FALL, FAMILY AND APPLES

    
  
When I drive to northern Michigan in the middle of October I just hold my breath. The wide sweep of blazing maize, outrageous orange and firecracker reds seem endless. Even the weeds and tall grasses are showing off their colors: burnt browns, mustard yellow. I am humbled with God's immense paintbrush. Exiting the interstate, dodging traffic in town, I turn unto Center Road which bisects Old Mission Peninsula. At the first wide sweep of rolling water, orchard and vineyard dotted hills, I murmur my traditional prayer given each returning trip, "Thank you God for giving me this."


My attention turns from the immenseness of autumn to the fall I can hold in my hands: apples. Fruit stands begin popping up mid July on Center Road: a new bright purple one with fancy awning and changeable sign to advertise selections, a circular yellow wooden stand with artistic fruit painted along the bottom, just a card table with a jar for your money, an old stonewall. The stands begin with cherries, move to peaches, blueberries, veggies of all varieties; but in mid October apples are supreme, each kind displaying its own uniqueness, its own taste, its own memory. Now stands advertise Honey Crisp, the new kid on the block (or apple in the orchard.) “We have Honey Crisp!!” “Honey Crisp here.” Right now she’s the Miss Personality, the new Homecoming Queen.

As a child we would jump into the family station wagon for a Sunday afternoon drive: my sister and I vying for the window seats, our little brother squirming between us. It seemed like an every Sunday ritual: visiting Grandma in Athens. At least in fall we delighted in the bonus of fresh apples from the orchards surrounding Athens. I loved Jonathans, the redness of their skin, the pure whiteness of its inside. My mother, the perfect pie maker, always said, "Spys are for Pies" but she preferred the "reliable Macintosh."

When our children were young we continued the Sunday ritual with trips to Big Red in Romeo: hay wagons driven by tractors delivered families to the orchards. Guides stood in paths pointing, “Red Delicious to the right…Empires to the left.” We always looked for the Ida Red rows. They were my husband’s favorite. He would show the three year old the low hanging branches and then heft the toddler unto his shoulders, pointing out “perfect” apples to pick.

Now I hold tightly to another apple memory: making applesauce with my grandchildren: coring the apples, letting them throw the quarters into the big pot, stirring the apples to “mush” as they cook. Then the most fun of all, pulling out that “funny winder” (or food mill) from the back of the cupboard where it stays all year until apple season and getting to turn and turn it until “miracle applesauce appears.”

Memories made in Michigan.

LETTERS FROM MY DAD: JIM AND I

The September 12, 2011, issue of People featured an article on “The Children of 9/11” describing ten kids who were born after their fathers died on that terrible day. The red headed freckle face sweetheart, Lauren McIntyre, on the cover holds a pendant with her father Donald’s picture. Inside, Jamie Gartenberg Pila also wears a pendant. Her father, James Gartenberg, is shown in an inserted picture with a University of Michigan hat. He was honored, along with other U of M graduates who perished on 9/11, before the Notre Dame/Michigan on September 10, 2011. The stories are poignant, told from each child’s point of view and their mother’s. I devoured the stories, hung on every word; remembered nine years before when People ran another feature called “Small Blessings” just after these same children were born. People is not alone, there are moving stories every night on national news of veterans’ children, camps and trips for them to heal, features and foundations. I applaud the attention; understanding firsthand how very important it is to know, even though you are different, you are not alone.

In the early 50s Jim and I had each other. Our widowed mothers married brothers, themselves World War II veterans. Imagine the chances, the coincidence! But wait, Jim and I thought it was strange and unusual? Looking back, with so many war widows and returning servicemen it probably wasn’t so unusual or as strange as we thought. No one told us. Networks were non-existent. Grief groups for war orphans were unheard of. There were no camps, no trips to Disney World, no People covers. Just Jim and I, good friends, almost cousins, bonded by sorrow.

We never talked about our dads. Perhaps it was guilt. Our step dads were wonderful caring men who loved us, accepted us. Perhaps we thought it would make them feel bad? A pamphlet buried in my mother’s papers is called, When Sorrow Comes (copyright, 1944.) It starts with seven “Don’ts”…don’t think your case unique, don’t give yourself to excessive grief, don’t retell your sorrows, don’t complain… and perhaps the worst, “Don’t resign yourself to sorrow and feel it will continue.” Sorrow does continue. It is always with you. James Tate’s poem, “The Lost Pilot” is dedicated to his father who was born and died the same years as my father. He writes eloquently and much more truthfully, “I feel as if I were/the residue of a stranger’s life, /that I should pursue you.”

But for Jim and I, we had each other. We sipped Mogan David wine at Christmas together. We had Thanksgiving eating frenzies together. We romped down Lake Michigan dunes together. We were in the same high school graduating class. There was always a bond. Jim died as a young father himself in a horrible auto crash. I mourn his passing. We still have much to talk about. To pursue.

LETTERS FROM MY DAD: BASEBALL

My beloved Detroit Tigers are playing great baseball this year. I try to catch a part of each game. I time four hour trips up north to coincide with broadcasts. I wear my Verlander shirt whenever he pitches. It’s always been that way. Beginning around age ten I had a tiny white plastic radio I would listen to every night, straining to hear Van Patrick give the play by play, learning to keep score, penciling in finished diamonds. I remember my dear stepfather driving me across town to get Al Kaline’s autograph when he was playing in an exhibition game. My dream was not so much to play baseball as to be a sportscaster for baseball

I know I was dreaming for my dad. His letters home were full of baseball references including thanking his nephew, Phil, for sending the box score. At around nine or ten, Phil loved to keep track of the games and send the score sheets off to his Uncle Art. In his letters, Dad would often ask about the Tigers, mention a game he was lucky enough to pick up on his radio, or talk about a pick-up game he played in on the base.

Dad played baseball in high school, wrote about it for his school paper, kept score just like Phil in the Forties, me in the Fifties. I have an old signed baseball on my book case. It’s from a May 12, 1939, game between Quincy and Athens. All dad’s friends and fellow players signed it, even the coach. Dad inked in the score: Athens: 8, Quincy:2, as well as his own contributions: AB:4, HR: 1, H: 2, O:1.

I often wonder do I love baseball because I know my Dad loved baseball or just because I love baseball? Probably a little of both. My own children never showed that much interest growing up, but this year my daughter and her family are following every pitch. Instead of exchanging score sheets, we exchange texts. I heard Eldon L. Ham on IPR Radio discussing his new book, Broadcasting Baseball: A History of the National Pastime on Radio and Television. He said no sport has the connections, the stories, like baseball. I agree especially about the connections. My dad is cheering with me each time Cabrera comes to the plate. I feel connected to my family at Comerica Park when my daughter sends a picture on her phone of where they are sitting. I love watching my granddaughter do her Boesch Dance. I miss the dance now that Brennan is hurt. Memories woven over seventy years with a common baseball thread.

THE LAKE IN AUGUST



Beth Greening photo


I awakened last night to pounding waves and boisterous winds. It is a good sound, a reassuring sound. My beloved Lake Michigan reminded me once again that it can display as many moods as a maturing female. Last night it sounded like an angry teenager slamming her door, denied her demanded rights. Today that teenager has lost its rage, but still is dancing prettily with white caps lacing her song.

Just a few days ago, the lake was a capricious baby blue. Twinkling in the sunlight; batting tiny ripples of giggles at anyone who would listen. Like a toddler waddling from one smitten adult to another: arms wide open for hugs and support.

I think, though, my favorite Lake Michigan role is at sunset: when it flings a ruby necklace across its velvet surface, God opening his jewel box. The frisky clouds cast shadows of lavender, mauve, brilliant red, flaming orange; like me as I move forward in age, a combination of action and muted quiet, dressed in years of laughter, sadness, and delight.

Lake Michigan holds unto it all.

WATER GHOST

I watch the mist move
like a silent magician’s
wand across the water.

The hills of Leelanau
vanish into vaporous
waves of white veils.

A wet ghost drapes
his soppy sheets
upon me and

the sapphires
of lake and sky.
Encasing us all.

MONARCH MOMENT

From Canada to Mexico your
summer vacation of
lazy landscapes, intersecting interstates
seems arduous, tedious, long.
How is it then, that
I am blessed by you,
on my beach?
Dancing with your unlikely partner,
the gangly milkweed,
giving sustenance to your larva babies.


Your flits and flutters
soften, then clear
the chaos cluttering my mind.

Both of us
resting a moment
in pure splendor.

GOING DEEPER



Luncheon of the Boating Party, 1881 by Pierre-Auguste-Renoir, Phillips Collection, Washington D.C., Bridgeman Art Library



“Never lose a holy curiosity.”

--Albert Einstein

    When I read Susan Vreeland’s Luncheon of the Boating Party, I was mesmerized by the characters. I printed out a picture of the painting, labeling each character, matching them with their fictional duplicate. I read about the artist, Renoir, fascinated he had found a way to include his friends in his spontaneous, delightful painting. I knew my next trip to Washington, D.C. would include pilgrimage to The Phillips Collection. Such excitement, such new knowledge from a novel!  (Learn more about Vreeland at svreeland.com)

    Susan Vreeland’s new novel, Clara and Mr. Tiffany: A Novel, enlightened and educated me once again. Tiffany art enthralls me. It seems like quilting with glass. This time Vreeland based her novel on letters thought long lost. Clara Driscoll worked for Louis Tiffany. Through her letters scholars now believe she was responsible for many of Tiffany’s most popular and beautiful items. Clara managed the “Tiffany Girls” at the Tiffany Factory/Studio. She designed deeply stunning lamps stirred from nature…peacocks, trumpet creepers, dragon flies, butterflies. She organized and inspired women of their rights before it was fashionable.

    Vreeland’s novel inspired me to again dig deeper, learn more. I purchased A New Light on Tiffany, Clara Driscoll and the Tiffany Girls by Martin Eidelberg, Nina Grey, and Margaret Hofer, the scholars who assembled the New York Historical Society exhibition. “We three had long been separately engrossed in the history of Louis C. Tiffany. But serendipity and the generosity of colleagues, archivists, and Driscoll relatives brought us together.” (New Light, p. 10) I am now studying rich color pictures of Tiffany lamps, intriguing black and whites of Tiffany girls on Staten Island at the beginning of the Twentieth Century, detailed descriptions of designing for “art and commerce.”

     I remember thirty years ago one of my friends said her father insisted she only read nonfiction, “She couldn’t learn anything from fiction.” How very sad for her. Besides all the obvious: discovering relationships, deepening characters, ironic twists of plot, stupendous settings…novels spark our awe, open our world, caress our curiosity.

Peacock shade probably designed by Clara Driscoll, pre 1906, New York Historial Society