From Skilled Hands

My mother-in-law loved rhubarb. But she really loved springtime. Because springtime meant fresh local rhubarb, and that meant rhubarb pie.  I think that she loved making the pies for her son and husband more than she loved the unique sweet-tart confection.

Since I planted for both of us, we always talked about what to put in the garden. Besides the usual tomatoes (pronounced to-mah-toes), beans, and squash, she would tell me how much she loved new potatoes with the dirt still on them, mesclun greens, blueberries and raspberries fresh from the garden. But what she really wanted was rhubarb. Rhubarb still warm from the sun.  So I planted some. Over and over again. Each spring I would wander out to the garden searching for signs of rhubarb. And each spring, when my mother-in-law would ask me, I would shake my head and sigh.  “Well, luv,” she would say, “there is always next year.”  And so it would go.

My mother-in-law died suddenly last July, before the tomatoes were ripe, and before we had the opportunity to plant again. But this spring, as I sloshed my way out to the garden, I glanced over to the place where I perennially planted rhubarb. There it was, Rosemary’s Rhubarb.

So this year, these hands and this heart will honor the woman who called me her daughter-in-love.  I shall make a rhubarb pie.

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My Town Monday is where folks like you and me share a bit about their lives in the places they call home.

I have said that my spouse and I chose each other, and that the rest of the family was thrown in for free. My mother-in-law was a gift to me, wrapped in love and an English accent.

My mother-in-law was an amazing woman. With her hands and her heart, using size 2 needles, she knitted 289 sets of hats and booties for premature babies. With those hands she knitted over 200 sets of hats and mittens for children who had none. With those hands.

With those hands and her heart, she made quilts, all hand pieced and hand quilted, for us all. With those hands she worked with the ladies of her quilt club on countless quilts.

Each year at Christmas, those hands made 100 or so cupcake-sized fruitcakes for her husband and sons. I always thought that the cakes must be an acquired taste, one, after all these years, I have still not acquired. Her hands made strudel, mince pies, apple and pumpkin pies. They made peanut butter pies for the granddaughter who loves them.

She was an English war bride, and came to this country knowing no one but the man she barely knew. They built a life here, and she sewed curtains and costumes and clothing. She knitted scarves and canned jars and jars of sauces and jellies and jams.

My mother-in-law called me her daughter-in-love, and I called her my other mom. We talked daily, and I took her shopping to places she had never been. She knew all the back roads to the Amish bulk food stores, and where the best places for fabric were located. Years of experience and wisdom; shared treasured times.

My mother-in-law had a massive cerebral hemorrhage the evening of Monday, July 5th. She died the next morning. The hospital played Braham’s lullaby each time a baby was born. The moment my mother-in-law died, the strains of that sweet song were played. Not a coincidence, I think.

From her heart, through her hands, she shared her love. And with this heart, through these hands, I shared mine.

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Remember to tell those you love how you feel. Cherish the time you have together.

As always, please feel free to leave me a comment, or a stone (o), to let me know you’ve stopped by.

I have mixed feelings on this day of days.  I am reminded that I am a motherless child and that there are so many things I would ask my mom if she were here.  I can still hear her voice on the phone, “Hi, Doll.”  And I can see the young mother with 2 daughters making grilled cheese sandwiches to go with the tomato soup that came out of the red and white can. I think of the woman who witnessed this daughter’s journey for independence and to find her own way. The woman who didn’t understand the choices her daughter made and had her own struggle to accept them.  The woman who loved her granddaughters unconditionally.

I remember my mother in her ICU bed, telling me that I had taught her a lot about being a mother, and thanking me. I remember one of her gifts to me when I didn’t know where to be—at her bedside or at home with my husband and daughters. She said, “I love you. Go home. With my blessing.”  I came home on February 15th to my husband playing outside with our daughters. There was a sign on the door. Happy Valentine’s Day. They had moved the day on the calendar so we could celebrate it together.

On this day, as I walked with the dogs, I thought of the sweetnesses that I have experienced in these woods, of #1 daughter being a pony or a unicorn, galloping through the woods, hair flying as her spirit soared.  Of #2 daughter stopping at each Jack-in-the-Pulpit to make sure Jack was home. “Hello, Jack,” she said each and every time. Of my mother-in-law, reminding me that I am her other daughter, her love-in-law.

Happy Mothers’ Day to us all. Those of us who are one, who made one, and who have or had one.  Take a moment to cherish those you love.

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Thanks to these fine women, among many others, who have shared their thoughts on this day:

Carleen

Carleen, once again

Karen

RudeeK

distracted by shiny objects

Mrs. Chili

Savannah

Patti

Cat

My English mother-in-law is ready. A month or so ago, we took a trip to Holmes County, where there are plenty of Amish bulk food stores. She bought the candied fruit she loves to use in her fruitcakes. Soon she will begin the process of making the cupcake sized fruitcakes she makes for my husband, his brother and my father-in-law. Last year, she make 102.

The large stainless steel mixing bowl will come down from the top shelf, muffin tins will emerge from the cupboards, including mine, which will be taken over the stream and through the woods. The well-used recipe, now housed in a plastic sleeve, will appear on the sink shelf. Little bags of the cakes will be doled out to my eager husband; it is the one thing that will be his alone, as no one else covets that particular Christmas treat.
Over the past 25 or so years, I have tried these little cakes. On many occasions. With coffee. With tea. Even with a glass of wine. If they are an acquired taste, I have not yet done so, and it is unlikely that I will.

But there is no doubting the love that those hands put into them. One little cake at a time.

I had fully intended to write about Cups of Kindness and Christmas in Peninsula. And my Wordless Wednesday was just that: wordless.

We’ve been working hard preparing for Cups of Kindness. I am very excited about it—-when I’m not terrified. I have envisioned this for a very long time, and seeing it to fruition when the need is so great is an amazing thing. Kindness is all around us—we just need to take the time to open our hearts to receive it.

The generosity of our community is a wonderful thing. The cyber-community has opened its hearts and spread the word. Amy at Knit Think sent a lovely donation of a cup, some hot chocolate and 2 beautiful cloths with a cup in the middle of each that she knitted. (I apologize for the quality of the photo.)

Judy Merrill Larsen emailed me and offered to send a a couple of signed copies of her beautiful book, All the Numbers. My incredible community of bloggers has helped spread the word. I was trying to list everyone and link to their blogs, but I am too tired—-you know who you are and you have my gratitude and my love.

We now have 74 artists who have donated 164 pieces of artwork to benefit the Akron-Canton Regional Foodbank.

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Yesterday, the Cuyahoga Valley Scenic Railroad ran a special train of their popular Polar Express. Their passengers were kids with a variety of special needs. Volunteers elves and others came to greet the train and wave to the children as they entered the North Pole.

We constantly prove the Power of One. Keep your eyes open. You’ll see it all around you. And you can pass it forward.

Remember: every dollar raised provides 7 nutritious meals.


Friends and neighbors helping each other.

#1 daughter is a college student in New York City. She had researched her options for coming home for the Thanksgiving holiday, and had discovered that she could take a bus from NYC to State College, PA for $35.00, and a 4 hour drive. State College, PA is about 4 hours from here, as well. So it seemed like a good idea. Until Tuesday morning when the snows started to fly. A major storm was heading our way and was predicted to extend quite a distance to the East.

The drive to State College is a pretty one, through beautiful mountainous country. In good weather. During daylight. So instead of leaving for the 4 hour drive at 6:30pm, Steve left at 12:30pm. he stopped at a tourist information center, and asked the woman at the desk about the weather. She showed him the map on her computer, complete with pink and white swirls. She said that the weather was indeed a problem, but that another big issue was that it is bear season, and that bears run across the highways all the time. (Unfortunately with visibility near zero,it would be hard to see a bear.) He arrived in State College at about 5:30 pm, and went directly to the motel where he and #1 daughter would be spending the night, waiting out the storm. The bus arrived after midnight.

The next morning, the storm had passed, and they began the drive home. I had already checked with the airlines and found a flight that would get her back to NYC; the only seat left was in business class—the day before she had planned on returning—at a premium rate.

So this afternoon, I drove with my wonderful daughter to the airport. When we got there, I helped her remove her suitcase from the car, and I asked her if this was when we hugged and cried. It was.

As I drove away from the airport, back to our studio, I was so grateful for what we share. And the greatest of these is love.

My mother-in-law is an amazing woman. With her hands and her heart, using size 2 needles, she has knitted 194 sets of hats and booties for premature babies. With those hands she knitted over 200 sets of hats and mittens for children who had none. With those hands..

With those hands and her heart, she has made quilts, all hand pieced and hand quilted, for us all. With those hands she has worked with the ladies of her quilt club on countless quilts. With those hands and heart, she knitted caps and booties for a young pregnant woman. She talked to the ladies of her quilt club and to her hairdresser. Those hands and the hands of the ladies made 3 baby quilts, an afghan, and a pillow for the young mother-to-be so she would have something beautiful. Those hands now search the thrift stores for things the baby might need. With those hands and that heart.

Each year at Christmas, those hands make 100 or so cupcake-sized fruitcakes for her husband and sons. I always thought that the cakes must be an acquired taste, one, after all these years, I have still not acquired. Her hands make strudel, mince pies, apple and pumpkin pies. They make peanut butter pies for the granddaughter who loves them, and pumpkin pies to go with the whipped cream.

She was an English war bride, and came to this country knowing no one but the man she barely knew. They built a life here, and she sewed curtains and costumes and clothing. She knitted scarves and canned jars and jars of sauces and jellies and jams.

From her heart, through her hands, she shares her love. And with this heart, through these hands, I share mine.

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I originally wrote this piece for my mother-in-law’s birthday last year. When I began to think of a person about whom to write for October Ovation, she came to mind. I’ve added a few more thoughts, and I am pleased to share them with you.
For other October Ovation posts, visit Barrie, and Larramie. It will be a joy to see what other folks have to say.

In our Civil War study, my daughter and I came across a sweet lovely letter. I love the poetry of the words and the heart behind them. I think about that war, and the tremendous human cost, and the current wars and their unfathomable costs, and I hope that wisdom prevails. The Bill of Rights is not a list of suggestions.

July 14, 1861
Camp Clark, Washington

My very dear Sarah:
The indications are very strong that we shall move in a few days—perhaps tomorrow. Lest I should not be able to write again, I feel impelled to write a few lines that may fall under your eye when I shall be no more . . .

I have no misgivings about, or lack of confidence in the cause in which I am engaged, and my courage does not halt or falter. I know how strongly American Civilization now leans on the triumph of the Government and how great a debt we owe to those who went before us through the blood and sufferings of the Revolution. And I am willing perfectly willing to lay down all my joys in this life, to help maintain this Government, and to pay that debt . . .

Sarah my love for you is deathless, it seems to bind me with mighty cables that nothing but Omnipotence could break; and yet my love of Country comes over me like a strong wind and bears me unresistibly on with all these chains to the battle field.

The memories of the blissful moments I have spent with you come creeping over me, and I feel most gratified to God and to you that I have enjoyed them for so long. And hard it is for me to give them up and burn to ashes the hopes of future years, when, God willing, we might still have lived and loved together, and seen our sons grown up to honorable manhood, around us. I have, I know, but few and small claims upon Divine Providence, but something whispers to me perhaps it is the wafted prayer of my little Edgar, that I shall return to my loved ones unharmed. If I do not my dear Sarah, never forget how much I love you, and when my last breath escapes me on the battle field, it will whisper your name. Forgive my many faults and the many pains I have caused you. How thoughtless and foolish I have often times been! How gladly would I wash out with my tears every little spot upon your happiness . . .

But, O Sarah! If the dead can come back to this earth and flit unseen around those they loved, I shall always be near you; in the gladdest days and in the darkest nights . . . always, always, and if there be a soft breeze upon your cheek, it shall be my breath, as the cool air fans your throbbing temple, it shall be my spirit passing by. Sarah do not mourn me dead; think I am gone and wait for thee, for we shall meet again .

The letter was written by Sullivan Ballou, a lawyer from Rhode Island who entered the military when the Civil War started in 1861. He was 32 when he died at the Battle of Bull Run, on July 21, 1861. His wife, Sarah, was 24 years old when she became a widow with young children. Ironically, the letter was never mailed. It was found among Sullivan Ballou’s effects when Rhode Island’s governor traveled to Virginia to collect the remains of his state’s dead.