Spring in the Greenhouse

 

Thinking back to my childhood, I try to remember what first signaled Spring to me those many years ago. I remember snow – lots and lots of snow. Piled high along the edges of the streets where the snow plows had pushed it, stained dark gray from the dust and months of shoveling, it often rose higher than my head. And then, almost unperceptively, it became a soggy brown slush that was fun to splash through, but not so much when spewed up from beneath a passing car. It ran in dirty rivulets down street gutters, disappeared into corner drains, carrying with it the muck from a long, frozen season. As hillsides, yards, and gardens again became visible from under the sodden blanket, new green growth gradually pushed up. Most of all, I remember crocuses – brilliant splashes of deep purple and sunny gold against dark, soggy earth.

In our greenhouses, spring arrived early. Entering them was like arriving at some other, more exotic, part of the world - warm, humid, and sweetly scented. The heat was generated in a huge, gas-fired boiler in the basement which heated water that passed through cast iron pipes that ran under each of the long, wooden benches.
 

Photo from homedepot.com

The benches were filled with dark, rich, soil and tall carnations of red, pink, and white. To this day I love the white ones best because of their spicy, cinnamon-like scent. There were also potted plants set on flat wooden platforms on top of some of the unplanted benches.

 Photo from flowers-in-world.blogspot.com

 

I can picture the pink and white azaleas, magenta cyclamens, calceolaria with their purse-like spotted yellow and orange flowers, daisy-like cinnerareas, and row upon row of Easter lilies. The super-sweet smell of the lilies trumped all the other scents as Easter neared and their number increased. Many began to sport brightly-colored foil wrappings with satin bows, lined up like so many spotless children ready for a birthday party.

 

Photo from plantsrescue.com

 

These plants all needed care – weeding, fertilizing, watering, and occasional pest-removal. The daily watering increased the humidity, which caused the single paned glass houses to fog up with the still frigid air outside. The heat and humidity were in there all year long, as were some of the flowering plants, but the lilies only came around Easter time.

 

 Photo from writeopinions.com

We could, and did, bring plants and flowers into our house most any time we wanted, which was a privilege and a luxury that I now know I didn’t appreciate at the time. We always had an Easter lily and a lovely spring centerpiece for our dinner on Easter Sunday. Even though it sometimes snowed then, signaling that winter was not “quite” over yet, it was always Springtime at Easter inside our home. If I close my eyes and remember those times, I always smell the sweetness of the lilies.

 

No matter what date it fell on or whether it snowed again, Easter always ushered in Spring. We knew that it was only a matter of time before tulip and daffodils sprouted and bloomed, followed by lilacs and crabapple blossoms. The snow finally disappeared altogether, the air warmed, mud dried up, grass turned green and grew tall. The morning came when we awoke to the familiar song of the robin, back from its winter migration and by evening we’d hear the mournful cry of the mourning dove perched on the power line above the back alley.

 

Photo from flowerspictures.org

 

Everything was fresh and new again – sun, warmth, growth, flowers, scents, and song.

A stimulating renewal after a long, frozen winter.

To me, this truly signifies what Easter is all about.

For behold, the winter is past; the rain is over and gone. The flowers appear on the earth, the time of singing has come, and the voice of the turtledove is heard in our land.            Song of Solomon 2:11-12

Susie's Rhubarb Pie

 

In the neighborhood of my early childhood, most of the kids that I knew and played with lived nearby. There were nine to sixteen of us in this half-block area and we spent much of our time, as kids of that era did, playing outside. The dads were away at work during the day and the moms stayed home, so we did have adult supervision of a sort. Not that the moms knew everything that we did, but they had their ways of keeping track of us. I can't say that any of us remained close friends, but we got along for the most part and when we didn't we'd somehow work things out. We were truly a middle-class, blue-collar neighborhood and we all knew the unwritten rules. In our own way, we were a tight-knit group. Occasionally, we'd get a "new kid on the block" and two of those stand out in my memory.

 

 

Jackie Stackhouse only spent a couple of summers in the corner house across the alley. The house belonged to his grandparents and there were rumors that his parents were divorced - one of the cardinal sins of the day. He was a cute kid; I remember him as olive-skinned, with dark brown hair and chocolate eyes. He and the boys of the neighborhood quickly joined forces, but it wasn't long before they ousted him - "He's a sissy", "He cheats", "He's a half-breed", "He's only here for the summer." I honestly did not know what to think, but neighborhood loyalty ran deep in those days. My parents, ever wise and compassionate, had a heart-to-heart talk with me. They explained that Jackie's parents were having problems, but that was not his fault and so he was spending the summer with his grandparents. "Be nice to him." they said, "He's lonely and could use a friend." I was not to be that friend and I'm not sure that he ever had one in the neighborhood, but I did stop and talk with him several times over the back fence where he played alone. I found him to be a sweet and gentle boy and I often wonder what became of him...

Susie Gates was a redheaded, freckle-faced spitfire. She and her mother moved into the basement apartment right next to us and I have no recollection of how long they lived there, but it wasn't very long. We quickly became acquainted; she loved to play dolls and dress-up, but usually wore dresses and didn't like to get dirty, so our friendship ran hot and cold. One summer day when I was down visiting in her place, I told of how the neighbor on the other side of our house had a large patch of rhubarb. Susie's mom told us that if we would go and pick some, she would make us a rhubarb pie. Of course I knew better, but that pie sounded wonderful and so I led Susie to the spot and we sneakily stole some rhubarb. Returning to the apartment, my mouth began to water for that pie, but Susie's mom told me it was time for me to go home and I never got a bite. That made me angry and I confessed to my mom what we had done. I said it was OK because Susie's mom had told us to, but Mom set me straight in no time. "They may be having tough times," she said, "but you still need to do what you know is right."

 

 

 I sometimes think of stealing that rhubarb and of the pie I never got to taste, but mostly I think of Susie and her mother and of how difficult things must have been for them. Back then, I really didn't have a clue...

 ..."Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing."     Luke23:43

 

And this is my prayer: that your love may abound more and more in knowledge and depth of insight, so that you may be able to discern what is best and may be pure and blameless until the day of Christ, filled with the fruit of righteousness that comes through Jesus Christ - to the glory and praise of God.     Philippians 1:9-11

 

The Gifts of Here and Now

 

"I sometimes think we expect too much of Christmas Day.  We try to crowd into it the long arrears of kindliness and humanity of the whole year.  As for me, I like to take my Christmas a little at a time, all through the year.  And thus I drift along into the holidays - let them overtake me unexpectedly - waking up some fine morning and suddenly saying to myself:  "Why, this is Christmas Day!"  ~David Grayson
 

 

Well, not quite - although I do agree with the sentiment, it's obvious it was written by a man. Most of the women I know were busily working on Christmas activities for weeks. I've long felt that if it were not for women, holidays would not be nearly what they are - the positive and the negative side. That, I suppose, is a whole 'nother topic for some other time. But there is much to be said for taking Christmas a little at a time, especially when it comes to priceless gifts.

 

 After the dual dramas of dealing with the moves* of two elderly relatives, we treated ourselves to some early "Christmas gifts". In early October, we - with older sister in tow - made the three hour drive to visit our youngest niece and her dad. Having finally convinced him to make the move last spring, she was anxious for us all to re-connect as soon as possible. We definitely felt the same, as her dad is the husband of the beloved sister we lost two years ago at this time of year. He also suffers from Alzheimer's, so time is of the essence...

 

Love of and connection to family are strong forces in most people's lives, but I think take on deeper meaning as we age. As a child, I never thought about, nor could I have envisioned, living without either or my parents or my older sisters. Life simply progressed day by day and many of the thoughts and feelings I had concerned things that were somewhat trivial as I look back on them. They were important to me at the time, however, and I do not mean to infer that they were unimportant, for that is the way of youth. If I had needed to be concerned about my relationship with the rest of my immediate family, I might not have had the energy and drive to pursue the thoughts and actions I did in other areas of my young life.
 

 

As it was, I had a fairly carefree childhood and blissfully skipped from one year to the next. Perhaps I was overly naive, but I like to believe that the adults in my life gave me the security and confidence to move forward. I ache for those children who do not have that kind of stability in their lives.

 

My oldest sister went off to college the year I turned two and began teaching the year I entered first grade. She has always been independent, so moved forward in her career, attended graduate school, traveled widely for work and pleasure, and remained single. For most of her life she lived elsewhere in Montana, but always drove home to spend holidays with us. Because of our family-owned floral and greenhouse business, she spent many of those visits home working - either in the store or cooking/cleaning at the house. I never doubted that she would be there and greatly anticipated her visits and hearing stories of her latest travels and adventures. She was always my "Big Sister".

 

Our middle sister, who was only fifteen months younger than the oldest, also went off to college when I was four. She chose her own route, however, and married the love of her life in her senior year. Because he was in graduate school, they moved east immediately and she completed her schooling there. Never again did she live close, but they - eventually with three daughters in tow - made the long trek back to Montana almost every summer. Again, I never doubted that they would come and longingly looked forward to that one precious week when all the family could be together.
 

 

My oldest sister had introduced our other sister and her future husband in college, so she has known him longer than any of us. Even before he married our sister, he blended into our family easily. Raised on a small farm, he had humble beginnings, but chose a career in biochemistry; he eventually earned a PhD, did research, and became a university professor. I fell in love with him early in life, and always, ALWAYS enjoyed talking with him about science, outer space, and spooky "unknowns".  I never doubted that we would always have these wonderful conversations.

 

There is just so much we all take for granted. As little as two and a half years ago none of us foresaw where we would all be today - and maybe that's a good thing. Time and distance have made "in- person" visits difficult, but we have all worked at keeping in touch and that is what really matters.

 

As with we older ones, life circumstances have scattered our progeny across the country and muddied the waters of connectedness. I understand this. I also know that it takes time and effort to establish and maintain any connection. My sincere hope is that they will find the time and make the effort to do that, because there just is no connection on earth like family bonds.

 

And so we made that three hour trek for the specific purpose of maintaining those bonds and establishing new ones. For there are new generations and new relationships to become acquainted with. Our youngest niece and her significant other have also made the same drive to see us twice in the last month for the very same reason. They both have busy careers and active lives, so the decision to come, and the notification to us of same, were done with short notice. No matter - we've all learned to "go with the flow" and be as flexible as we can. Perhaps it takes losing someone or watching them slowly fade away for us to truly value those we have here and now. When it comes to those I cherish, I'll take what I can get whenever I can.

 

It's said that a road runs in both directions and that is certainly true. You see, a simple three hour drive for a weekend visit is not such a simple thing to me - it has great meaning and is one of the finest gifts I could ever receive.

 

"You have to be vulnerable

to have real intimacy with people.

It's a two-way street, you know?"

~ Michelle Pfeiffer

 

*For background on the "dual dramas" of the moves:
November Musing - Part 1
November Musing - Part 2

 

November Musing - Part 2

There comes a time when autumn asks, 

"What have you been doing all summer?"

The best laid plans of mice and men...

In early June, while I was out working in the yard, my husband came to me with "I found something you might want to see..." By the outside corner of his workshop he had been moving and rearranging some spare lumber. "We need to be careful, but behind these boards I found a small bat - there seems to be only one." My husband knows me well - I did, indeed, want to see this. Only once before had I ever seen a wild bat live and up close. (To read about that time, please click here: A Flap in the Night)

 

 Carefully we removed the boards, one at a time, until we spotted a small, lumpy, oddly-shaped dark creature neatly tucked into a small space near the ground and between the boards. Taking a stick, I gently nudged it from behind until it wriggled out to where we could get a closer look. I thought it might take off, but then it was bright daylight and that pretty much goes against a bat's nature. Probably this was the day roost of the Little Brown bat and it planned to settle in there until sunset when it would take off to feed.

 Photo courtesy of BatGuys

We obviously roused it early; it wouldn't flee, but then it also wouldn't give up its space easily. Opening its little mouth widely, it divulged a set of tiny, needle-sharp teeth.

Having expressed its discontent, it turned its head away and froze, undoubtedly hoping this was all just a bad dream. We carefully covered it with boards and left it alone.

"But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane [you aren't alone]
In proving foresight may be vain:
The best laid schemes o' mice an' men
Gang aft a-gley, [often go awry]
An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain,

For promised joy."

From Robert Burns' poem To a Mouse, 1786

 

 

Several times in recent years my older sister had mentioned that she might consider moving closer to family at some point: "After all, in five years I'll be ninety..." Having lived most of her life in Montana, with parents gone and sisters living in other states, she was facing up to some tough decisions. She'd always been independent - single with no children - so had to take care of herself. She'd lived in her current town for 60 some years and, although she was fairly active and had many friends, knew the time was approaching when she might need some help. Friends are wonderful, but there's usually nothing quite like family.

Last December, while she was here for Christmas, we visited a couple of independent/assisted living facilities. One seemed just right for her - small and very friendly. Best of all, it was located in our little community and just ten or fifteen minutes from our house. She flew home telling us she'd "think about it." Evidently, that didn't take long, as we soon received a phone call telling us she'd decided to move here. We were very happy with her decision.

 

Over the next six months, she methodically and single-handedly (for the most part) plotted her course and set about accomplishing some extreme down-sizing and preparing for a major move. She was merciless in her mission! She had it all planned - would go through her belongings, make decisions on what to keep, line up others to do her garage sale, contact her realtor, have the condo appraised, and do whatever needed doing to get it ready to sell. She figured she could accomplish all that and put the place up for sale around the first of June. Whether it sold or not, we'd drive over and move her in the late summer, by September at the latest.

In early June, I received a fretful phone call. The condo had sold within the first week and she had three weeks to vacate. "It's OK" I reassured her. "Line up your garage sale and we'll see where things stand after that." Wrong - the people who ran garage sales needed more notice, but they did visit her and gave her a rough estimate of what her furniture pieces were worth. Operating like the true trooper she is, she invited friends in to pick and choose items to buy, lined up other friends to help prepare for a garage sale, checked into places to take the things that didn't sell, and advertised her very own sale, which turned out to be fairly successful. But there were still many decisions to be made and many things to do.... her weekly phone calls became daily ones. After one particularly stressful call, my husband looked me in the eye and said "You need to go and help - NOW!"

It wasn't that I didn't want to. It's just that this sister, who is fifteen years older than me, has always handled her own life and told me what she was going to do. I've always been her "baby sister" and never felt that there was much I could do for her. But now it was obvious that she needed my help, even though she might not ask for it. I flew to her as soon as I could.

 

Arriving at her place, I found her physically exhausted and frailer than I'd remembered. Obviously, the last few weeks had taken a toll. I set about packing up all of her belongings that she knew she was going to take. That part, although time-consuming and challenging at times, was not terribly difficult. But there were still a number of decisions to be made, most of which only she could make and she was running out of steam to do so. Gently, I tried to move her along on these, but often heard "I can't make that decision today - I'll look at it tomorrow..." Sometimes we exchanged angry words and there were tears. This was not the sister I knew, but I gradually tried different methods to get her to budge and, in some cases, just quickly told her what the answer had to be. She began then to tell me "I just want to wake up and have this all over with." Believe me, I felt the same...

 

There were numerous errands to change banks, sign papers, and pick up empty boxes. Little by little, the physical part of her move progressed. But then there was the emotional part. In the course of the first week that I was there, we had three different farewell social events to attend. These were each rich, heart-warming occasions that showed just how deep my sister's connections were and how much she was admired and loved. To me, somewhat the outsider with the "need-to-get-done" checklist, they took valuable time away from all we yet had to accomplish before moving day. But I also knew how necessary this part of the process was for all involved, so I put on my best smile and my company manners and made the best of it. My sister reveled in each celebration and became more exhausted.

The day after we discovered the Little Brown bat, I tried to find it again. Carefully removing the boards, I checked out every tiny nook and cranny but found no sign of it. Having been disturbed, poked, and prodded, it must have decided that this was no longer a safe place to remain. I'm sure it was agitated that it needed to move and I hope it found another more suitable day roost where it could sleep in peace and comfort. May it eventually congregate with others of its kind and lead a long, fulfilling bat life...

 

My husband drove in the following week and began figuring out the space needed for what size of moving trailer we'd rent. That week, as the preceding one, quickly evaporated and we glimpsed the end in sight. My sister, who suffers from severe osteoporosis, developed back pain which she surmised to be another hairline fracture. She ate like a sparrow and just wanted to sleep. I stopped asking for decisions to be made and just packed, figuring we'd deal with it later. The last two days passed in a haze - the trailer got loaded, lots of folks dropped in for final goodbyes, to pick up items they'd purchased or been given, to drop off goodies. With the condo now empty, I scrubbed and vacuumed until I was exhausted. Finally, we hit the road.

 

The trip home was thankfully uneventful. My husband took the lead with the truck and loaded trailer; we followed behind with me driving my sister's car. Although my husband and I take many road trips and trade off driving, it had been many years since I'd put in a full day's drive myself. I knew I was capable and just hoped it would go well, but I needn't have worried. My sister slept much those two days on the road and never once asked to drive. I think it was a case of just doing what needed to be done - for each of us.

Since the move, we have all settled into our own routines. My sister is still independent, but has help where she lives if she needs it and knows she can call on us any time. She is slowly adjusting to the new community, climate, and lifestyle. While allowing each other space, we do call and see each other more often. She has rested up, regained her appetite, and enjoys her new home; old friends call often. I love her dearly and she so amazes me! I hope that if and when I'm her age, I'll have the courage and determination to make whatever decisions are needed, to uproot myself and move on to wherever I need to be. I hope I'll have someone to stand by my decisions and help me do what I must...

"To decide is to walk facing forward
 with nary a crick in your neck
from looking back at the crossroads."

Betsy Cañas Garmon 

 

 

To be continued here:

November Musing - Part 3

 

For more info on BatGuys click HERE
 

ArtTrail #9: Fence Post Bandit

"The artist's world is limitless. 

It can be found anywhere,
far from where he lives
or a few feet away. 

It is always on his doorstep." 

Paul Strand

Cory Holmes, of Havre, Montana, is a Burlington Northern Santa Fe Railway conductor with a penchant for welding scrap metal into art. Many of his pieces, the majority of which he places himself,  mysteriously appear on fence posts around the country. Most of those can be found along the long, lonely highways  in a wide area of Montana, where he has become known as the Fence Post Bandit.

"Electric Man"

I've been hoarding scrap iron for better than four decades; never with a particular thought of selling it though. In fact, I don't believe I ever have sold any steel or iron as scrap. I don't just gather and collect any arbitrary metal; that would be both redundant and boring. I hand pick interesting forms, with unique shapes and histories.

"Model A Horse"


My scrap pile is between 60 and 80 tons at this point. Each piece of scrap played a part in the history of this nation: the springs and hardware from old buggies and farm wagons, the moldboard plows, cycle bar mowers, and horse drawn combines. There were old pieces and parts from oil rigs, pipelines, seismograph outfits and so on. I had railroad parts from hardware from the telegraphs, parts of steam locomotives and various sundry parts from tracks, switches, cabooses and box cars. There were spent military cartridges, helmets, bayonets and various hardware. Interesting stuff....but what does one do with it? Well I do sculptures. I have been doing metal sculptures for about twelve years, as far as the fence art sculptures go, I have been doing them about ten years now.

One day I was reading some farm journal and there was an article that said there were 35 million fence posts in Montana. I thought hmmmm, I wonder how they know that? Do they have fence post census takers? Not too long after I read the article I had to take a trip to Glendive and as I drove along the endless prairie I thought, gee, somebody ought to decorate around here and make this drive a little more interesting. So, I figured why not me? I'll just whip up some stuff and honk it on the top of fence post. And viola, fence art was born.

"Monster Face"

 

Now, ponder this for a moment. A farmer is seeding his field for the umpteenth time. Out of the corner of his eye he sees a strange apparition perched on a fence post his father set forty years ago as a teenager. "What the heck is that?" he thinks and parks his tractor trundles over and takes a look. He stares a while, scratches his head and goes back to farming. Pretty soon, over coffee at the grain elevator he asks his neighbor if he has seen any weird stuff on fence posts. Strangely, his neighbor says yes, he has a thing on one of his fence post too. What are they? No one knows. Who put them there? No clue. What do they mean? No idea. So they ponder the mystery. They talk about it. We have social interaction between neighbors; perhaps not a bad idea in this age of wireless anonymity.

In order to do sculptures I have to bend and shape and fabricate all this stuff. My specific method of making sculptures is called the direct metal technique. That means that I have to arrange, shape, forge, grind and polish all things by hand. It also means each one of my pieces is an original and a one of a kind. I use a number of different fabrication methods in making my sculptures and fence art, I use a coal forge and trip hammer when I have to do blacksmithing. I also weld with a combination of gasses, a method rapidly becoming obsolete but sometimes necessary to achieve a certain look or effect.

"Spikes and Springs"

I thought I would probably quit when I expended my original 50 or 60 tons of scrap iron but an interesting thing happened. Once people heard what I was doing they started bringing me more scrap. And some really interesting stuff too. I found a 200 lb camshaft from a locomotive someone had left in my truck, buckets of square nuts from the 1920s, and huge rivets from a disassembled bridge. The list goes on, and so does fence art production.

"Ode to Maud Muller"

Near as I can tell I have in the neighborhood of 700 pieces of fence art in 17 states and two Canadian provinces. In actuality I cannot be certain the people who I gave fence art to actually put them up as they said they would and claimed they did. I, however, have personally put them up in 11 states and two Canadian Provinces. I would have put a couple up in Hawaii as well but airline regulations make this almost impossible.

I never ask permission - of course, in a perfect world I would. I try to avoid the unpleasantness of explaining what manner of unbridled weirdness I am committing to some farmer's fence post. So almost without fail my fence arts are placed in pretty remote places.

"Longhorn Cow"

I like to put them on the skyline whenever possible because they are easier to see. The single most important part is the fencepost. It has to be a substantial post and unfortunately most post are not. Railroad tie fencepost are king. I try not to place them on brace post next to gates because I don’t want it to snag a farmer’s header on a combine or swather. I try not to place them in near proximity to houses unless somebody specifically asks me to. I have put a goodly number of fence art in national forest, but, to be honest they are difficult to see because of the trees. The upside is they don't get stolen nearly as often as the prairie variety.

Thievery can be a problem but it does not bother me as much as it confuses me. I don't understand why people take them but sometimes they do. I can only speculate that sometimes they are offended that someone put something up on a fence because they own the fence, or because it’s just too far out of their realm of normalness, or maybe because they took a shine to it and wanted it in their back yard.
 

"Hands and Tire Wrench"

I give anybody that wants a fence art, a fence art. But I prefer if they come and get it from me at my home, or wait until it’s convenient for me to deliver it. Yes I do sell my work. But not fence art, it's free.

"Fence Chicken"

Of all the reasons Cory gives for creating fence art: boredom, wanderlust, cheap mindless entertainment, lack of adult supervision, frustration with deadlines, disgust with 50% commission fees at art galleries, lack of parameters, love of the creative process, potential longevity, lack of expected political correctness, ultimate freedom of choice, shock value, an excuse to travel to unseen places and the challenge to convey an idea or concept in a brief moment, he says, "Mostly I guess I did it because it was really fun."

 

"What art offers is space - a certain breathing room for the spirit. "

John Updike

Cory's words here were taken from an interview that appeared on the Glacier Electric Cooperative, Inc. web site. Click HERE to read the complete article.

To view more of Cory's fantastic fence art:

http://community.webshots.com/user/iamasculptor

http://www.montanapictures.net/hobson_art_tour_three.htm