To My Dad on His Birthday

Today the 29th of April my Dad would have been 75 years old. I have been thinking about writing a memorial for him since early February, on the anniversary of his death. Dad died fourteen years ago on the 4th of February, when my sons where little Kindergarteners. At the time of his death I have no doubt but that he was the center of mine and the boys lives, and that’s not to take away from husband, it’s just that Dad was that kind of man.So anyhow, Dad was born in 1933 to an un-wed teenage mother with epilepsy. I’m not sure about the whole story of my father‘s birth, but I know he was brought up as a foster child by my Grandmother Corey. His birth mother didn’t give him up on him. When she married, Doris and her new husband had my than 4 year old father come to visit, with the thought of him living with them. Dad wasn’t having any of it. When they found him, he was sitting in the middle of Route 30, and told them he was going home. So home he went, to Maple Hill, and remained a foster child.When Dad was eight he was walking home from school one afternoon when he met Gram running away from the house. She was screaming “he shot himself, you‘ve got to get help”, and she ran right on past him. Dad went onto the house, to find out what he getting help for. Up stairs in his Foster Parent’s room; he found that his foster father had killed himself with a shot gun. This event dragged Dad into court, as the State of Vermont didn’t think that my widowed Gram Corey could or should keep a [by the time it got court] 10 year old boy. I’m sure that Gram had support from many of her family member and neighbors on the Hill in keeping Dad. What he remembered though, was the Judge asking him what he would do if taken away from Gram Corey. He told the Judge he would run away, get into trouble, and would be in court to see him often. The Judge told Gram Corey to take him home, and told Dad he never wanted to see again. The Judge never did.Dad worked for and loved dearly a couple who farmed a short distance from Gram’s Maple Hill home. Their names where Lydia and LeVarrie. Lydia feed him that great heavy filling old farm food, and I believe taught him to respect women. LeVarrie turned him into the man he became. He learned to work hard long hours, he learned to hunt and fish, and to give to and take care of others before yourself from this this couple. He spoke of them frequently through out his life.Dad only made it through the eighth grade, and yet he was one of the smartest people I’ve ever known. He watched the news and read the paper every day. He and I often read the paper together in the mornings. Right up until the day he passed away, he never failed to discuss the news, and he taught me to express and form my own opinions this way [by the way he respected my opinion which often differed from his own]. If a problem came along Dad never failed to find a way to solve it. At work, where he invented several items for the local plant he worked for to increase safety [they gave stock as a thank you, for saving them money]. He had an uncanny memory for directions and people’s names. He did pollution reports the State required of the company he worked for, filling out the forms and running the water tests twice a week. During the Korean War Dad wound up; after training, teaching future officers artillery at West Point .Even now after my Dad has been gone for 14 years there are very few days that go by that I don’t think about him. I often meet people, who I don’t know, but know me through my Father, and still want to tell me how much they miss him. As a matter of fact when I introduce myself in my home town to locals, I often introduce myself as Ernie’s daughter. My sons bring him up a lot more than you would think considering their ages when he died. They talk about things he taught them to do, and places he took them, as little five and six year olds. He was a man who reached out and touched lives, and changed them. For me he is the person I hold myself up to, and judge my self worth against.I am a lucky person, for the Dad that I got to have, even if for not nearly long enough.

A Political View from VT

Today as people in my neighboring state of New Hampshire head to the poles, in the countries first Primary, I though it was a good time to get a couple of things off my chest. First being from Vermont I know that what I think matters very little to any one running for a National office. By the time our little state holds its primary on March 4th, the whole thing will be pretty well over, but for the party http://www.thegreenpapers.com/P08/events.phtml?format=chronological That doesn’t mean that we don’t take an interest, up here in this little state, that it sometimes seems no one has heard of.

[Joke: There is a reporter standing in St Johnsbury VT with a well worn New Hampshire state map in his hand looking really confused. A local asks the reporter if he needs help, seeing that the guy is quite distressed. The reporter say yes he has been trying to find this St Johnsbury town on his map, and it just isn’t there. The reporter looks up at the local and says, “I don’t know how I could have done it, but I think I must have crossed the border into Canada.” The local stands there a few minute, smiles, and says, “Yupe; looks like that’s just what you did.” {disclaimer: if you’re from VT and still living here that made you smile. If you moved away from VT, and have asked “what state is VT in”, you’re laughing your head off right now. If going I don’t get it, it’s because you’re not from Vermont…we’re sorry}]

Anyhow back to what is bothering me about this race, and no it’s not that the world doesn’t care what we think here in little VT. My trouble is the rather racist attitude we are letting the press impose on us the voters. I am talking of the spoken belief of many a talk news person, that all women will either vote for Hillary because she is a woman, or we won’t for vote for her for the same reason. Because after all, it is well known that the average American woman of voting age cares nothing about policy, or issues. This is right up there with thought that women voted for Hillary’s husband back in the 80’s because he was good looking. Think about the fact that the biggest news out of Mrs. Clinton’s campaign this week is that she almost cried when asked about her feelings in a dinner in NH http://www.abcnews.go.com/GMA/Vote2008/story?id=4102187&page=1 I don’t remember people making a fuss when Bill teared up. Come on people this thinking that as a woman I’m going to vote one way or the other because of the sex of a candidate is just like the people who tried to keep the Vote from women, by saying that we would only vote the way our husband’s told us to.

And while I’m complaining, how about the media’s take that all black’s will vote for Obama. Please, give people some credit for the ability to think. Perhaps if people support Mr. Obama it is because they like his idea, and feel that he could make this country a good leader. I haven’t even heard what a black woman is supposed to do when she goes to vote.

I can only guess that these views come out of the Democratic party, who has spent the last forty some years telling America they aren’t smart enough to vote right [the last few elections where it has been applied that half of Americans who voted for George Bush aren’t well educated enough to know how to vote], that we can’t have school choice because we wouldn’t know how pick a good a school for our children, and that we are much better off relying on the Federal Government to fix all our problem, than on our selves. So maybe as much as I hate to think it, perhaps America has been reduced to voting for President not on issues and policy, but on who is the best looking, the right sex, the right religion, the right skin color, the nicest sounding speaking voice. I sure hope that’s not the case. As for me, not that anyone really cares what I think, but come Nov this white republican woman from the little state of Vermont will be voting for the best…candidate.

Winter Weather

Out side my window today is a dreary damp much to spring like day for the first part of January. Vermont like, I believe most anywhere on earth, can throw all sorts of weather at you. We are known to have as much as a fifty degree change in temps, with in twenty-four hours. I am however a fan of a good old hard winter, and this don’t look like that.

Ten years ago today [7 Jan 1998] we had here in New England a plain old January thaw. http://www.usatoday.com/weather/wice98.htm The difference being that the weather was just cold enough to cause a heavy ice build up in VT from Addison county north. Down here in little Bennington Co, we watched as all our snow melted away, and mud appeared everywhere. Much like this year we had, had a good snow pack, and it was looking like a nice winter, than in a blink all was washed away by a warm rain. For someone who gets truly depressed every spring when winter comes to an end, stuck in a little trailer with two young boys, I couldn’t have been any unhappier. I was than, and now thankful of the fact that we weren’t covered by the sheet of ice to the north of us.

However, to get back to today’s weather and our temp changes, I would hold up the difference four days can make. Back on the 3rd of this month we had a chilly below zero day, and two sub-zero nights. Oh to me, with a good a snow pack and snow shoes to be used, what happiness this sort of forecast creates I can’t begin to express. The only thing that would have made me happier was if snow had been coming. Now here I sit, with big green patches showing up in my lawn, and balmy 53 degrees. Heck you don’t even need a coat, I could have been out in short shelves [really I’m not kidding a t-shirt would be fine].

I know there are perks to these thaws and breaks in the winter snow and cold. It gave me a chance this morning to clean up the walkway of any ice that had built up, and to get rid of the snow that slid off the roof. The snow banks from plowing, which were shrinking my driveway have receded enough, that I can now see missing pieces of lawns which will have to put back in back in place in April or May. Also considering the high cost of heating our homes, this warm spell will cut the bill a tiny bit [although I contended that it is colder in the house, when it’s warmer outside during the winter].

I can’t however stop thinking about the cold temp, when the snow squeaks under your boots. I want a fresh clean snow pack to enjoy playing on. I love the feel of a biting wind on my face. I’m sorry that everyone doesn’t know how to enjoy a good old fashioned Vermont winter http://gonewengland.about.com/library/users/ucvtmoon.htm. If you don’t like winter, well that’s why God made FL. As for me I’ll try to take consultation in the fact that statistically January thaws don’t last all that long, and around here winter doesn’t really get rolling until February and March.

Twinkle, Twinkle Little Chirstmas Light

I confess that I am a whore for Christmas lights. I love those houses that decorate for the season, way beyond the point of sanity. I will with an un-explained joy in my heart, go miles out of my way to view these wonders of electrical excess. I must also express my own sorrow at not being able to create one of these joyous wonders in home.

I have been in love with Christmas lit homes for as long as I can remember. One of the best things as a child was coming home after a Christmas shopping trip, and seeing the house on the hill in Johnsonville, clearly out lined in a multitude of colors, bright enough to land planes by. I still wish for the tree in White Creek, taller than the house it grew next to, strung with lights; put on each year using a boom truck [their electric bill doubled each Dec. Dad stopped one year so I could walk under the magic tree, and he asked]. There is a house on Harwood Hill which puts up so many white lights, that I believe not a square inch is left untouched. There is something so grand about lighting your world, adorning your shrubs in electric jewels, that tells the world of your love for the season of darkness.

The first time I drove to Maine, just before Christmas wasn’t really to go shopping. I had read in “Yankee” that the Nubble Light House in York is lit with thousand of Christmas Lights each year, and I knew I had to see it. I’ve been known to take long walks in dark sub-zero temps around villages, to enjoy looking at the lights. The distance is never to great to view a great light display. I once drove a hour out of my way, following a traveling Christmas light show; a cement mixer that ST Griswold covers with twinkling lights, hoping it would stop. [It did and I got a photo of it]. I feel that it is my Christmas duty to enjoy the hard work put into these displays.

That leaves me with my own great sorrow at this time of year. I have never lived in a place where my effort in decorating can be seen by those driving by. This is probably for the best however, because my efforts are really sad. None of my homes have had the type of architecture that is shown in a good way by twinkling lights. I can’t even pull off the simple classic candles in the windows, do to a lack of plugs [yes I know there are battery powered candles, but they don’t match, and go through a ton of batteries]. I tried one year to put lights in a tree that was about ten feet tall, it looked good for a few nights, until a big wind rearranged the lights, and I just couldn’t get them back in place.

Oh I still try, although I’ve been reduced to a couple of blow up lawn decorations, and lighting what can only be described as a three foot tall bush. So no one’s going to come to my house for the joy of a light show. I however will be in my truck, driving far and wide in search of brightly lit Christmas homes. So please do your part, for me, and string some lights.

Memories

Time marches past us, it is said faster as we grow older. I believe that for parents there is an amazing time warp. For us time layers itself with truly unpredictable memories. Beginnings and endings twine together, and as if on some kind of hyper active fast forward your child is an adult. Yet you, the parent have barely breathed.

I started my time trip this morning as I drove by the Marriott in Middlebury, and the memory of walking into the place with my oldest son, just two years ago, on the night before his last high school football game. We didn’t know than that it would be a long time before he would play again. I was headed today for the Vermont’s NorthSouth Senior Football game, to watch for the first time in two years the game without one of my son’s in the field. I don’t mind saying that was sad for me.

I was sitting on cement bleachers watching high school seniors, dressed in white jerseys for the North, and green jerseys for the South. But to tell the truth, for me that field was populated by eight year olds in red jerseys, playing for the Moose. I saw little boys playing a game that would define our family life every autumn, for the last 12 years. It’s funny to realize that I don’t really remember a single touch down, but I remember the pride I felt as I stood on a side line and watched one or both of my boys take the field, and than walk off at the end of the game, somehow one step closer to being already grown.

As if this little memory trip was on roll, it drifted off onto the road home with me. I found myself traveling down Route 30 from Middlebury to Manchester in reverse of a trip I took years ago with my oldest. It has to have been seventeen or eighteen years since my son; who would have been about three, was strapped into his car seat for a trip; that in one form or another he and I would take many times over the years. My sons and I have picked many roads to travel for a road trip. It always begins with “let’s do route” fill in the number and hop in the car. My boys and I have done many drives; like Route 302 through NH and Route 2; both of them, the Mohawk Trail in MA and the great northern route in parts through New England and this summer across WI and MI.

The first road trip, the one that came flooding back to me, was to do Route 30. I have no idea why I choose the route, and realize that it couldn’t have been overly exciting for a three year old. I remember very clearly that this was where my son learned to locate up coming VT villages by spotting a church steeple. It was the game for that road trip, and his first foray into what appears to be a life time of road trips for him.

As I back tracked that route, I could swear that, that car seat was beside me in the truck. I could picture that little boy sitting there, kicking his feet and looking for the next church.

It seemed to me from my memory that it was a long trip, but in truth it’s a short ride. I found it odd that I didn’t remember driving past all the little lakes that lie along the road. Those bodies of water must have been a high point in our trip, but I don’t remember them at all. Instead my memory was happy to see the big run down white mansion of a house was still rather un-changed. A land mark, a memory mark, proof that I really took a drive on that road some eighteen years ago, with a sweet little boy.

I am no longer a young twenty something Mom. My son is no longer a tiny little boy with a bowl cut, peaking out of windows from a car seat. My son is now grown, away in college working on his second year toward some kind of a degree in wild life. He is now just short of six feet and a truly tuff half back on his school’s club team, after not playing football for a year. I’m an older Mom with a few gray hairs showing, and at loose ends as to what to do with what’s left of my life, now that I’ve been retired from being a full time Mom. But, I have my memories.