated) is as far apart as the East is from the West. The written exercise can be defined as writing down one’s thoughts or recording the events of the day. It’s important to note that this activity is done alone, much like playing solitaire. But if instead one were to verbalize these thoughts to themself (thinking out loud), they would be considered as not quite right in the head.

Talking to one’s self starts early in life. A baby will often jabber and coo to no one in particular. They stare into space and carry on as if there were someone conversing with him or her. My mother used to say they were talking to their guardian angel.

Later on, as we age and lose our ability to converse with angels, some of us will create imaginary friends to talk to. Sometimes this continues well into adulthood. James Thurber illustrated this with his wonderful short story, “The Secret Life of Walter Mitty.”

Singing in the shower is common and well documented, but start talking to yourself about the merits of lather, rinse and repeat as you perform as instructed and people will look at you funny. I can sit with a book and read for hours without attracting attention, but the minute I start to read aloud (especially with expression) heads begin to turn.

It’s getting harder to tell if someone is engaged in a rather spirited debate with themselves or arguing with their spouse on a cell phone. If you don’t see the earpiece you may find yourself saying “poor thing” under your breath.

People with pets can get away with talking to their dog or cat. It’s when the conversation takes on the characteristics of a dialogue that they run into trouble.  I have it on good authority that farmers will talk to their cows. The cows also get yelled at quite a bit when they don’t cooperate, such as when they are being asked to get in the barn or the right stall. I don’t have any cows, but I have chickens and a cat. The cat is a good listener, but I cannot come up with a reason to talk to the chickens; they seem rather simple-minded, and we have absolutely nothing in common.

Mark, my college roommate, and I would visit a neighborhood establishment and have a beer on occasion.  On one particular occasion the door burst open and the entire bar became aware of a loud, animated argument a man was having with himself on whether he should stay or leave. After a few minutes of heated discussion, he ended up leaving. I was never able to determine whether he got his way by leaving or if he would have rather stayed.

But I think I know how he felt. A thinking man is considered intelligent; a man who talks to himself, even intelligently, is thought crazy. Sometimes I will mull something over in my mind, playing both sides of the argument until I finally decide which way to go. This is all well and good, as long as I keep quiet and toe the line.

Things Remembered

The leaves in the churchyard rustled as I shuffled my feet through them. St. Mark’s Catholic Church in Shakopee is only a couple blocks from my office, and I will on occasion cut through the grassy yard between the school and the church when I am out for a walk. Cutting through the churchyard might be considered trespassing, and it could be argued that I should stay on the sidewalk and go around. But I can’t.

The old concrete steps beckon me from the sidewalk, the utilitarian pipe railing guides me, and the quiet – almost holiness of the yard welcomes me.

The church is different, the school is different, and I am older. Yet, so much of it feels the same as when I was a kid in Belle Plaine.

I attended Catholic grade school at Saints Peter and Paul, and I usually walked to school, as it was only a few blocks from my house on Church Street. I even went home for lunch. As I walked through that churchyard the leaves would crunch under my feet or be swept along if I kept my steps short.

My mood is usually not affected by the change of seasons or the weather. I will, however, admit to a melancholy feeling when the autumn winds blow.

Even though I love the fall with its colors, brisk air, and the dead or dying bugs, I cannot help but feel a little sad with this change of seasons.

With each passing day the sun sets earlier – a metaphor for life I suppose.

Being closer to sixty than fifty makes me treasure each passing season a little more than the previous year.

Everyone around here appreciates what a wonderful, warm fall we have had. I think we may be getting set-up for a big disappointment though. All good things must come to an end I am told. We are so used to having these pleasant temperatures that when they do finally do drop it will seem especially nasty.

Fall is more than just a time to enjoy the colors and crisp air; it is also the time to get ready for winter. Even though it’s not here yet we know it’s coming so we prepare. We close the pool, put away the lawn furniture, drain the hoses, til the garden, clean the chimney, and get out our sweatshirts.

The farmers are also getting ready for winter. The trucks filled with this year’s corn harvest rumble down the road in front of our farm. The combines are clearing the fields to make room for the snow.

It seems now I am drawn to things that remind me of something or someone from my past. Autumn leaves remind me of my boyhood home. We raked leaves into piles to jump into; we raked them into the outlines of house walls and played house in them; Dad would burn leaves, and on my walks to school and church I would shuffle through the leaves and listen to them rustle.

Many Happy Returns

“Many happy returns” is a phrase that is sometimes included as part of a birthday greeting; it means, of course, that there is a wish for many more happy birthdays. It does not, of course, refer to the returning of merchandise.

I am less bothered by returning something I purchased for my own use and enjoyment because it didn’t work out than I am returning something that was bought for someone else because I got the wrong size, color, quantity, edition, brand or model. This bothers me because it demonstrates a gap in communication – usually between my wife and me.

While planning for a party it was brought to my attention that we needed some more lights to replace the ones that were no longer working. I figured forty feet should do the trick. Because I used sloppy math and inaccurate measurements (in the interests of time and convenience) I allowed for a healthy margin of error (within ten feet or so) and headed to the store.

Because I was replacing a string of white “Christmas tree” lights that had proved unreliable in a particular application and location, I decided to upgrade. I had heard good things about LED bulbs and went shopping for them.

 “Can we help you find anything in particular?” two guys dressed like twins standing in front of the unseasonably early Christmas decorating section asked. I quickly concluded that Christmas lights weren’t what I was looking for because they didn’t suggest it.

I had no idea that shopping for lights could be so enlightening (I had considered using illuminating instead). In addition to strength and size, LED bulbs come in various colors and groupings. I was confident I was going to look quite bright when I came home with four lengths of rope lights – apparently enough to hang myself.
 

My wife didn’t like them, saying they would look like a hose hanging on the barn, but to her credit she said I could put them up anyway. I had learned my lesson in the past; if she didn’t like them now – she would grow to hate them later.  It was best to return them now and save myself the hassle of putting them up and them taking them down once her true feelings were known.

When I returned them to the store the next day, the lady behind the counter asked me why I was returning the lights. When I told her my wife didn’t like them she said, “I see this all the time. You guys always get it wrong. I don’t know why you guys don’t just send your wives to get what they want in the first place.”

She’s right. I have made that same mistake too many times. Fortunately (or wisely) my wife offered to shop for the light bulbs a day or two later. She ended up getting several strings of white Christmas lights – exactly what was being replaced, and apparently exactly what she wanted.

My wife’s birthday is coming up.  As is often the case, when I ask her what she wants for her birthday she responds, “Nothing.” I never listen. But I suppose this year I could wish her many happy returns as I hand her the gift with a gift receipt.

Hidden Truth

Sometimes where you are gives you a clear view of who you are. On the night of September 27^th we were camping at Beaver Creek Valley State Park in the southeastern point of Minnesota. The park is set in a heavily wooded valley. Because there are no large cities nearby, the sky is especially dark and the only lights that are able to permeate the dense, deep valley come from the heavens.

Other than the soft glow coming from campfires and the few lights from campers getting ready for bed the park was completely dark. There were no streetlights, no neon lights, no floodlights, and no yard lights. There was only the light of the moon and a million stars.

I live in the country, but my home is close to some pretty good size cities. I have always enjoyed looking at the stars, but I had forgotten that I have been only able to see a few compared to the vast number that are visible when not masked by the cast of neighboring city lights.

On that particular night the Blood Moon appeared. The Blood Moon is a total lunar eclipse when the Earth casts its shadow over a full moon and the moon, embarrassed by the attention, blushes. Up and down the campground road people gathered to see the show. They stood on the road to get out from under the canopy of trees that obscured their view.

While the man from a campsite across from ours was standing on the road gazing at the moon, the woman busied herself inside their camper. Either she had seen a Blood Moon before, or she planned on being around for the next one in the year 2033. To think that she stayed inside because she didn’t care about what was going on skyward seemed less likely.

Up at the next place there were four trout fisherman sharing one tent camper. Based upon no more than the perceived ages of the four, I surmised that there were two pairs of elderly fathers and their middle-aged sons out on a fishing trip. Through the darkness I could hear the voices of these four men standing on the road. There they were, fathers and sons looking up at the rare event for the last time together – for most likely the older men would not be around eighteen years from now.

I hope I am around to see the next Blood Moon, and what’s more, I hope to see it at a campground. I’ll be seventy-four the next time it comes around and I don’t plan on parking my truck anytime soon.

The nomadic lifestyle has a certain appeal. While I still disdain much of the hassle of camping and dislike being away from the comforts of home, I have grown fond of the quiet campfires, the skillet breakfasts, the board games, reading by a dim light, hiking, and exploring small towns.

It is experiences like witnessing a Blood Moon from a dark forest floor that makes me realize how small I really am and how very insignificant many of my problems are. Sometimes it takes a big event to overshadow us.