Harvest memories

This post was something I wrote recently, then submitted to a little weekly newspaper per my father's urging (this particular weekly is published in my childhood hometown). I sent it in with some other samples (because that's what the editor had requested in the printed paper) and then I heard nothing. I finally followed up with an email a couple of weeks later, inquiring whether she'd received my submissions. She replied tartly that she had, in deed, responded and if I hadn't heard back I should check my junk email. She also informed me that she only accepted pieces that had to do with Greene County. (Ummmm... I thought this did? Directly???) I checked my spam/junk folder. Nothing there. I responded to her note, informing her I'd found no communication from her anywhere in my email, and also pointing out that one of my submissions, in fact, described a Greene County event. Her last note confirmed that she had received my stuff, read it, and replied to me, even if I didn't receive it. Her last sentence was a curt, "I think I will pass." Ouch. Am I being overly sensitive, or does that sting just a tad?

I must have been in need of a knocking down. I guess it'll make me stronger, right? ; )

It's fine. I just wish she would have shared her reasoning instead of being so short. "I have an abundant supply of better work," or "Not my style," or simply "You stink." Anything to give me some indication of why I was refused. Because that's the part that gets me: not the refusal, but the fact that her response about only accepting local themes indicates she may not have even read my work. And that makes me crazy. I don't care whether I'm liked, but by golly, I want to be accurately represented.

Regardless, here is the piece for you fine people. You don't have the ability to veto my writing, only to click elsewhere. Enjoy!!! Or, click elsewhere! Up to you!

*****

Throughout my growing-up years and well beyond, my mother and father instilled a distinct sense and appreciation of history in my sisters and me. Family vacations often took us to places of historical significance, such as Gettysburg and Williamsburg. We were expected to know about America's important, tide-turning dates, events, and names. (I am more aware of Pearl Harbor Day than my own birthday most years.) Knowing where you came from, to my parents, was and is crucial to shaping who you become.

In light of my parents’ respect for the past, I guess it's no big surprise that the Greene County Historical Museum's Harvest Festival was an annual occasion for my family.

We'd watch for announcements about the dates, mark them, and then decide which day to go. Many times, various members of my family were in attendance on both Saturday and Sunday. I can still remember the excitement I'd feel as we came upon the museum grounds, with hundreds of cars parked along surrounding routes and in nearby fields. The timing was nearly always perfect, in that the autumnal weekend of the festival coincided with what we call "sweater weather"—those autumn days when one dons a sweater, jeans, and some sturdy shoes that can handle a slippery hillside. The sun often shone brightly, and I recall that most years, the sky was an unbelievably rich shade of blue. Leaves swirled in breezes, and those same breezes brought wonderful scents to your nose: homemade bread and cornbread, pork, candied apples, fruity pies, real popcorn, and apple butter and cider.

The noise level at the festival was always deafening, because set up right inside the entrance was a bevy of ancient machines blasting and popping out a strange, steam-powered rhythm. I had to cover my ears as we passed, and my father (who knows everyone) always saw people he wanted to chat with who happened to be standing right beside the machines. A shouted conversation would ensue, and then finally we could move forward and wander through the craft stands, the various old-time displays, and the crowds of soldiers. (Since there are war reenactments every year, you were bound to rub shoulders with both soldiers and American Indians. It caught me off guard only once, in middle school, to see my history teachers cleaning muzzle-loaders in traditional outfits.) A few times, I knew some of the crafters; my aunt and her friend sold intricate baskets they'd made, a potter we recognized displayed lovely glazed pots to buy, and there were rugs and afghans and wood crafts and so many other things I can't even recall anymore.

The inside of the museum was unchanged most years, with a huge number of rooms that seemed to be frozen in time. Lacy old clothing lay on even older beds; the rooms held chamber pots both large and small, pretty wash pitchers and basins, oddities like framed pictures made from twisted pieces of hair... It was as if we've stepped into another world. I loved the children's room best, with weathered but still beautiful toys and a doll's crib. My favorite thing in the whole building was a miniature model of an old homestead, complete with tiny people and a dog, minute vegetables, even miniature rocking chairs on an old front porch. It was enclosed in a big glass case, and I could have stared into that small home and its many accoutrements for hours.

And there was always music. We couldn't leave without lingering near the hammered dulcimer player and listening to the strains of old folk songs. If a sound could capture the free, windblown spirit of the Appalachians, my vote would be for that dulcimer. The old fellow who played it would move easily from piece to piece, delighted as a crowd gathered. The music drifted out through the ever-opening-and-closing front door of the museum, drawing more people into the already crowded rooms. It was hard to leave those beautiful, haunting melodies.

Heading for the basement of the museum made it easier to leave the music, because the lower level of the structure was where a lot of the food could be found. Big steps led you into the cellar, where many wonderful people plied you with amazing goods. (They did expect you to pay, but you always got more than your money's worth.) My personal favorite, apple butter on homemade bread, was usually to be found closer to the entrance of the festival instead of the basement, which worked out fine with me; if I’d already had that treat when I first arrived, then I'd be ready for the other goodies by the time I made my way to the rest of the foods later.

The smells of dry leaves and fine foods, the sounds of voices and folk songs and reenacted gunshots, the dappled sun shining down on a lovely brick mansion that had stood solidly for over a century—all of those wonders were a yearly joy that marked the presence of fall just as surely as the first genuinely chilly high school football game.

I returned to the festival last year with my little boy, and it's as fun as ever. I am always so delighted when a childhood memory lives up to itself in adulthood. I wish the same for you—and enjoy the lovely fall days.

This is why I don't watch the news

Watching the news, any news, for more than a couple of minutes is nearly impossible for me. The stories on the news are either ludicrous, horrific, or feature mind-numbingly evil antagonists. And sometimes, those stories infuriate me.

The local news can be awful, but often equates a soap-opera news option—overly dramatic broadcasters, all blonde hair, raised eyebrows and deadpan delivery, covering fires in abandoned buildings, bearded men who are arrested for not placing reflective triangles on their buggies... Sometimes the stories are tragic, and sometimes it's just a slow news day.

The world news? That's usually too disturbing to watch for long. We've become immune to violence and death from over-exposure. How many people were killed in the bombing? Was that a dead body I just saw covered in rubble? There was another natural disaster? What was it this time? Oh.

Let's take a look at what's going on now. Okay, there was a large-scale exotic animal massacre in Ohio because some loon of a guy who had amassed all these amazing creatures decided to 1) release them and 2) kill himself. Huh?! What in the world? Why did he collect them all, and then why did he free them and take his own life? Did he think this was some sort of statement? Did he honestly believe the animals would roam freely and not come to harm? How did he even get them? Was it legal? Apparently there were complaints for years about this goofball, yet he continued to acquire (both animals and bizarre personal traits, I'm guessing) and here we are today with a boatload of animal corpses in Ohio.

It gets better. In Philadelphia, authorities uncovered a dungeon of suffering for mentally challenged adults and an assortment of youth who receive government assistance of some sort. A sick little trio of friends decided, apparently, this was an easy way to make some money. How in the world this seemed like a defensible idea to anyone, I will never know. I can't even go there. I am ill just considering the conditions and suffering that these people were held in.

Now, those are stories that turn our stomachs, as they should. I don't want to know about them, but I probably should be at least informed so I keep abreast of what people are capable of doing. I can't begin to understand, but I should be aware and be reminded: This is a really messed up place with some seriously twisted people in it.

But then there are stories that enrage me, too. Like the whole Occupy Wall Street nonsense. What are these people against, exactly? Joblessness? If they had jobs, they likely wouldn't be able to participate in this lovely demonstration for very long. So maybe that's the beef? Or is it that big, bad corporations weren't held accountable for money loss? Were they hoping for college loans to be forgotten and that didn't happen? Have they come to the depressing realization that they can't drive new, fast cars on their current budgets? Do these folks even know why they're there? Are they angry that their cell phones are out of battery power? That their designer duds got dirty and/or no longer match? What, really, is the main complaint?

I can't stand to watch much of it, these people camped out in the very spaces that corporations provide for them, the displeased crowds who all manage to have what they really value (technology, name brands, nice camping gear) but bemoan the lack of money and opportunity. I hate to burst everyone's bubble, but here's the truth: many lives begin with (and sometimes continue with) un-fantastic, uninspiring, unrewarding work. Many of us started there, and frankly, more than a few have remained there. I can tell you why the middle class is shrinking; it's because the middle class tries very hard to have a lot of the same baubles that the upper class enjoys. We here in middle world have a very serious case of misguided, confused priorities. I want to live in a country that appreciates hard work, the basics, and has values. I don't really care to join with a band of creative hippy types who are whining about the lack of handouts.

Stop looking for handouts. Stop kvetching about who got them. Contact the president who's exacerbating the situation, your local and state representatives (do you even know who they are? did you vote?) and share your frustrations with them, and then go to work somewhere. Drive a small used car, live in a smaller house or apartment, shop where I shop, and most of all, Shush. Vociferously occupying a space that lies in the shadow of the very corporations that fund your hobbies, hand-helds, and highfalutin pursuits is hypocritical. If we look back at the history of this country, our success has been the result of individuals who competed to make money and make things better, and who worked hard. Sometimes, success has rested on the ability of many to do without, to sacrifice willingly. Nobody got rich by spreading the wealth, which actually means taking someone else's wealth. Which that wealthy person likely worked to attain. It's not the government's job to provide for us. The government owes us nothing but rights, freedoms, and protection from crazy people.

All right. I'm stepping off the soapbox now. I'm getting fired up just thinking about all this, weird people, cruel people, uninformed spoiled people, etc. I don't want to live in a bubble, but I also don't want to immerse myself in a boiling cauldron of information that fills me with helpless fury.

So, I'll keep the television off, and limit my time online. If I want to maintain a healthy balance in my mind and heart, I need to restrict my exposure. I want to feel genuine love for my fellow man, but golly, they can be an unlovable bunch.

A little insulation, not just in winter

I don't watch the news. I haven't watched it for a long time now.

This is partly because I have a small child who sees all and who asks many questions. I am not eager to expose him to all the horrific events in the world. We do discuss the events of the world on a simplified surface level; he knows that a few years ago, some confused, angry men flew planes into buildings and hurt and killed many people. He doesn't understand it any better than I do. He knows that very recently, there was an earthquake far away and that it, too, hurt and killed people. He doesn't grasp how many; how could he? I don't even grasp how many. He knows that there are lots of fires on the news, and police cars, and robberies. He likes the flashing lights, and that usually distracts him sufficiently and he asks no questions about those things.

But he doesn't need to know yet that children are raped and beaten, starved even. He will have his entire life to learn about the cruelties that people impose on each other, not just on smaller ones but on other adults, too. He can go many more years without realizing that any object in the hands of an evil person can become a weapon. He doesn't need to know that sometimes, people take each other's lives. That sometimes the fire on TV has been intentionally set—that sometimes, it is set on the back of another human being. There is no need for such information to enter his impressionable, imaginative mind.

I don't want to shield him from reality. I suppose I just want to delay it a bit, until he's better able to handle it. (And when would that be, I wonder?) It doesn't help that all the local newscasts—and the national news broadcasts and weekly news magazines and semi-fictional police shows to boot—all of them delight in violence and gruesome detail and the apparent viewers that such gore rakes in. When they're all competing to see which one can shock the most, we are the losers. And as long as ratings rule the airwaves, I will continue to keep the box off far more than on.

I feel out of touch sometimes, but happily so. I read the news online, I skim the more conservative local newspaper on Sundays, and I listen to the radio sometimes; for now, those outlets will have to suffice. I don't know if I'll ever be a regular viewer again. It just doesn't fit too well with the mindset I'm striving to achieve. I know all those awful things occur; I won't insulate myself so much that I forget how fallen we really are. But I refuse to wallow in it, either. Our grown-up minds are no less impressionable and imaginative than my child's, after all.

..Whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable—if anything is excellent or praiseworthy—think about such things.
-Philippians 4:8

Bald-faced Mel-isms

This was an unexpectedly busy weekend, with some nice surprises. I'm still sorting it all out, so I'll write about that soon but not yet. Meantime, I'll just drop some bombs from the top of my head.

• I feel more and more certain that at least 65% of the general population of children in the United States could benefit from a sound beating. At least once, daily. Yes, even the smaller kids. If the sampling of the child population is located in a comfortable suburb and filled with kids who have no real needs (other than discipline and a chance to achieve boredom), then that percentage rises to at least 85%.

• I can hardly read the newspaper anymore without becoming livid. (We gave up MSM network television years ago, partly for that same reason.) Why are so many people dancing around the obvious? This Hasan guy in Fort Hood was an extremist working within our own ranks. He was the enemy on the inside. He should have been watched and researched and removed from duty. He spoke up against his own troops, for the bombers, vocalized his support, spoke the language of terrorists. Why is our so-called leader not naming this act as it was? Oh, that's right. He probably funded the jerk. Or received funding from him. Or prayed with him, or bowed with him, or discussed the most efficient means of takeover. Covertly, from a position in which you are snugly nestled amidst the enemy. Sound familiar?

• Why do we hear so much more about extremism in Islam than we do about extremists in other religions? Especially outwardly directed extremism? Every religious group has radicals, but so few of them do as much major damage to unbelievers as the extreme Muslims. I'm certain the media is not ignoring related instances, since they so eagerly embrace anything that helps to whitewash the current crazies. I just figure it must not be happening, or it's kept inside the tribe. Either way, I feel like that's a whole lot better than the subtle and not-so-subtle wars against us that we're witnessing these days.

• On a much happier note, I am honestly amazed nearly every day that my son is mine. He delights me. He is such a special kid that I can't believe I hatched him, nor that we're blessed enough to have him with us.

• I cannot believe how being forced to do something you love starts to make that beloved task feel like work. Cooking, tidying, planning the shopping. All of them fine, even fun—until I must perform them, in a restricted period of time. Then? Work.

• My husband, family, and friends are far sneakier than I ever imagined. And, I'm sad to report, I am far more gullible than suspected.

• I think for the most part that wedding registries are stupid. I believe they are left over from a bygone era when people got married and then moved from their parents' homes into a home together without most household possessions. It just ain't happenin' that way anymore, folks. Not happy to say it, but there it is.

• I have to keep readjusting my definition of old, because I keep on attaining the pre-adjusted definition.

• My husband has this way, when he's asked how he's doing, to reply with the words, "Better than I deserve." And many times, it has kind of irked me for reasons I can't really express. However? Some days, like today? I think I know what he means.

• My church is not perfect. Yet, it's doing a lot of things right. I must be more thankful for that body of believers.

• I am going to try really hard to be more positive and hopeful. And to trust completely that God's got it covered.

Well wishes to yinz,
mel