A Mother's Day

May 3, 2008 was my mother's day. My mother, Madeline Bryer LaClair turned 80. I was in Berrien Springs, Michigan attending my son's graduation. It was his mother's day, as much because I love this kid and am grateful for God's goodness to him. Jodi, DJ's girlfriend, came back from a year in Honduras and joined us there - another added blessing.

Happy Birthday Mom! Though you were not here, you share in this milestone, nonetheless, having so much influence in all our lives. In 32 years, 5 months, and 15 days, I will turn 80. I hope I will have demonstrated the goodness of your values to the next generation in such a convincing way as you have.

This Old House and the Love In It

We have an old house - 1900's vintage. It has been untouched since the 70's when Louis Barnet, a relative on my mother's side of the family who own the house prior to us, finished his set of fixins' which included among other things, a couple of grounded outlets in the kitchen. Today Dennis Bryer, a cousin from my mother's side of the family helped us wire an overhead light to the upstairs room that will become my mother's room in a little over a month. For a bonus, we wired a light to the small closet. I use "helped us" and "we" loosely.

Dennis brought everything needed in the back of his car, except the light itself, and did the work. David and I were appreciative and admiring gofers. He's good - a head that knows the process and deft hands. He makes things easy. And when something unexpected turns up, a thoughtful pause and then, "Let's try this." We were up and down the ladder, and in and out of the attic with drill, and spade bit, Romex, and tape measure. Gray and pink insulation was moved aside gently and abandoned knob and tube wiring fixtures were pried loose. Plaster and lathe gave way in the ceiling, and on the wall we were surprised by sheet rock.

And the ladder. The ladder we had been using was just tall enough to allow us to peer into attic at shoulder level. It was rickety to boot. Dennis brought us a ladder tall enough to make our gymnastic ability dispensable. He is not all practicality though. The handmade sign is a soft signature of an emotional connection we have.

A long lost cousin. We were nothing to each other in childhood. Seven years older than I, what would we have in common? Years rolled by. David and I move to Vermont. Nothing. My uncle, his father gets sick and is in the hospital with appendicitis. Some family gathers when he does not pull out quickly. I can feel something missing. Through our common connection, our Aunt Alice, I find out that it is Dennis that is missing. We hear each other's voices only. The telephone is as close as we get. Somehow I know I love him. Three months later Aunt Alice has a heart attack. Again we hear each other's voices, this time around Aunt Alice. His father has died. "Will she?" is the unasked question we both have on our minds. Someday I am sure Dennis and I will meet. He only lives a few miles away, yet the distance to his heart seems very far.

Aunt Alice tells me as much as she can about Dennis and his wife, Donna. He can do anything, I'm told. Also, they keep to themselves. There is a strength of attachment between Dennis and Alice and one day she tells me he will be at her house. I stop by after church hoping to catch them still there, but I've missed him. Aunt Alice mentions that he will be back next Saturday she thinks. "Keep him here if you can," I tell her "until I can get here - somewhere around 2pm."

Dennis tells me today that it was February 23rd that we finally met each other. I had lost track. Neither of us can explain the instantaneous bond of affection that happened right then. Perhaps better not to try. Perhaps better just to accept it and rejoice quietly that a missing piece has been found for us; faraway hearts have been brought closer, and the man and his wife that keep to themselves have opened their arms to us. This old house is better for it too.

Just Another Day

When his birthday came around every year, my father would say, “It’s just another day,” and it would pass quietly with no seeming distinction. I wondered about that, as for us kids, our birthdays were marked with a special cake and song at least, and maybe a small gift or two. My mother obviously did not entirely subscribe to my fathers’ Yankee stoicism, and did her part to make our lives welcome in this world.

I have often wondered about what it was like for my father to grow up one of twelve in a itty bitty house on the North Danville Road. As another child came along, the oldest needed to leave to make room for them. My father was a middle child, yet at 14 it was time to go, and he was sent down the road to milk the cows and do the chores for another family in exchange for his room and board. His childhood was behind him, and now it was time to assume the responsibilities of adulthood: “take care of yourself”, to put it bluntly. What were birthdays then? Just another day. The cows needed milking, the manure needed shoveling, and who remembered that today marked the day of his entrance into the world? Whose eyes rested on him with affection and pride? Who was there to bake a special cake? The fields needed haying in July, and who had time to pause for that?

Under the influence of my fathers’ patient acceptance of life, I grew up wondering about birthdays. If my father didn’t celebrate his, why should I mine? I looked around and found that “my day” was just another day. The day after my 10th or 11th or 12th birthday was roughly the same as the day before it. The leaves continued to drop from the trees and the morning was about as crisp and cool. I came to accept my father’s truth, and settled into the view of life that day follows day, and there is work to do in order to live. I forsook my childhood wish to be in the center of the universe and to be special, even if for but one day, and to only a couple people.
And then my daughter was born. I will never forget that day as long as I live, nor the day my son was born, nor the day my third child was born. That day and the hours that surround it are written into my body. I am not just talking about the pain of childbirth, I am talking about love. She was not the most beautiful perhaps, all red and wrinkly and misshapen, but she was ours, and I could not stop myself from looking at her and touching her. I was not prepared for the strength of the attachment that came wrapped up in her. She was special, by God, and it was not just another day.

Who would she become? What would she grow up to be like? It was a wonderful mystery to be unfolded as faithfully as the mornings and evenings. She was the center of our universe for a time, and it was natural to mark the day each year and look back in amazement at how much had happened in just one year. We loved her.

The example set by my father for himself was not lost on me however, and though I felt my children deserved to be remembered on their birthdays, there was awkwardness about my own. Awkwardness turned into uncomfortable ness and outright pain somewhere along the way as I rebelled against the unrelenting work that seemed to be all there was of life. The nice way to say it is that I lacked my father’s grace. The truth was that I was miserable, and spread misery about me around the time of my birthday for years, not being able to accept the expressions of love that were offered. Not loving myself and having poor manners combined for a devastating effect. After a while, those that loved me were uncertain and perplexed. I developed a reputation as being difficult and touchy around October 18. I now realize that the modeling my father had given me, flawed to begin with, was taken a step or two lower in front of the eyes of my family, and many things precious were spoiled. I had reached the bottom of my pit, and there would be steady work for years to find the handholds and footholds to climb up out.

Who am I? and why am I here? were the first questions I needed to answer. I watched my mother carefully for clues and examined the pathway of her life subconsciously. Was she anything but a work horse? After all she had done, where was the reward? Where was the respect and deference and honor due her? I didn’t see much more than a yellow corsage on mother’s day. Where was her husband? He paid her no mind, which is the worst insult of all. Where were her friends? She served them. Where was her family? They did not seem to care about her. What about us, her children? We owed her everyhing, but we often ignored her or laughed at her behind her back. And then she became the object of someone or other’s control needs, as we grew “smarter” than she was. That was all I could see. Was that where my life was leading?

I am filled with grief for my mother, and long to make it up to her somehow. She who loved and worked for us against insurmountable difficulties, we treated despitefully. It took it’s toll on her I know, and she began to face more inwardly, and closed some doors on us. We had proved unreliable. This year she turns 80. Is her birthday just another day? Well, yes. May’s days will unwrap flower blossoms before the 3rd and after it too. The robins will begin building nests and the phoebe will sing their saucy song each day of May. The world will not stop for her. She is not at the center of the universe. But no, it is not just another day. My mother is one unique individual in the swarming sea of humanity. She is someone. She is my mother, I have no other. Her life cannot be duplicated or erased. She is a creation of the God of the universe and He has spoken. The word is, “She will live. She is mine.” And she has done her work, which is almost completed. Her one last job is to come and live with me, and teach me how to live the last days of life in contentedness and peace. Then maybe she will be done and God will let her rest.

I have come to believe in the sanctity of all life. Mine and yours and hers and everyone else’s. Each life is special to someone. Let’s tell each other. The coldness creeps in without any effort. It takes the warmth of love to keep it away. Do not tell me that your birthday or mine is just another day. We are here. We belong to each other. I hope I can remember that and not forget.

Ladders Are For Climbing

I grew up in a big old house. When my mother brought me home from the hospital, it was to this big old house, built like a cracker box, and when I went away to school, I left that big old house behind. But sometime in there, I developed this love for climbing ladders. Inside the house, the rooms were big and there was a long staircase that would get you to the upstairs bedrooms.
My bedroom was the smallest and it was at the top of the stairs. I loved running up the stairs as fast as I could and I loved my east facing room which I shared with my sister until she left home. The sunshine came in all morning and the breeze from outside made the thin white curtains flutter. Often I was in a hurry and I would leave my room, put both hands out to touch the wall and run down the stairs as fast as I could. My father, if he were home, would stop me or catch and remind me firmly that he didn’t want me to run down the stairs because I might fall. He was right, of course, and his instructions stuck in my mind.

A couple of times a year, my father would get out a big long ladder and set in up against the house in preparation for cleaning the chimney. I knew he dreaded this task. He was a man of few words seldom complaining, but when he got the ladder out, he went about his work grimly. He would climb the ladder holding his equipment in one hand, the other hand gripping the side of the ladder so tightly his knuckles would turn white. I would stand at the base of the ladder head all the way back, wishing so very much, I could go up with him. Up, up, he would go so slowly, finally reaching the edge of the eves. Ever so carefully he would maneuver his body and feet so that he could stand up on the roof. I would be down below cheering him on, and waiting the long wait until he would creep back down the ladder with the same carefulness that he had gone up with. He was afraid and I knew it, and he never did let me go up with him. He was right about that though because I was much too careless a child for quite some time.

There was another ladder in the house though, that I also loved, and I did get to climb it. Beside my bedroom was a door that led a closet. On the walls of the closet were two ladders and the ceiling in the closet was actually a hatch door that would open via a pulley, if you pulled on a rope that was attached to the back of it. One had to pull really hard until the door reached the tipping point, then hold back so that it wouldn't slam down too hard. It was a big door, and heavy, but it opened into the attic, which was a large space, full of so many interesting things, as attics often are. My mother went up there every so often to look for something, or to get something that she needed like metal berry buckets, and I longed to follow her up there. I would tag along behind her into the closet and watch her as she tugged on the rope, hoisting the door up and around so that it lay on the floor of the attic, and then she would climb effortlessly up, using a separate ladder for each foot, and disappear from my sight up there. As soon as I could, I learned to climb behind her using only one vertical ladder. At first she had someone stand below me to catch me if I fell. When I got to the last rung she would reach out her hand to help me make the last step without falling backwards. What a victorious sensation – to have climbed high, and now be in this different place with all sorts of trunks and boxes and furniture and books to delight my curiosity.


I found other ladders to climb as well – the barn had a ladder too that went to its’ attic, and that was free game. Once up there, I could swing open a large square door and look out over the yard. There was lumber stored up there and boxes of tiny little wooden furniture made by a family friend that had died long before. I remembered him as a strange fellow, but marveled at the patience and attendance to detail his work revealed. My brothers had tacked small pieces of wood horizontally onto the large trunk of an ancient apple tree in the field, making a ladder of sorts that would take me up to the sprawling crotch. If I could make it up without falling, I could view my kingdom from there and decide which limb I’d like to climb out on, or I could read a book, or listen to the birds or spy on the movements of my family, whatever they happened to be that day.

Well, I did grow up,moved away, got married, and had children of my own. David and I built our own house, and joy of joys, the day came when we were ready to put on the roof and then shingle it. That was the best few days of the whole project. I got to climb ladders all day and be up high. Often, when we were living in that house, the snow would fall deep and build up on the roof, and if the roof needed to be clean off, I was always eager to do it, climbing the ladder joyfully.
I’ve gotten a lot older now, but the love for ladder climbing has not diminished. I still love climbing the spruce pole ladder to the loft at camp. I’ve discovered there are sometimes ladders built to help hikers negotiate difficult mountain trails. Canon Mountain in the White Mountains has one, as does Moosilauke. And in the Adirondacks there are some near Avalanche Lake. Yes, ladders are for climbing. There is a charm about going up, each rung a pleasure not to be skipped over. Up, up, up you go, excited to reach the top. Who know what you will find above you? Who knows what views you will have.

The Bible talks about a ladder stretching from heaven to earth in Genesis 28, referring to Jesus. It's an interesting analogy that holds as much pleasure, charm and excitement as those that captivated me in my childhood.

Seed Ordering Time

The black and white illustrated and well documented catalog came back in December, but for the last week it has been weighing on my mind. Last year by the time I got around to ordering seeds, they had run out of some of my top tomato choices, and I had to settle for unknown varieties and old seed. This year, I wanted to be on top of it, but the days have been ticking away with this and that necessary-thing-to-do taking up time that crowded seeds to the edges. But today was the day.

I made it all the way through the catalog, reading descriptions and pondering ounces and pounds, as light snow swirled around outside my window. David got home, and after we shared supper and the news of the day, there was time to sit on the couch and go over the list together. We imagined perhaps a plot of squash and pumpkins planted in a sunny field at camp. We discussed the possibility of a tall fence for some pole beans and Green Arrow peas. Would fencing the edge of the garden with them, just provide head high snacks for the neighborhood deer, or would it deter them? When the talking was done, he had added one more variety of beans and upped the amounts on a couple of items. Not too bad. The ordering was done simply online and then I received notification that my order had been received and would be filled. A sweet smile of satisfaction came on me. Forty six items - seeds, some so small they can barely be seen, some larger, but all with that mysterious promise of a green plant going somewhere or doing something - moving toward plumpness, sweetness, greenness, ripeness, nourishing goodness.

We all are but seeds- interesting, but useless if we do not let ourselves be taken into the dark soil of God's bosom to be sprouted. But oh, when we do, there is all sorts of sunshine and showers and surging growth that awaits us. Plumpness, sweetness, and nourishing goodness are sure to come at the end of the long summer.

January is a good time to start a blog whose postings may end up looking a good bit like swiss cheese come August. Now is a time of much darkness still, though the earth is beginning its' slow swing towards the sun. David and I rise at 4:45 am, when it is inky black, and by 5:30 we are prepared to walk the 3 mile loop around our hill. By the time we are topping the last rise, there is color in the sky, and the trees are in silhouette, and gravity pulls us easily down and through the landscape that reminds us so much of a Maxwell Parrish painting.

As I fix breakfast the first light is coming on the trees behind the pond behind our home. I treasure the sunshine rays here in St. Johnsbury, sometimes walking across the island of trees that separates our side of the hill from our neighbors, and up to the highest point where the sun hits last in the day. By 4:30 pm, darkness is falling again.

I do not mind the darkness really. I could very easily pretend that I am a small four footed creature that is hibernating, and fill my time with reading and cooking, writing and sewing. It is quite appealing to live a quiet life that darkness seems to invite one to. It should be a quiet time, I believe, and life is out of kilter when even the dark northern winter minutes are milked for every moment of productivity, and the day's work extends far out of the edges of day into the regions of the night.

There are things happening day and night out there. It is easy to follow in the soft layer of snowflakes laid down almost every day. One deer has died on the far side of the pond where the cattails grow and go to seed. Our dog, Oscar has found the remains and is begging now daily to be allowed to go get a bone. Finally I had to see what was left after he urpped a large column of hair on the kitchen floor the other morning. He took me there, but I could have made it there without him, the animal pathways being unmistakable. Where he waded through a 4 foot stream, I forded it on a log. Not far at all around the curve of the pond, coyotes have picked the carcass clean. The raven have been fed as well, and there are partridge wing prints left neatly in one place. I can only assume it was startled by an animal making its' way to a meal.

A turkey has died too. Oscar has stuffed his remains across the road, under an alder root in the swamp - and none too subtly either. He came back with his white face, black and wet. There is indeed death in the night, but I remember that this is owl mating time, and we saw a cute little ermine coming out of a neighbor's hen house in broad daylight. He was not worried about us really, but popped into the garage, then out the corner and looking over his shoulder at us, loped away. Slender and white with black only on the very tip of his tail. How creatures survive the cold leads me again to believe that out beyond the stars there is Someone who is all wisdom. There will be stars tomorrow morning because it is cold tonight. I better get to bed soon so I can see them.