July 11, 2024
A Flower (and much more) from Willie
My next door neighbor died recently and we have been mourning our community loss. A little over a week ago her family and friends buried her and we were glad, but sad, to be there with them.
We lived just across the road from Willie, which was her real and true name. I say community because over decades, she probably took care of (babysat) dozens of children who knew her well. Some were her grandchildren and great grands but many were just local school children who either needed care before and after school. Or they were preschoolers, and got to drink from her fountain of love and joy.
I loved her smile which took up her whole face. When we moved to our current home, about 15 years ago, she had undergone a stroke, I think it was, but made a great recovery. I also have many memories of watching her work in her garden, back bending work even in her upper 80s, pulling weeds, planting beans, corn and what have you. She and her husband would also sit on the porch come fall and hull black walnuts, from their tree and others. Come spring, Willie would ask me if I wanted some of their asparagus shoots, or as fall neared, she would ask if I wanted some dill for pickles. She enjoyed reading the paper, and took scores of photos—I’m guessing hundreds and even thousands, back in the day before anyone had cell phones.
We would invite them over or out for supper; my husband loved talking and laughing with her husband, whose booming laughter rang out across our yard to our own front porch. Harold took good care of Willie, even learning to cook for both of them when she was no longer able to cook the way she used to.
At one point in our years across the road, she gave me some flower starts that I dutifully planted and soon they took over my entire flower bed in front of the house. I had no idea how they would multiply, but they were delightful. In recent years I gradually tried to keep them from overtaking the flower bed. Then here in July a week after her memorial service, this reminder of dear Willie popped up. And more!
At times we went for drives with Willie and Harold in our minivan, for as long as she could manage to get up in it, and my husband would be asking Harold about who used to live where, or what did this or that neighbor do, and just trying to get to know community members.
My mother and Willie enjoyed laughing together when Mom visited us from Indiana. Mom became a widow in 2006, just a year before we moved into our house across the road from Willie. My mother was known for being funny, or fun loving, maybe I should say, just laughing up a storm, and Willie loved it as much as Mom did.
I hope Mom and Willie have found each other in the promised land, wherever that is and whatever form their spirits continue. I know one thing, I miss them both. My husband misses Harold’s laughter, may it ring out forever.
I do have one regret that I never realized was a hurt until years into our living across the road. Willie loved to sit on her porch and look at the mountains to the east, a view which was impeded by our house. If we had known, we could have easily situated our house slightly to the north, and she would have still had her view. But she was good natured about it, and I know that now she has the grandest of views and is singing the best music ever, and taking photographs without ever running out of film.
Here you are, Willie, only it’s me taking the pictures and still loving you, plus many memories.
Let’s Not Fall
June 25, 2024
My sweet little 16-month-old granddaughter—who’s only been walking about four months, perhaps saved me from actually falling today.
I’m a 72-year-old woman. I fear stumbling. I try to walk very carefully.
She’s an adventurous little girl who took my hand as we walked around the outside of a huge and popular steak house on a very busy Father’s Day lunch. Her parents were finishing their meal, after having worked diligently to help feed Ayla so she would get some good nutrients, and not just eagerly swallow the wonderful warm rolls they serve there.
Ayla’s grandfather reminded his own daughter how she used to fill up on rolls at restaurants (and elsewhere) before learning how tasty the world of food was—beyond bread.
So Ayla was done eating, and restless of course. Grandma, me, planned to take home the second half of my meal, saving it for another day, so the parents happily affirmed Grandma’s offer to take Ayla for a walk while they finished up.
I was wearing a newish pair of sandals that I only wear in summer. I saw an awkward piece of sidewalk that raised up a bit and started to fall but I think the fact that I had hold of Ayla’s hand—and didn’t want her to fall on the cement, her hand in mine helped us both to not fall. Is that possible?
At any rate, we both loved the little walk together, something she has taken up, walking for part of the way home from her daycare. They walk just a block or so, (and rides in a stroller for much of the way) but she walks like she owns the sidewalk. Walking like mommy, daddy, grandma and grandpa.
As we walked past some loud speakers playing some tunes, I could tell Ayla wanted to wiggle a little, doing her little dance moves that she enjoys with her mother and father. So we danced on the sidewalk for maybe 7-8 seconds, then continued on.
***
We had gone to church that morning on the Sunday before Juneteenth, a ceremonial holiday in some 47 states, which commemorates the day on June 19, 1865 when a Union general read orders in Galveston, Texas stating all enslaved people in the state were free according to federal law. Juneteenth was designated a federal holiday in 2021. As we sung the traditional and oh-so-moving anthem, “Lift Every Voice and Sing,” my heart went back and forth between sorrow for the wrongs and torment experienced by people in the times of slavery, and joy and hope that this granddaughter would grow up in better times.
My father diligently taught us children the error of our country’s ways during its early days, when slavery, for many, was an accepted part of life. He took us to visit a church in a larger city nearby where we first heard the energetic music common in many predominately Black churches, which always included spirited dancing too. When we moved from northern Indiana to northern Florida in 1969, I was a senior in high school. There my brother and I experienced the first year of full integration of blacks and whites in the schools in Florida. Some of it was exciting to experience as we all went through this huge change in the culture of that area, but some teachers were known to use derogatory racial language if they knew that no blacks were in the room. If teachers used that language, it was no surprise that some students, not all, used that insulting slang. How shameful.
***
Let’s not fall into old, reprehensible ways. May we all do better, know better, love greater, affirm all persons, and pray for more care and understanding all around the world.
Your thoughts? Experiences? Stories to share? Pictures you’ve drawn?? Comment here ….
Meeting a Mentor of Dad’s
I was intrigued to visit friends at East Chestnut Street Mennonite Church (Lancaster, Pa.) on May 12, 2024. The speaker for the morning was a man named Don Sensenig, who I know my Dad and Mom met in Vietnam in 1967, amidst the heat of that terrible war.
Don was just a young man at the time, probably in his mid to late 20s, responding to what he felt was a call to serve through Eastern Mennonite Missions in Vietnam from 1963 to 1973. Dad and Mom were “young” too, considering. Dad was just 50 and Mom was a youthful 43. My oldest daughter’s age now!
Mom and Dad took an opportunity to travel around the world, first landing in Amsterdam, for a church gathering that happens once-every-five-years in the Mennonite churches of the world. From Amsterdam they traveled to Paris where a couple who had visited us in the U.S. hosted them, and took them to see the sights in that part of France. From there Mom and Dad went to the Holy Lands and other countries (India, Thailand) where they wanted to meet various missionaries they had supported. They also visited Saigon, Vietnam where bombs and shots were firing through the nights.
This is where Mom and Dad met Don Sensenig, who was moved to live in Vietnam during those difficult years as a way of showing the Vietnamese people that not all Americans were there killing people. (My brother-in-law, in fact, was a U.S. medic who was touched and weighed down with the plight of the children in Vietnam who were sometimes used as bombs themselves.)
Dad brought home his experiences the best he could, speaking in churches, to organizations, to farmers at local meetings, to friends, to his family. He was not a preacher but a committed deacon in the church who cared deeply about poverty around the world. My Dad was so impressed at that time to learn that some volunteers were doing their best to help others in a very difficult situation and horrible war. He loved sharing those stories with us as children and older grandchildren.
***
But back to this mentor. I was fascinated to hear that after Don Sensenig’s father died an early death, his mother Elta, married Orie Miller an extraordinary man. One of Orie’s uncles was Moses P. Miller, my grandfather’s father. For awhile Orie and Elta lived near where my Dad and Mom lived, south of Middlebury, Indiana (if you are trying to follow).
Orie was the spark for beginning many church organizations after World War 1 and 2. He constantly saw opportunities to help, such as MCC (Mennonite Central Committee) that organizes various kinds of relief, education (colleges such as Goshen and Eastern Mennonite), mission work, peacemaking, postwar reconstruction, mental health issues—the beginnings of many long-term Mennonite organizations. And surely part of the inspiration for the current Don Sensenig, now in his 80s, was to be very active and helpful in worldwide service as well. Today elderly Vietnamese refugees who came to the U.S. after the war was over sometimes need a translator for their medical care—someone who knows the very tricky/difficult Vietnamese language and English. Doctors and others know to call for Don’s language services.
Don told us about a very difficult night in Saigon when 50 or more people sought shelter from the Tet Offensive of 1968 … (a coordinated series of North Vietnamese attacks on more than 100 cities and outposts in South Vietnam. See History.com). Don and his wife Doris lived in a plain cement block house of two stories, and he still remembers that about 50 people headed into that house for overnight protection from the bombs and destruction. I doubt that anyone slept that night.
Sensenig has been a volunteer facilitator with the Lancaster, Pennsylvania, Center for Community Peacemaking. A reporter, Paul Souder, noted that since 2003, “Sensenig helped in 64 incidents to see that a victim and offender make things right between them. To make things right and bridge the divide between people is a theme that runs through Sensenig’s years of service. Don said it was challenging, to say the least, to “live in the middle of a conflict involving massive violence by our own country, while trying to grow into and live out a gospel of peace and nonviolence.” There he and his young family, along with Mennonite co-workers, were involved in church-building and relief service, marked by “deep fellowship, debate, prayer, sadness, and learning together. We are much enriched by our Vietnamese sisters and brothers who joined us on the journey.” For more, see Eastern Mennonite University news.
Don’s wife, Doris, who was also present at the church service on May 12, (Mother’s Day), shared in the above interview that “even more telling than these public roles are his behind-the-scenes activities – volunteering in preschool Sunday School classes; washing windows for church spring cleaning; taking service workers to and from the airport; helping mentally challenged people with paperwork, appointments, or other needs; washing the dishes each evening. These ‘smaller’ unpaid actions indicate a servant’s heart to me,” Doris said.
I happily shook Don’s hand as we left the service, and told him, just briefly, how much his testimony and witness meant for Dad in Vietnam in 1967.
***
I loved hearing this history from Don, Doris, and remembering the teachings Dad tried to etch into all of us. We thank Dad for being the amazing Dad he was in spite of only an 8th grade education and working as a farmer most of his life. He served in World War 2 as a conscientious objector and worked in a mental hospital and road work in Glacier National Park in addition to other locations.
Vernon U. Miller, “Dad” died of natural causes in 2006 at the age of 89, but he became alive to me again on that Sunday and in the weeks since, remembering his passion and dedication to help needy people around the world, however he could—and however we today—are able.
A wonderful Father’s Day coming up for you somewhere in the heavens, Dad. Love, Melodie
For more on Dad’s story (and Mom’s) you can find or buy our family memoir here.
For more on the extraordinary life of Orie O. Miller, you can find a very complete history here.
What messages, experiences, or stories have stuck with you?
I’d love to hear comments!
May 18, 2024
Visiting the 9-11 Crash of Flight 93
I have a friend who I had never met. She is a homemaker who with her husband ran a busy farm in western Pennsylvania, which is now farmed by some of their children.
Carol had been a reader of my newspaper column in The Daily American, a newspaper covering the area where she lives near Somerset, Pa. The column ran for 37 years there (I retired from doing my Another Way column in Dec. 2023). She had written letters to me occasionally which I was always glad to get, but she never sent email responses, because she didn’t use a computer. A few years older than me, we now can text each other on our phones.
She and her husband invited us to visit them and spend the night. This was pretty brave, all things considered, especially since I had to ask if they would tolerate our dog being along. They have a dog too, and the two animals barked at each other, but otherwise got along fine. And our husbands enjoyed meeting and yakking together!
The main reason Carol invited us to their farm home (which was quite popular as an old-fashioned “Bed and Breakfast” for a number of years) was to encourage us to visit Shanksville, a village near their home. Shanksville was the place where Flight 93 went down in the most tragic of ways on September 11, 2001.
If you are old enough to remember that fateful day, plane hijackers had earlier that same day flown jets into the massive World Trade Center’s Twin Towers in New York City, and also torched a major section of the U.S. Pentagon headquartered in Washington D.C., instantly killing thousands, and injuring more. The hijackers present on Flight 93 had intended to hit the U.S. Capitol (many people assume) but the bravery and sacrifice of some 33 people on Flight 93 turned that mission around and took over the airplane from the hijackers. The hijackers had conspired with other al-Qaeda terrorists (a militant organization) in a major planned attack on the U.S.
The memorial there is heart wrenching, especially listening in on the conversations these passengers had with their families and loved ones. The intentions of the hijackers alerted the passengers of the need to call home. The jet had telephones on each row of seats, so even those without cell phones were able to try and reach out to their families, friends, and authorities. You might be surprised there were only 33 passengers on that huge jet, but in those days jets often flew with empty seats. At the point the passengers called home, no one knew their eventual outcome. But as we listened to the voices of those passengers, and saw tears of some of us at the memorial, many visitors were moved to tears of their own. I finally understood why my friend had been so desirous of us visiting this horrifying history.
Passenger Todd M. Beamer was one of the renowned heroes who took over the plane from the terrorists in order to squelch their mission of reaching Washington D.C. He and everyone else perished as it hit the ground upside down and exploded. A local resident photographed the crash exploding when it went down. Today the “debris field” is where the remains of passengers and crew still lie buried in bits and pieces somewhere in that crash site. The field was investigated for remains for years by the FBI, and the cockpit voice recorder became critical evidence.
Those of us in our 40s and up certainly remember that day. My children remember getting out of school or college classes early as terrified parents picked up school kids early, not knowing how long the attacks would go on, or where.
This sobering memorial is definitely worth visiting and many high school students in buses were attending the day we were there, in chilly rain. A tower with harsh metal clanging and musical sounds, which is erected in the flight field, represents the desperate and conflicting voices as passengers argued over their options. This National Memorial is free to visit. I would not recommend children under 10 visiting but teenagers and up should be exposed to this difficult time in our nation’s history.
Regardless of what party or political stance you take, the courage of those 33 passengers and crew, will move and speak to most individuals. My eyes are still watering as I write this.
I am grateful to my friend for reaching out encouraging us to come experience this heart moving memorial. Carol wanted to share this history and I do too. God save us all from such horror, but we know so many terrible things are going on right now around the world. May we reach out in love, caring, and resolve whenever and wherever we can.
Have you visited the Flight 93 Memorial? Comments?
What are your memories and experience surrounding Sept. 11, 2001
I ordered this hardback book available for under $10 and am anxious to read it. Came in my mail today.
April 25, 2024 Dream seeker or dissector?
What have you dreamed lately?
Can you remember or recall your dreams? Are they good, bad, indifferent?
For sure, most dreams are confusing. At least mine are.
So, recently I woke up having just a snippet of a memory of some dream—a most unusual one for me. What on earth, (or heaven) did it mean, I wondered?
I barely have dreams where I can remember anything, but this was vivid.
I was sitting down in a trio of people—including Ronald Reagan as president of the U.S. I wish I knew who the third person was, but it probably doesn’t matter. That’s about all I remember of that dream.
But Ronnie Reagan—in my dream?!
Maybe it was because the next day I was headed to the outskirts of Washington D.C., to a hotel near Dulles airport, the Dulles Regency to be exact. And of course Reagan lived in Washington D.C. for eight years. I was attending a Lions Club State Convention there, because of my role as our club’s secretary.
I need to confess, I never voted for Reagan but I ended up being happy that eventually he reached out across national borders to establish a friendship of sorts with Mikhail Gorbachev, somewhat removing the iron curtain or nuclear arms race for our two huge countries. Reagan served from 1981 to 1989 as the 40th president; my oldest daughter, who was born in 1981, remembers Reagan and how confused she was at the age of 8 or so when she heard that Reagan was no longer president! How could that be, she wondered?! (She soon got updated. 😊)
Of course we know a bit of Reagan’s eventual dementia or Alzheimer’s, and his cowboy movie beginnings.
I’ll leave you there. No great revelation. No outstanding learning. What did it all mean?
For me, and for our family personally, it meant a bit of glasnost. I wrote of this experience about two years ago when the recent war in Ukraine fired up. Back in 1990 we spent an interesting couple of days hosting a teacher from the former Soviet Union in our home, and showing her what we could about life in the U.S.
But again, how do your dreams go? Good, bad, indifferent? Exciting, scary, miserable? Are you left on a stage without your pants on, or worse?
I also always remember how terrified I was as a young girl when my cousins told us stories about kidnappers and how I dreamed about them. But I also worried so much that I spent years (maybe two or three) dutifully looking under my bed each night before I went to bed, and even heading over to a long narrow closet in my sister’s room to check for spooks. How unhealthy was that??
If you’re interested in exploring more about dreams, I found this from Women’s Health Magazine somewhat helpful.
Have you ever had a dream you truly tried to unpack?
Why do certain events enter our dreams?
Share here or send me a message!
April 16, 2024
My husband and I went to a local concert by a choir called “Resound” this past Sunday evening that featured some of the most glorious musical notes, ranging to at least three octaves above middle C on a piano. Way beyond my musical range, even when I was in my younger years. It was stunning, beautiful, and uplifting. A harp, trombones, and trumpets accompanied some of the songs, some written by the fairly well-known composer and director, Alice Parker. Grateful for such a heavenly evening! The evening concluded with the director, Jay Hartzler, inviting the entire audience to sing along. Somehow I can sing better when there is a whole group lifting their voices. (Video is from a rehearsal.)
We enjoyed stepping out of our usual Sunday evening routines of watching America’s Funniest Videos—and popcorn.
***
Recently I was leafing through a book I own and happened onto this memento from a small group I belonged to for a number of years. At one meeting – or perhaps it was a retreat—the leader, Patti, prepared parchment-type slips of paper and wrote on each a description of our gifts or traits.
My special message said this: “Melodie: To be the note that makes harmony out of diverse tones.” That was probably 25 or so years ago now.
I immediately appreciated her description then, and now: it was a rich reminder to me implying that she read me as a person who liked to have harmony or accord between people and in our diverse lives. Thank you, Patti!
Patti was certainly not writing about singing or music but something that is so necessary in our lives today: finding harmony with others across political, religious, race and ethnicity, family issues and more, that often bring discord.
***
In our family, when I was born, I was the third daughter. I know my dad was disappointed with the gender BUT never held it against me. I know he cherished all of his children—and finally got the little son he had waited on for so long.
And my little brother? Somehow my parents liked my idea for a name for our new baby brother: Terry. Pretty cool to name your own brother when you are a little girl just four years of age.
My mother chose my somewhat unusual name (and spelling, ending in “ie” instead of the more traditional “y”). She had read a long-ago book, “Unspoken Love,” written by Christmas Carol Kauffman. (Yes, I’ve written about her before on this blog. And talk about unusual names!!) But the book had a very likeable character whose name was spelled Melodie and that’s how I got my name and spelling. The main character in that book was a soldier in World War II who had major discord with his father and on a spur of the moment decision, decided to enlist in the Army, mainly to get away from home. I bet that happens more than we know. And I think the author wrote it as a true story that was fictionalized for a novel.
***
Speaking of novels, I was invited to be part of an author’s festival at our local Massanutten Library last Saturday in Harrisonburg, from 12-4 p.m. I enjoyed talking to other authors about their books, bought a book, and sold some myself. More than 200 visitors turned out. It too was a nice break from the normal cleaning and cooking I tend to do on a Saturday.
***
Have you ever slipped a note or comment into your Bible or other favorite books? Or on your dresser in the bedroom? Sometimes those notes and reminders can be just the lift that you need on a down day.
For all my readers, I hope you have a good one. You deserve a boost!
***
Comments very welcome.
Let me hear about your weekend, your Sunday, (or your Tuesday), your life!
April 2, 2024
I don’t mind telling you that I don’t diligently do spring and fall housecleaning like my mother did. Most women (maybe some men?) did so back then—almost like a religious rite. I remember Mom (maybe with Dad’s help) squished some old mattresses through upstairs windows out onto our porch roof for airing out in the spring, and using the old mattress beater to help with that routine. (You could say I’m so old I stink.)
But, I had planned a semi-surprise 70th birthday party for my dear husband this year and all of the children and grandchildren were coming to our house, along with some aunts and uncles and cousins. We burn wood all winter and use a humidifier to keep the air breathable inside, but both things together make A. Lot. Of. Dust. And dusting! I do love to “entertain” but as the years add up, it becomes more and more of a chore to clean everything in the house. (Too many things!)
I tend to do the best cleaning when guests are coming, right? Why waste your energy dusting when no one else will see inside your house for a month or more? So I planned to dust and clean a room each day prior to the Saturday night meal and party at our house.
It is rewarding to see things sparkle, making you feel very good. When the guests started arriving and then when the surprise guests—some from another state—arrived, it made my husband feel very happy. And all the hard work felt worth it.
The meal went well, people enjoyed getting reconnected, one teenager even came. I think there were about 29 of us all together, packed into our kitchen/dining room/living room area combined. Catching up, laughter, some serious conversations, a few guffaws all helped make the evening roll along beautifully. Our 14-month-old granddaughter was hustled off to bed early (suffering from a cold and fever) and she sweetly drifted off to sleep.
At last we brought out the birthday cake for Stuart to blow out seven little candles, and guests could choose from Stuart’s favorite Arnold Felcher cake (check out the recipe here), homemade apple pie, or a darling and fun Easter “lamb” cake brought by two of our guests. Kids went outside or to the basement to play and multiple conversations around the room rose to the rafters.
Most guests left by 8 to 8:30 and then a loud BOOM came from somewhere outside! Some of us thought it was someone shooting off a gun or perhaps firecrackers. But our lights all went out. I was hoping desperately that they would quickly blink back on. My son-in-law who has worked with many things electrical announced that he was sure it was a transformer that had blown, somewhere. One website explains this: “Utility companies transmit electricity at high voltages across overhead or buried wires, and a transformer ‘steps down’ this voltage to make it suitable for household use. When a transformer fails, however, it can fail spectacularly, resulting in a fire or explosion.”
Well, when you have kids in the house who are needing to go to bed and use the bathroom and you have a country septic system (no city system out here), you know you can’t flush stools unless you have buckets of water on hand to do the necessities. We managed that detail for the cousins who needed to go to bed. We do happen to have big tanks in the basement where we can draw water for such necessities. Especially in an area where our particular electrical system seems very prone to going out, as often as every couple months. Too often. We lit some candles that were handy and my husband took a large flashlight and cast it’s beam up through one of the lights on our counter, which made a temporary fairly bright light for us.
So even though the kitchen and dining area was a huge mess of plates and pans and utensils, we couldn’t go about cleaning things up. I snuck leftovers into the fridge and freezer even though my husband cautioned not to open those doors too much, in the event that the outage would go on for hours, or worse, days. One grandson observed that houses in the nearby woods still had their electricity.
We adults found our way out to the deck overlooking the countryside while trucks went up and down the area driveways and roads trying to pinpoint the culprit for this outage. It was dark outside, and not too chilly, and for the next 40-50 minutes we just chatted, wondering how long the lights would be out. We mostly put down our cell phones, conserving their energy for anything that might be really important. We reminisced, told jokes and stories, sat quietly for minutes on end, wondering when and if the lights would come back on so we could clean up and get ready for bed ourselves.
It was quite heavenly, and a marvelous way to catch my breath after hustling most of the day—and week—to make sure we had all the foods in place and decorating done. The cool night air handed us a peaceful balm, too rare these days.
Almost too soon, the electricity came back on and the elves set to work washing up dishes, putting away pots and pans, wiping counters and tables clean.
Not a bad way to end a busy, happy evening with friends and family. My heart was moved with thanksgiving and oh yes, the next morning was Easter morning. Thanks be to God.
***
Have you had enjoyable times when the electricity goes out?
Did you ever beat mattresses with a thing that looked like this? I told you I was old (older than my husband)!
Comment here, share, whatever!
March 12, 2024
We headed to Syria. NOT the far away and troubled country of Syria in the Middle East. I didn’t even know there was a nearby town with that name (well, about an hour and a half away), but my husband and I took a one-day getaway last week to celebrate a big birthday (for him). We traveled to Syria and a town called Madison in Madison County, on the edge of the Blue Ridge Mountains/Shenandoah National Park here in Virginia.
It was beautiful. Restoring. And romantic. When we get to a certain age, romance kind of sits by on the side. Or even goes out the window.
When I sent a photo of our getaway location to our daughters, one wrote back: “Very nice! And you are lucky to have a comparable view off the porch/deck of your own home.”
Bingo, yes! A great reminder. Why do we see things differently when we’re somewhere new? One mountain is called “Graves Mountain” and behind that, “Old Rag” which is rather famous (hikers must get tickets ahead of time, just $2 but you also need a Shenandoah Park entrance pass, much more expensive.). My daughters and I got to hike it a number of years ago (sorry my husband had to work).
So our getaway location was an 1800 acre farm with the family name “Graves Mountain Farm” in operation since 1850s, (families settled there earlier in the 1740s, an interesting history!). In addition to raising cows, chickens, horses, sheep, apples, and peaches, it offers cabins and lodges, a swimming pool, volleyball court, horseshoe pit, a babbling brook with fishing, hiking, biking, local bands and singalongs, fireplaces….and plenty of great food options in season. Numerous family members work right there on the farm. The Graves Market and Deli is ready to fix fresh breakfast sandwiches and other items for lunch etc. Most of the year, meals are served in a large restaurant there, but not in the winter, which reopens later in March. So for supper that night we drove to the town of Madison, about 15 minutes away, where we enjoyed a delicious supper at Miranda’s Restaurant.
Our dog had a getaway too, we took her along since they offered some rooms where pets were welcome. (Our room cost would have been less if we had hired a neighbor to take care of the dog!) But ever since we got our cat about 2 years ago, dog Velvet has had to play second fiddle—or equal fiddle—in the attention department as the cat. So I think that although it makes the dog nervous and a bit stressed to travel (she’s almost 10 years old), she didn’t have to share our attention with the cat. The cat stayed home and was a good girl all by herself for 24 hours.
When we got back home, I realized that yes, our views of mountains and valleys and greening grass and spectacular sunrises is very special. I have lived in four states (Indiana, Florida, Kentucky, and Virginia) and two countries (U.S. and Spain) and the scenery right here in the Shenandoah Valley is hard to beat. Besides mountains, Virginia offers an ocean and numerous beaches, the Potomac River, the Appalachian Trail, splendid schools, colleges, and diversifying restaurants. And plenty of farmland, although that is shrinking.
Back at home, the sun is shining now, the grass is greening superbly, the local rivers and creeks are beautifully bubbling along, even though the wind is sharp and random snow flakes fly past my “office” window (a spare bedroom). It is March afterall. We’re keeping the woodstove going and happy to be so very very fortunate to live where we do.
Do take time to love the ones you’re with, and restore the precious and fond relationships that you may have. If we can put food on the table each day and have a warm place to sleep, we and you are rich.
There is so much beauty in God’s creation. Let us be thankful.
***
Tell us about one of your favorite spots, or when you were surprised by a new town or nature spot!
Ever had a birthday getaway? Where and when?
March 5, 2024
Well, we got an extra day this year, right? What did you do with your extra day on February 29? Ours was windy and cold and rather than grilling out, I fixed some hamburgers in our woodstove for supper which I love doing, if only because it warms me up as I sit there and turn them.
Our February is always packed with birthdays and this year it was truly special when our only granddaughter turned one year old. She is definitely, and happily, growing up. Though we live a couple hours away, we get to watch her five days a week on the camera at her daycare, holding our breath when she stands up and wavers for a split second before plopping back down on the daycare floor. Walking will come. She is exploring her world and making tentative moves towards playing with the others her age.
I always feel like once we get to March, the “new year” is truly marching along and as we age, our own time on earth begins to get shorter.
A husband-wife duo I know recently recorded a new number they wrote called “Evening Will Come.” More on that in a minute. That could sound morbid but with my husband now celebrating his 70th birthday (and don’t let me fool you, I’m older), we are truly looking at our later years. Retirement is great but arthritis is not, and of course it is hitting us greater with every passing year. Or month even. My two little fingers, or maybe “pinkies” as we call them, are stiffening up by the day. I think it was from all this typing over 43 years at the office doing what I’m doing right now. (I’m reminded of my recent blog post on learning to type!) I practice bending the pinkies as often as I can.
At this stage of life, we’ve all lost precious and beloved and sometimes “too young” friends and family members. My husband’s family lost a cousin a couple weeks ago, and we really wanted to go to the memorial service. But it was 1100 miles away in Nebraska. Siblings also wanted to go, but they had to deal with their physical difficulties in facing a 17-hour drive, 34-hours roundtrip. None of us from the east were able to go, but sent flowers, love and prayers.
I remember years ago my husband, one brother, and their dad jumped in a car and drove 700 miles (about 11 hours) to get to Montgomery, Alabama, where they picked up one aunt so they could all go to another aunt’s funeral in Corinth, Mississippi, 250 miles more. They turned around several hours late—after the service—and drove all night to get back home to Virginia the next day. (The aunt from Montgomery was driven home by someone else.) The main driver on that trip (and owner of the car) desperately needed a nap on the way home, so at one point my husband took over the wheel. It began raining and cars started sliding every which way on the freshly wet and greasy four-lane highway. He still remembers feeling, that even though his hands were on the steering wheel, God’s hands—or Someone’s—were on the car to help them get through that without a wreck.
But back to how the calendar just keeps marching on. Wasn’t it just New Year’s Day a moment ago, and then whack, we were celebrating Valentine’s Day and so on. The holidays keep marching on and so so soon it will be summer and you know, Christmas.
I mentioned a precious and appropriate song written, sung and recorded by neighbors of ours (who are not just “some neighbors” but musicians who could and should be strumming their tunes in Nashville or New York City). Known as the Clymer & Kurtz Band, they harmonize beautifully while also playing guitars or piano. They are also raising a family. The love and commitment shines from their eyes. I’m sharing a link to their YouTube channel so you can hear/see it yourself, but the lovely chorus goes like this:
All I hear is my name on your tongue
All I see is your face when we were young
All I know is evening will come
Evening will come.
Evening will come for all of us. And Someone is still watching out for us.
***
We can look at evening as a welcome time of day: time to rest, nap, read, watch TV. How do you feel about evenings? What is your best time?
Are you happy for March to come? What signs of spring have you welcomed?
February 28, 2024
Do you remember your first computer?
What an exciting time it was. Circa 1980. Roughly 44-45 years ago now.
But let’s go back a step further. Did you learn to type on an old-fashioned typewriter? I never realized commercial typewriters go way back to another century, when commercial typewriters were introduced in 1874. Wow, I had no idea they’ve been in use that long. My ancient (but beloved) grandmothers and grandfathers were born in that era.
So I learned to type in high school as did many others at that time. I enjoyed it. We typed on typewriters where you pushed the carriage back to do another line of work by slapping your hand on the carriage-return lever on the far left. You pushed it to the right to return the carriage to its starting position. Wikipedia reminds us that this made “the platen” go around which advanced your paper vertically. “A small bell was struck a few characters before the right-hand margin was reached to warn the operator to complete the word and then use the carriage-return lever.” Oh my. I had forgotten about that small bell-y thing ringing.
My mom worked in an office using typewriters of the day in the 1940s, which she enjoyed very much. She kept her small cheap typewriter up until the time she began to get rid of things in her 90s, circa 2020.
I’m told that old fashioned (to us in the U.S.) typewriters are still used in countries like India or Africa where electricity sometimes cannot be counted on to be reliable. We have a travel agent in our city who swears by still using an electric typewriter to type certain parts of the paperwork he prepares for your travel because of the precise information he has to include, and the narrow spaces he has to put it in.
When I got my first job after college, I worked in an office with a typewriter which by that time created words from a ball containing the letters and punctuation marks rather than the individual keys striking the ribbon of the 1800s and 1900s.
But I digress. I remember sitting down to my first electronic keyboard (like I’m doing right now) and being “forced” to learn a whole new way of typing from a visiting trainer. I remember when we would accidentally slap our hand to return the typewriter lever, which was no longer there or needed. It was gone. That required relearning much of what we had learned in high school about typing. Of course, the “Qwerty” set up of letters was (thankfully) carried over to the modern keyboard which my fingers know as naturally as the act of brushing my teeth. But I remember some of my older colleagues who hated the new keyboards, and called the machine we had to use “The Monster.” I found said monster to be rather exciting and soon was at home with it.
But my first true “home” computer was not purchased by my husband and I until roughly 1985, I think. We bought an Apple computer from a small business in town, and I remember sitting in that office and being so excited to get our first home computer. I had been using a manual typewriter at home (typing rough drafts of my first books which I later paid a secretary to retype because she was a super excellent and fast typist and loved doing that work at home). But by that time we had children approaching school age and I knew that they would be eventually learning to write on school computers and it would be handy and forward-thinking to have a computer at home.
Learning to use new forms of communicating are constantly changing, right? Which can be frustrating to us “golden years folks.” The extra keys on the modern keyboard include the ability to “Print a Screen Shot” and much more. They correct mistakes as you make them or let you, or prompt you, to choose better grammar. The F5 key on my laptop lets you find and replace things. And much more. I love watching bankers or perhaps accountants using the little numerical keyboard off to the right of the keyboard without looking at the numbers, and they do so perfectly. Me, not so much.
Eventually we moved on from our first Apple to Dells or HPs and other brands and I sometimes wish we had stuck with Apples. Oh well, too old now to change that and now we’re in the age of “AI.” The next twenty years will bring many more innovations. Little chatty people show up on my screen without my even asking them like one did right now, an HP product specialist wondering if I “need help selecting the right configuration” with a photo of her saying “Let’s Chat!”
Not right now, thanks. I “x” her out of my ‘puter. Which reminds me of my darling niece when she was about four and would call these devices “‘puters.” Now we turn to her if we’ve bought a new device and none of our own children are living nearby to help train us. Thanks Anna, and Ahmed, and oh yes, daughters on the phone helping us out of tangled messes.
What do you think of our amazing (and frustrating) electronic communication devices?
Oh and P.S. Just now, when I tried to send this draft to my daughters for “final” corrections, the lovely computer reminded me that I had not completed one of their email addresses correctly. Thank you, dear Dell.
***
If you comment here or write to me via email, (melodiemillerdavis@gmail.com) I promise not to be a “little chatty fake person.” But you are welcome to point out any errors, or your own issues and problems when it comes to 2024 communication!
I love to hear from you! Here or on Facebook.
However, I have no control over the ads that show up in my posts, sorry to say. I could get rid of them if I paid more for this space. Grrr…..
findingharmonyblog 