There's a saying "Time Began in the Garden."  I seem to lose track of time in the garden. From the first seed I plant in the spring to the last plant I pull out in late fall, the garden beckons me.  I've enjoyed vegetable gardening for over forty years, but for some reason this year I'm enjoying it more than ever.  I think it's because in previous years, I viewed gardening more or less as work.  This year it's been nothing but pure pleasure and I'm learning more than ever.  

When the ground thawed in early spring, although it was still too cold to begin planting Caleb rototilled the garden plot for me.   Temperatures dropped and it was still snowing in April; by the time it warmed up the soil was hard and needed tilled again.   In mid May I was able to start planting beets and carrots and  cabbage and broccoli plants from Bloomers Greenhouse. A friend gave me over a dozen hot banana pepper and Roma tomato plants.  I nursed them on the porch until the threat of a frost was over and planted six tomato plants in the hot house, along with cantelope seeds and green peppers plants.   I planted the remaining tomato plants and banana pepper plants in the outdoor garden.  Cliff hooked up a watering system in the hoop house that is working great.  It sure beats carrying water. 

My hopes for a good garden this year were dashed when the asparagus didn’t produce.  After the spears  poked through the soil, they turned brown and died.  I assumed it was because they didn’t get enough rain.  I let them grow into the tall ferns that were brown and laced with cobwebs.  A couple from State College stopped on their way to Sugar Grove to buy some goat milk soap and commented on my nice garden.   I gave them a short tour around the property.  When we passed the asparagus bed, in a strong German accent, the woman informed me “You have the asparagus beetle too.  I hear Epsom Salts and mushroom compost are good for the plants.”  I never heard of such a pest, but thanked her for the information.  I cut all the plants back and after reading about the beetle, I began going out every night and dropping the little black bug with white spots and red antennae into warm soapy water.  The first few nights, there were hundreds of them, but now they’ve dwindled to only a few, and the plants came back green and healthy.   Cliff brought home a load of mushroom compost, and I fertilized the plants with Epsom Salt.  Hopefully, next Spring we will be enjoying fresh green asparagus with Hollandaise sauce.

Despite not having much rain this year the garden is producing abundantly.    I had a bumper crop of strawberries. Caleb weeded the patch earlier in the spring, but the plants were a tangled mess.  I vowed to myself that I would keep them in neat rows.  After all the berries were picked, I went through and weeded the patch of overgrown plants leaving about two dozen plants with plenty of space around each one.  I put down newspaper and goat manure for mulch to keep the weeds down.  It’s been over a month, and I’ve been consistent about removing the runners and pulling stray weeds that pop up.  

I planted a few rows of string  beans, but the cat got in the garden and dug up almost all of the seeds before they germinated.  Cliff and Caleb put up a chicken wire fence about two feet high around the bottom of the garden and now the beans are producing.   Despite a gliche with the garlic (Cliff planted it upside down),  we pulled some nice bulbs that are drying in the shed.   I’ve been giving away zuchinni and yellow summer squash by the dozens.  And I’ve found some new recipes that are pretty tasty.  When I was at the Dollar Store, I picked up a gadget to make zuchinni noodles.  I made them last night for supper, and Cliff loved them and even asked how I made them.  I dropped the noodles in boiling water for a few minutes, drained them and then added butter and salt and pepper. 

Caleb brought home about a dozen moon flowers from his friend that lives near Chautauqua. I planted the seedlings behind the acorn squash, and they have grown to about four feet tall.  The first white flower, the sized of a softball blossomed on the evening of July’s full moon, and now they are popping up all over the place.  I also planted some petunias in  white and green bucket looking containers that hang from the gray wood fence that surrounds the garden.  In the past, I never had much luck with flowers, and now I realize growing beautiful flowers has nothing to do with luck, but with keeping them watered and picking off the dead blossoms.  I’m learning.

Today I pulled up some lettuce plants that bolted and planted spinach seed in the vacant row.  I watered the seeds thinking it wasn’t going to rain, but a nice steady rain is falling to the tune of distant rumbles of thunder. I hope the rain last for more than a few hours.  The beets are round and plump and will need to be canned soon.  Our neighbors, Shirley and Paul Oldland, planted beets also.   We also have three rows of carrots planted in their field (they have much more space than we do).  Hopefully, over the weekend I’ll pull the beets and thin the carrots.  It will be time to bring up canning jars from the fruit cellar to can pickled beets. 
 
A few bean plants that survived the cat digging them up and producing flat Italian beans that are just delicious steamed and drizzled with butter.  Last week we dug up the new red potatoes and are waiting for the rest of the vines to die off so we can dig them up, before a chicken on the loose devours them.  For some reason, she’s a free spirit and refuses to stay in the pen and started digging up the potatoes. She not only likes pecking at the  potatoes but eats the bugs, for which I am grateful.  Potato bugs are clay red and mushy with legs that are visible to the naked eye.  Today Cliff covered the plants with a layer of goat compost and a ladder to keep her out. 
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 I made a Mock Apple Pie with yellow summer squash.  It turned out great except I should have followed the directions and peeled it, wanting to keep in as many nutrients as possible.  My brain kept telling me it was squash even though it tasted like apple pie.  Cliff loved it.  I'm glad because it might be the only "apple" pie he gets this year due to an early frost that killed the apple blossoms.   The recipe calls for eight cups of sliced squash, making it a good way to use up the abundance of squash we have this year.  Here is the recipe:  http://www.makelifetasteful.com/mock-apple-pie/ Thankfully the blueberries didn't get bit by the late frost.   I covered the bushes with plastic to get our share before the birds  and have been turning out some delicious pies that don't stay on the counter for more than a day or two.    

July  31, 2016
Yesterday we had a nice rain, although we could use about a week of rain.  The grass is brown, and the ground is dry.    The tomato plants are laden with green tomatoes that I hope ripen soon.    The first rows of cilantro are beginning to go to seed, so I’ll be planting more this week. Cilantro is a heavy metal detoxifying plant that people either love or hate.  I happen to love it.  Some of my favorite recipes are black bean salad and an avocado tomatoe salad tossed in a lime vinegarette on top of a bed of argula.   I plant the parsley and basil outside of the garden, near the rhubarb bed, that bunnies seem to steer clear of.    

    

     It wasn’t long before the snow began to fly and it was time to cross country ski again. Cliff took me to Love’s Canoe and bought me a brand new pair of cross country skis. His friend Dave Love who owned the outfitter store, made sure they were the right fit and length.  The new skis were much more comfortable than the borrowed pair I had used the year before.  This year we skied on trails that were groomed for skiing, rather than hiking trails. We enjoyed each other’s company and realized that we wanted to spend our lives together so began making plans where we would live.

     About a year before we had met, Cliff had  bought an old house that needed renovated. He asked me if I would like to live there with him. Without hesitation I agreed. The house was a fixer upper, but at 45 I had enough energy to start a new life.  Although Cliff was 14 years my senior he had a lot of ambition and energy. When spring arrived I would drive up  from Emporium to spend the weekend with him cleaning up remnants of carpet, rotted wood old toys  and other debris that the previous owners had strewn around the four acres of land that borders route 948, six miles north of Ridgway. We built a fire outside to burn some of the debris and in the evening we would cook a meal over the coals.

     On Sundays we would travel to antique stores and the flea market in Leeper to forage for items we might need for our homestead. At the White Swan antique shop near Corry, Pa. we found a hundred year old green porcelain wood cooking stove for our kitchen with a price tag of six hundred dollars.  I told Cliff the stove would make a good engagement gift. A diamond ring didn’t appeal to me, as I never again wanted to feel a man owned me because of the ring on my finger. At the flea market we found a wood crate to contain our someday chickens, a hand operated bread machine and a kraut cutter that was in need of repair.  As we were carrying our finds to the truck, a fifteen gallon copper apple butter kettle caught Cliff’s eye.  He said “This is what we need to make apple butter at Sizerville this year.” I looked at the price tag of three hundred dollars and went into sticker shock.  I only paid one hundred dollars for a good used electric stove at my house in Emporium and couldn’t imagine paying three hundred dollars for an apple butter kettle that we would use only once a year.  Cliff assured me that buying it would be an investment.

     After I agreed to the purchase Cliff walked over to the large man sitting behind a glass counter cases full of knives, old watches and other artifacts. Non chalantly Cliff said “Hi Bill, what’s the least you can take for that copper apple butter kettle?”

     “That kettle is dove-tailed and it’s a pretty good one. What’s the price on it?”

     “Three hundred.” Cliff said

     “I’ll take two fifty.” Bill replied.

     Cliff reached in his back pocket and pulled out his black and white calf hide leather wallet and handed him the needed bills.

     I tucked the bread machine under might right arm as Cliff handed me the chicken crate he was carrying.  He set the kraut cutter in the kettle and lifted it off the ground to carry it to the truck.  On the ride home Cliff talked about building a tri-pod out of a twenty one foot joint of one inch black iron pipe that he would get from St. Mary’s Steel. “It won’t fit in my truck, so I’ll have to lay it across the back bumper and cut it three seven foot pieces with my hacksaw to get it home.”

      “We will need a lot more apples than we had last year to fill that huge kettle.” I said.

      “We’ll also need some fifty cent pieces to keep the apple butter from sticking to the bottom.” Cliff added.

      That was a new to me, but I figured if Cliff knew about apple butter paddles and apple butter kettles he must know about the fifty cent pieces.  Sensing my skepticism, when we got back to his house on Clarion Road in Johnsonburg, he showed me his Eric Sloane’s books that illustrated in detail how to make apple butter.

     Summer came and went with us hauling out the musty, dank wall board that was wet from the broken water pipes, tearing out the seventy style kitchen cupboards lined with gold, forest green and orange wall paper, and removing old carpet that covered a beautiful oak floor underneath of the house. When apples began to fall from the old apple tree in the back of the house, I was reminded to call the Sizerville State Park office to ask for permission to make apple butter and biscuits at the upcoming Autumn festival.

     When I dialed the state parks phone number, which I now knew by heart, the secretary at the park office was excited to tell me that they had a site set aside for us with a pavilion, running water, and a little stone fireplace.  I thought we were set for a great year. 

     The bruised drop apples from the apple tree would be perfect for for apple butter. Eric Sloane wrote in his book Season’s of America’s Past that the bruised apples are more flavorful for apple butter. Knowing we would need more apples than the tree produced to fill the kettle, Cliff contacted his buddy Dave Redmond who has an orchard and gave us six five gallon buckets of drop apples. The day before the festival we cooked the down the apples in a large kettle over a wood fire in the backyard.  After they were soft and mushy we processed the hot cooked apples through a Victorio strainer attached to a picnic table. We had ten gallons of applesauce that would fill the apple butter kettle two thirds of the way.

     Early the next morning when the sun was rising and turning the frost to dew, we loaded the apple butter kettle, apple sauce, a picnic basket full of spices, five pounds of biscuit mix in a pottery crock, Cliff’s shaving horse, his carving tools, and some chunks of green apple wood for carving spoons into the back of the pick-up truck. We stopped at the Cabin Kitchen Restaurant in Emporium for a breakfast of sausage biscuits and gravy and then to Olivett’s Market for a couple gallons of fresh apple cider to add to the applesauce.

     When we drove up to the park office and told the parking attendant who we were, they recognized both Cliff and I. We were directed to a site past a small creek that ran through the center of the park.  As we pulled into the parking space I told Cliff “We’ll have to get the fire started right away to have enough hot coals to cook down all that applesauce into apple butter.” Before we unloaded the truck he started chopping kindling with his wood ax.  I gathered dead tree branches and pine cones to fuel the tender flames in the stone fire place to cook the biscuits.  Cliff set up the tripod and built a fire where the apple butter kettle would hang. 

     When both fires were burning nicely we began unloading the truck. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed the drill sergeant walking urgently toward us.  Knowing trouble when I see it, I thought ‘what did we do now?’  Before the question was formed in my mind I heard “What are you doing starting a fire in an uncontained area.  That’s illegal to do in a state park.”  I pulled out my forgiveness card and apologized.  Cliff explained that we needed to get the fire started to have enough coals to cook down the apple butter that she thought was such a great idea. “It isn’t our fault that you didn’t have a fire ring here for us.”  She argued that we were supposed to cook the apple butter and biscuits in the little stone fireplace made for grilling hamburgers and hot dogs.  We agreed that we failed to communicate that we were going to make apple butter in a huge apple butter kettle rather than a little cast iron kettle. 

     She pulled her hand radio off of her belt and directed her employees to get a fire ring to site number 21 ASAP as there was an uncontained fire burning in the park.  While we were waiting for the fire ring to arrive a park employee arrived with a power blower and started blowing the leaves away from the site.  The ambiance of the day with people walking through rustling fall leaves was nearly in ruin. Within a few minutes some friendly park employees pulled up in a white government truck with a cast iron black fire ring and some nice dry firewood.  After the fire was contained we again apologized and asked her to have her employee stop blowing the leaves away from our sight, after all this is a fall festival.  The fire was burning nicely as was the drill sergeant’s ire at us. Unreluctantly she directed the employee to another task.

     The fog was lifting and the sun began to shine through the partly cloudy sky. Cliff filled his six quart white enamel coffee pot with spring water, a cupful of Eight O Clock coffee and some eggshells that would settle the coffee grounds when he poured it and balanced the  pot on the grates over the hot burning coals. The aroma of percolating coffee began drawing other vendors and staff employees alike to our site for a morning cup of coffee. My daughter Brandi and my grandson William who was now big enough to roll and cut out biscuits came down to help out.

     By noon time the spices and brown sugar in the apple butter were wafting through the park. We were on schedule serving samples of nicely browned biscuits and a taste of apple butter to the hundreds of people that were strolling through the park enjoying the fall activities. Cliff carved out five spoons that sold and had orders for three more.  In anticipation of having leftover apple butter I had packed up some plastic containers with lids.  People started asking if the apple butter was for sale.  I hadn’t thought of selling the it, but gave the few containers I had to the folks who wanted to take some home.  We took the remaining  apple butter home to process and ended up with three dozen pint jars.

     After the festival we joined the other vendors and park staff at the nature center for the potluck meal. The drill sergeant was there and seemed to have calmed down quite a bit.  Dana was smiling and commending everyone for all their efforts in making the autumn festival a success.

     On June 23rd of 2001, Cliff and I joined together in marriage at Faircroft’s Bed and Breakfast in Ridgway.  Together we now had six adult children and five grandchildren with one on the way. We moved into our renovated home and began our new life together where we celebrate the holidays, birthdays and each day together. Cliff frequently says “Every day is holiday and ever meal is a banquet.”

      Each fall, weather and apple permitting, the two of us head down to Sizerville State Park’s annual Autumn to set up at site twenty one. There’s always a nice pile of dried wood, a fire ring and now a fire extinguisher at the site.  We started jarring up the freshly cooked apple butter in pint jars to sell.  Brandi, Justin and his wife Jess, Caleb and Cherey are all adults now and give us a hand making the apple butter and selling canned hot pepper jelly, hot pepper mustard, triple chocolate chip oatmeal cookies and wood spoons.  The five grandchildren, William, Jeremy, Emily, Paige and Ariana set up a cider stand and sell hot dogs, smores and cookies. Perhaps one day I’ll teach them how to make hard tack candy over a campfire, after I ask for permission.  

       

               The story Run Away Bunny by Margaret Wise Brown is one of my favorite children’s books.  I came across the gem when I was assistant teaching at Head Start in 1994.  It was close to Easter and I was looking for a book about Spring time to read to the seventeen children I was caring for.  The teacher I worked with had the books in seasonal order on the wood bookshelves in the classroom. 
 
The thin, tattered book with pages brittle and tan from age caught my eye.    It’s a story about a little bunny who threatens to runs away from his mommy. Whenever he says he’s going to go, his mommy looks for him.  For instance when he says he will be a fish and swim far, far away and the mother replies “If you become a fish in the trout stream, then I will become a fisherman and I will fish for you.” While reading it to the children, my pace slowed down like a train pulling into the station.  I began to sweat and tears welled up in my eyes. My face felt hot and I began sobbing, trying to keep the ocean of tears at bay.

               Victoria, a four year old little girl with blonde, wavy shoulder length hair and big blue eyes was sitting cross legged to my right.  She uncrossed her legs, stood up and walked over to the Kleenex box that was sitting on top of the wood bookshelf behind her.  She gently pulled a tissue from the box, brought it over to me and said “Here Mrs. Jeanette.  Why are you crying?”

               Wiping my eyes with tissue, I replied “I’m just feeling a little sad right now.”  How would I have told the children that I wondered what it would be like to have a mommy that would go looking for me if I was lost?  A voice in my head firmly said “This isn’t the time or place to think about that right now.”  The tune “Mary Had a Little Lam” came to mind.  To lighten the mood of the children and myself I led them in singing the comforting, rhythmical little song from my preschool years over forty years ago.

               I always knew where my mother was physically, but her psychological condition was another story.  One day she was a happy go lucky person and the next day she didn’t know here she was at or who I was.  I didn’t have the coping skills to handle all her vicissitudes.  It was all I could do to take care of my four young children and a husband at home. Whenever I saw or tried to talk with my mother I was swept away by a tsunami of salty tears that stung my cheeks and flooded my heart.  I felt like I could cry an ocean.  Feelings of rejection, shame and sadness would linger for days.  My mom’s emotional absence along with other life crisis’ was taking a toll on me. It was becoming increasingly difficult to have meals on table, keep up with the laundry, bathe myself or sleep at night.  I began counseling to cope with the depression and physic split I was experiencing.  Just to keep my head above water, one of the doctor’s orders was to terminate contact with my mother.  I wondered if this pained her as much as it did me.  I was riddled with guilt for ending the frustrating relationship with her.

               On the fifty five mile drive to the doctor each week, voices would shame me for being an ungrateful, uncaring daughter.  A little girl would cry all the way home and back for a mommy she never really had or now would never have.  At one of the visits, I finally mustered up the courage to ask Dr. Francis if he would mind calling my mother and telling her that I forgave her and loved her.  I’ve always felt a little awkward with words, in fact often times I feel as if I don’t have a voice.  I admired Dr. Francis’ knack of always saying the right things in the right way.   At the time I was trying to raise a teenage son who was threatening to break the law, and not knowing what to do, Dr. Francis said, “Just tell him, he won’t look good in stripes.”   The next time my son started to make his threats I tried on the new voice, like trying on a new pair of shoes that were just a bit too tight.   When the words came out of my mouth, my son turned and walked away, it was as if all the air was let out of a hot air balloon.  He never threatened to break the law again.

               Dr. Francis’ readily agreed to call my mom and relay the message for me.  Searching for a piece of scrap paper to jot her phone number down, he shuffled around the pile of papers that littered the large oak desk that he never sits behind. The desk is more like a large end table, with his porcelain white coffee cup and tan push button phone with a spiral cord within his reach whenever it rings.  I was always glad there wasn’t a desk between us.  I never felt comfortable sitting on the other side of a dean’s desk, or a principal’s desk, or a teacher’s desk being doled out punishment and shame for all my wrong doing.

               When I returned the following week for our visit my first question was “How did the phone call to my mother go?”                

               Looking through the wire rimmed glasses that framed his calming blue eyes and accented his thin graying hair, he thought for a moment.  I waited.  No one was allowed to change the subject.  It was his turn to talk, not ours.  He adjusted his blue and gray diagonally striped tie that accented his navy blue well pressed suit. He brought his hands together, gently connecting his fingertips to form an arch as if he was holding a crystal ball that he could see into the future with.  In a soft spoken, kind voice he replied “I did call, but she’s as far away as Oregon.”  I knew what he meant.  He didn’t have to explain that she wasn’t physically in Oregon.  Her mental state was, as it had always been as far off as Oregon.  Mixed feelings of sadness and comfort washed over me at the same time.  It wasn’t just me she wasn’t capable of communicating with.

               After I left his upstairs office, I sat for a time at the top of the hallway steps and bathed in the light from a sunroof that gave life to a large green palm plant.  It was time to regroup and begin the long journey home.   As I drove my 1976 red Zephyr station wagon down the descending mountains, back to Emporium, there weren’t tears, but there were questions.  A little voice in my head wondered “Where’s Oregon? If my mommy is lost I’ll go looking for her.”  

Cliff and I celebrated our 12th anniversary on  June 23, 2013 by going driving  to Lake Chautauqua, located about two hours north of us in New York State.  When Cliff and I began  dating in  2000 he introduced me to obscure haunts like Heart’s Content in Tionesta to hike the trails lined with virgin timber and Hector Falls with beautiful rocks and waterfalls.   I introduced him to  Bedford Village, The Struthers Library Theatre, the Carnegie Museum of Art and Natural History and Lake Chautauqua.

I became acquainted  with  The Chautauqua Institute in the 1980’s when I attended an opera with some friends. The institute was founded by a group of Methodists in the late 1880’s to overcome boredom and to challenge people’s minds with religion, philosophy, art and culture.  The streets are lined with quaint summer houses and apartments that are beautifully landscaped with hostas, geraniums, impatients and other shade loving plants.  The lake spans the community with docks and a swimming area.  A bell tower edges the water and rings every hour and half hour.  There’s a ground model of the holy land with mounds representing Mount Hebron, Bethlehem, Jerusalem.   Every summer I try to return at least one time to get a taste of culture and breathe the fresh air of the higher elevation.

We travel to Chautauqua from our place in Ridgway via the Allegheny National Forest and through Warren, Pa.  Right before the Bob Evens Restaurant we take a shortcut to Sugar Grove, the sweetest little town in America, where we get on route 69 which is a straight shot right to the edge of the lake.  We turn left 394 which goes through Stow, Pa.  On the left is a Barbara Berry's Used Book Barn that spans seventy or eighty yards.  Cliff and I found it on our first trip up as we are always on the lookout for bookstores, which unfortunately are becoming obscure with the advent of Kindle and the ability to  buy books online.    

On our first stop at the book store we lost each other.  I wandered around sections that interested me and he wandered around sections that interested him.  He unearthed an Eric Sloane books and found me in a nearby section perusing a book on nature, Through the Swamp by Gene Stratton Porter.  He noticed the author and said “My mom loved her book.  I have her fiction books, Freckles and A Girl of the Limberlost.  Can I buy you that book?”   

I replied “No thanks, I’ll pay for it.”  It was only 10.00 and wasn’t going to break my pocket book. 

With frustration he said “Can’t I buy you anything but dinner when we go out?”  

On our first stop at the book store we lost each other.  I wandered around sections that interested me and he wandered around sections that interested him.  He unearthed an Eric Sloane book and found me in a nearby section perusing a book on nature, Through the Swamp by Gene Stratton Porter.  He noticed the author and said “My mom loved her book.  I have her fiction books, Freckles and A Girl of the Limberlost.  Can I buy you that book?”   

I replied “No thanks, I’ll pay for it.”  It was only 10.00 and wasn’t going to break my pocket book. 

With frustration he said “Can’t I buy you anything but dinner when we go out?”  

I had made it a point not to depend on Cliff financially as I didn’t want him or myself to think I was interested in him for money.  There was so much more that I admired about him, his thoughtfulness, his sensitivity, his adventurousness, his appreciation for the outdoors and nature, his interest in literature, his loyalty to morals and values.    When we checked out of the bookstore I handed  him the book to pay for. 

I later learned that Gene Stratton Porter was most known for her fictions books, but preferred writing about nature. http://www.classicreader.com/author/191/about/  When her books became well known she told the publisher that she wouldn’t write any more books about fiction unless her books on nature were published, one being Through the Swamp.   I think the book title interested me because I had just been through the swamp of a bad marriage, a divorce and a bad religion.  To my delight the book was all about nature and what can be learned in a swamp.  

Twelve years later, to our dismay the bookstore was for sale.  As we entered we mourned the thought that this could be our last stop here if it closed.  The good news was that all the books were only 2.00 each.  As usual, we both went our separate ways and I found some free books on a table outside the store.  There was an autobiography about cancer and a man who found humor therapeutic.  My ex-husband has been battling cancer for the last five years and my youngest son Caleb is living with him.  Caleb talks to me about his dad and told me they like to joke around.  I thought of them when I picked it up.  I found a book on archetypes, and a summer read for my twelve year old grandaughter.  Cliff found an interesting book on woodworking.    When we checked out, with Cliff paying the bill, the owner told us paperbacks were only 1.00. 

 I returned to the bookstore and retrieved a small paperback that had caught my eye earlier, Heart of Stone by Renate Dorrestein, a Dutch author. The setting of the book is in Holland and there are references to dissociative identity disorder.  Although the book is fiction, it's based on some actual happenings. I'm thinking of contacting the author to see if she would be interested in being a ghost writer.  

 After the book store we went to the Chautauqua and wandered around some of the shops.  I found a ocarina in a fair trade store.  The shops were a little crowded and I reminded myself that we were there to enjoy the lake, not to shop.  It was noon and we were a little hungry.  I recalled a little deli that was there years ago when I attended a Mary Chapin Carpenter concert,  but was unable to locate it. The deli served hearty  sandwiches on whole grain bread, sprouts, cream cheese and shredded carrots.  I remember the patina of the wood floors and the screen door that squeaked as customers went in and out.

The only food places we found were upscale and  in the town square.  We settled on a chicken bbq that was sponsored by the Chautauqua Fire Department.   Cliff's shingles were bothering him so we tried to stay in the shade.  We found a bench under a grove of trees to enjoy our chicken dinner.  Afterwards we walked down to the lake.  Cliff stayed in the shade areas while I meandered to the edge of the lake.  It felt good to get to take off my sandals and walk a few hundred yards on the sandy edge of the lake. The cool water and pebbles under my feet was refreshing.  I found large rock to sit on and watched the boats for a while and practiced some notes on the ocarina.  Cliff said it sounded beautiful.  I think I'll take it to Oregon and play some tunes on the Pacific Ocean. 

               After enjoying the water, we headed up to the amphitheater for the free Sunday concert.  The American Legion Tonawanda Concert Band was playing.  We were a little early, so I delved into the new book while Cliff rested his eyes as the band tuned up.  The performance was outstanding.  I didn't get the name of the gentleman who sang "Bring Him Home" from Les Miserables.  A friend had just told me about his son serving in Afghanistan and one of the men in his unit was killed while skyping with his wife.  I was in tears thinking of all the soldiers serving in Afghanistan and places of conflict. The concert ended on a light note with John Philip Sousa marches and a Dixie tune.  

We drove up to Mayville and stopped at a seafood restaurant that wasn't so great.  We should of  gone to Webb's where Cliff enjoyed his first taste of goat cheese on spinach salad when we were dating.   It was a memorable 12th anniversary of our life together.

My flight to Portland, Oregon is booked.  After weeks of deliberation, checking prices, juggling dates and agonizing over spending the money, I booked the flight through kayak.com.   My son Caleb stopped in for supper last evening and we got talking about the trip I was planning to Oregon. I told him I was trying to find a good price for a flight, when actually I was procrastinating.  He said “Book it through kayak.com.”  A couple of days previously when I was in St. Marys I stopped by the AAA travel agency to book the trip.  The travel agent was helpful and gave me a quote from Southwest Airlines.  I had already done some searching online and knew I could book a  flight through United Airlines that was less expensive.  I put a deposit on the cost of the memoir writing class I signed up for, I found a beach house to share with three other woman, I bought a travel guide to the west coast  and now I had to book the flight.  

  It seems like God has been edging me on like this ever since I first entertained the idea of attending a memoir writing workshop at Manzanita Beach in Oregon.  A few days ago after my husband Cliff had mowed the lawn I looked down and seen a little white strip of paper covered with fresh grass cuttings.  I bent over and picked up the reading from a fortune cookie that said,   “Your adventure will be source of happiness.”  Not only that but Cliff is behind me one hundred percent. Since we met fifteen years ago he has been encouraging me to write my story.   He had a road bike that he said he wanted to sell so I have money for the  trip.  When the buyer came for the bike, he asked Cliff why he was selling it.  Cliff said “I’m seventy one years old and don’t ride it anymore.  My wife wants to go on a trip to the west coast to write a memoir about her childhood in an orphanage.”  The young man was delighted with the bike and gave us one hundred dollars more than the asking price to donate towards my trip.   After Caleb left and all the supper dishes were done I got online and ordered the tickets.  

How I found out about the workshop was providential.   Or should I say the workshop found me?  Last winter I was wandering around the Resale shop in St. Mary’s, Pa. and unearthed a book on the bottom shelf of their used book collection.  For some reason the title Blackbird – A Childhood Lost and Found by Jennifer Lauck caught my attention. The softcover book was gently used and and when I perused it I just knew it would be a good read. I needed something to get me through the cold, dark winter nights.   I went to the counter in the back of the store and paid a whopping fifty cents for the book.  Along with the book, I found a beautiful olive wood rosary that was free.  I felt on top of the world with the sale. 

When I got home that evening with dark settling in by 5:00 pm I snuggled on the couch with a heavy off white afghan  and opened the book and couldn’t put it down.  I couldn’t read each page fast enough to turn the next page to find out what was going to happen next.  My usual style of reading is to read a good book slowly to make it last.  I enjoy prolonged endings as I don’t like the thought of a book coming to an end.  But Blackbird was different.  I not only found a good book, I found a good friend. I wasn’t alone anymore.  Another person somewhere new the pains of being teased by her brother, the anguish of being  a motherless daughter, the confusion of being in a fanatical religion,  and the loss of being a child that  nobody in the world seemed to love or care for.     

               The book lasted for two days and when I arrived at the end of the book I discovered that it didn’t end.  There were questions to stimulate my thoughts. While reading the book I kept asking myself how was the author able to write her story?  I have  been trying to write a memoir on and off for the past twenty years, to no avail.  Jennifer explained how agonizing, but rewarding the process was and gave tips for getting through the sometimes tortuous memories.  I heard a little voice inside saying “I can do this.”

 The most delightful surprise was that there was a sequel.  I got online and ordered Still Waters  from  Amazon.com.  It arrived within a few days.  The sequel wasn’t quite as interesting.  It was little more predictable than Blackbird, but it still was a good read.   At the end of the book was the author’s website at http://www.jenniferlauck.com/.

The nicely designed website was chock full of creative writing information, a blog, a store, free  videos and available retreats and workshops, which I didn’t dare consider since they were across the country in Oregon.  That was until a few months ago in April 2013, while what seemed like  the longest of winter of my life was still hanging on,  an email from Jennifer arrived in my mailbox.  A Beach Retreat at Manzanita Beach in Oregon sounded like heaven compared to long days of Pennsylvania winters with snow on the ground from November until April.    I counted on my fingers, November, December, January, February, March and now April.   That’s six months, half a year of being in the house most of the time.  I’m not one to complain about winter.  I love cross country skiing in the Allegheny National Forest.  I don’t mind hunkering in for the winter, catching up on reading some good books, taking online courses, crocheting, taking hot bathes to warm up on a cold winter’s night, but this winter was just a little too long.   A get away was sounding pretty good, but was it really worth the money and time that I would have to invest?  And did I really want to write a memoir?  Did I really want to revisit  the past again?  After all, a year had passed  since I recovered from the visit of  a childhood friend  from California who stayed with me for five months. 

I awoke to a very sad morning.  It’s mid May and last night there was a hard frost. The apple tree in our backyard was laden with beautiful, fragrant blossoms that all froze. The apples from the tree aren’t very large, but are packed with the flavor of a Macintosh apple.  When they  drop and bruise the apples make delicious applesauce and apple butter. Sometimes the frost is scattered, but last year the whole area was hit with a frost.  Rocky Ridge Orchards in Kane, Pa.  cancelled their annual Autumnfest of cider making, apple butter simmering in a copper kettle and hayrides through the orchard to pick apples.  There weren’t any bushels of Northern Spy to keep for the winter.  Caramel apples at Halloween were sparse.  Apples shipped in from out of state just didn’t taste the same. For us, not having apples is  akin to not having Christmas

When I moved here twelve years ago, there were two old apple trees in the yard.  They were fairly close together, so we cut the tree that shaded the garden down.  There’s not a lot of sun in our yard and we also needed more light.   The remaining tree had quite a few dead limbs so we had it pruned at 75.00 a clip a few times.  When I sit on the outdoor porch swing the apple tree is within a few feet of the porch and is home to quite a sparrows, chickadees, blue jays, cardinals and finches who visit the feeders filled with black sunflower seeds, hanging on the porch and under the tree.   

Every cloud has a silver lining and I try to look at the positive side of things.  For the past two years when the frost killed the blossoms I thought about how we wouldn’t have to rake up all the drop apples in the fall.  That  thought process isn’t working so well anymore as I’m starting to miss the annual chore. Cliff rakes up the extra apples to give to the turkeys and goats.  He’s sad because Sweet Pea, his favorite Alpine has never tasted a fresh apple before.  The other positive is that whenever the apples don’t mature to fruition the tree is saving its reserves for a bumper crop of large, juicy apples for pies, crisps and apple sauce.  Maybe next year.