I don’t smoke. Thankfully, I never have. But I was once a teenager with dreams of post secondary pursuits and tuitions that would need paying, and so, like most young people in my hometown, my summers were spent working on a tobacco farm. I’m not writing to celebrate the tobacco industry, but rather to reminisce over an experience. When I was thirteen, there was no internet. I had access to whatever television channels could be had by using an manually turned antenna. My friends and I never heard of a social movement to rally against an industry. I didn’t know of any one who’d had cancer. My employment predates the infamous Philip Morris lawsuit.
A friend of mine recently shared her feelings connected to the cutting down of a tree in her yard. I thought of paraphrasing her words, but she expressed her thoughts so beautifully, I couldn’t alter them. She wrote, “We lost a dear tree today, a beautiful green ash that stood eighty feet high. Years ago when our house was being built and all we had was a wooden shell that tree rose above the roofline and declared itself part of the house. It’s been a home for squirrels and birds and probably a raccoon here and there. It hurts that we lost it.” Continue reading “Feeling Nostalgaic — Hearts Tied to a Tree”
This is one of my favourite childhood photos — sitting in front of the milk house with my grandfather. I was one year old at the time it was taken. The photo sits in a curio cabinet among other small treasures. I often stop to visit it there. When I close my eyes, I see the milk house as clearly as if I am in front of it now. Continue reading “Feeling Nostalgiac — The Milk House and the Farm Dog”
My first job, not in a farm setting, was — shampoo girl. The salon, simply named Marie’s, was in a house located a few blocks away from my high school. Patrons would walk up the driveway, tap on the side door and let themselves in. A little bell hung above the entrance to announce their arrival. Continue reading “Hairs the Story of a Small Town Salon”
My grandparent’s farm was my first classroom. The lessons learned have stayed with me through the years and woven themselves into the fabric of my history. Continue reading “Life Lessons from the Farm”
My love of winter is giving way to my longing for spring. Like so many, I’m looking forward to the bursting of forth of colour and new life that follows blue skies and warmer temperatures.
As the snow recedes, I’ll begin the annual tradition of searching for signs of life around the yard. Buds will appear on the lilacs. The snowdrops and crocuses will poke through the snow. It will be some time before the tulips make their appearance and even later before blooms appear on the pear tree. With any luck, the espalier style plum trees fanning against the cedar fence, are preparing to bear fruit this summer. The garlic shoots will already piercing the blanket of mulch still covered over by snow. Continue reading “My Garden is a Scrapbook”
Hands are a living narrative written by a lifetime of use. There is a story recorded in every weathered crease, a lament in every callous and an anecdote in every scar. Our hands have toiled and cared for others. They’ve admonished and loved. They’ve conveyed exasperation, underscored points of debate, wiped away tears, and applauded revelry. They’ve held on and they’ve let go. Continue reading “The Meaning of Hands”
I recently came across a clip of Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom. My mind flooded with memories of the Sunday night bath, and snuggling up on the sofa in pajamas, waiting for Marlin Perkins to finish up so Walt Disney could begin. That was a long time ago.
Patience and the Picture Tube
My earliest memory of watching television involves my paternal grandparents and visiting their farmhouse. I remember my grandmother checking her watch and looking over at my grandfather. “Harold,” she’d say, “time to switch it on. Our show starts in fifteen minutes.” My grandfather would lay down whatever he was doing, cross the room and turn on the set.
My grandparents took no notice of the speck of light that developed in the middle of the screen, but I was riveted. While they continued knitting or reading, but I sat on the edge of my chair for that fifteen minutes, legs swinging back and forth. I’d wait for the magic until finally, a sudden burst of light, then the fuzzy black and white image spread slowly across the screen.
The picture was seldom well defined, even with the help of “rabbit ears”. We’d squint until we saw something identifiable we could enjoy. Sometimes we watched Lawrence Welk, The Pig and Whistle, or maybe Hockey Night in Canada. When my grandfather turned the channel, the dial made a heavy thunk sound, like he’d just moved a ten pound mechanism inside the cabinet. On nights when too many wavy lines traveled across the screen, he turned the set off. “Must be storming somewhere,” he’d say.
Turning the Tower
Years later, my maternal grandparents invested in a newer technology in the hopes of improved reception — a television antenna tower. My grandfather, Melvin, attached a screwdriver handle to this towering structure that stood next to the house. When we changed the channel, my grandfather would put on his jacket, and walk outside. He’d hold the homemade handle and turn the tower, then he’d tap on the dining room window. “Erie, how’s the picture?” he’d ask my grandmother. She’d wave him in when it was good enough and they’d settle in. During the week I spent at their house each summer, we’d watch The Big Valley with Barbara Stanwick, The Match Game with Gene Rayburn, and Hollywood Squares with Paul Lynde, and To Tell The Truth with Kitty Carlisle.
They’ll Never Know
As I write this piece, I laugh and disrupt my husband’s newspaper reading (on his tablet) with anecdotes and things I’m recalling. It feels good to remember.
My thoughts turn to our children, young adults now, all over twenty years of age. They’ve never imagined the colour of an actress’ dress while watching a black and white television, nor have they endured an hour of snowy reception to keep with a story. Our children don’t need to cross a room to manually change a television channel by turning a dial. They’ve probably never seen a tv station sign off for the day, or sign on again with the national anthem and a waving flag. Nor have they turned an antenna with a converter box or missed a program because inclement weather ruined the reception. Like many young people today, they do their viewing on a laptop.
I suppose that’s evolution.
