Memories

Joy and Sorrow

November 22, 2008 By Sarah Reinhard Leave a Comment

This weekend, we celebrate the Feast of Christ the King. There are all sorts of good things you can read about that, and you don’t need to surf far in the Catholic blogosphere to find all you could ever want to know.

I never noticed Christ the King Sunday until last year, when our daughter was baptized. I noticed it because of the joy and the sorrow that were intertwined in my heart. On the one hand, we had a beautiful celebration: the baptism of our child. On the other hand, we had just received word that Poppa Dean had six months to live.

While we were smiling and basking, we were also remembering the five short years we had with Poppa Dean. While I was enjoying the company of family and trying not to tear up too much at the gift of that one godfather, I was also noticing that Poppa Dean wasn’t there and wondering how long we had left.

Last year, in honor of Christ the King Sunday, there were gold vestments. There were white bows. There were triumphant songs from the choir.

Though we had sorrow in our hearts, we had joy in our arms. Though we braced ourselves for the inevitable, we were celebrating new life.

Christ the King Sunday is positioned on the liturgical calendar as the Sunday before Advent. As a Church, we bring out the gold and the trumpets right before we begin our preparation for the Incarnation and the Birth of our Savior in humble surroundings. And as we ponder the Christmas miracle, we can’t help but think where it will lead…to his death on Good Friday, and then, triumphant again, to his resurrection on Easter. We bring out the feast right before the fast, and it’s appropriate to do that, isn’t it? It’s a reminder of how life really is. One moment, you’re holding a small child, and a few short years later – really, 80 years isn’t long at all, in the larger scope of things – they’re holding you.

I can’t help but think, looking back from only a year later, that as Poppa Dean sits in heaven, he must be experiencing much the same bling as we did last year at Meredith’s baptism Mass on Christ the King Sunday. I can’t help but appreciate more how sorrow can lead to joy, and how joy can exist even in the midst of sorrow.

Toss a star for us, Poppa Dean, and pray for us, even as we pray for you.

Filed Under: family, Memories

The Color Purple

September 8, 2008 By Sarah Reinhard 1 Comment

This year when we made grape jelly, I took quite a few pictures. I wanted to capture it in a way that, I was afraid, words wouldn’t. I wanted to be able to look back and recall the way her hands looked, the stories my father-in-law told me about his boyhood, the enthusiasm (however short-lived) my daughter had for helping. I wanted pictures to jog my memory of that hot smell as the grapes simmer, as the juice cooks, as the jelly is done.

The pictures also remind me of last year, the first time I helped. I was seven months pregnant and the heat was getting to me. Though my mother-in-law has air conditioning, making grape jelly is a hot process, and it involves being on your feet and moving fast – a combination that my pregnant body protested.

“Go sit down!” my mother-in-law frequently told me, and I told her I would sit in a minute. I wanted to HELP! I wanted to be a part of the action! I wanted grape jelly!

Two years ago, she made grape jelly for the first time in years. I’ve never been a big fan of grape jelly – I’m more of a strawberry jam kind of gal. But when I saw my husband’s rapture as he cracked open that jar of homemade grape jelly, I grew curious. He does not, after all, like things that aren’t good. (No, really, he doesn’t. He’s as reliable as a young child.) So I took a taste.

It was like no other grape jelly I had ever eaten. It tasted like…grapes. No, not the processed jars of purple jelly you find in the stores – REAL grapes, fresh from the vine, hot from your hands.

When grape season rolled around last year, I made sure my mother-in-law knew that I wanted to know the technique, so that I can pass it along to my children and so that we can enjoy homemade grape jelly for years to come.

Last year, amid the steam and sugar, she said, “You know, someday, your children will smell this and think of these days of us making grape jelly together.”

This year, as I helped and documented and pondered, I also found myself praying. Making grape jelly is a hopping process, but it’s also full of standing around – stirring, mashing, stirring, waiting, stirring, straining, stirring, milling. In that standing around, as my mind wandered here and there, I would slip in a Hail Mary here and there. I was praying for my husband, for my daughters, for my moms, for my sister and sisters-in-law, for my friends.

It just seemed to fit right in. There we were, laboring in a process that many would shun as being too hard and too time-consuming. The kitchen and our hands were stained purple before the two days were over. At least two pillowcases were sacrificed to make sure the straining was done the right way.

Even as I will share the jars of jelly with those I love, it seems appropriate that the labor that went into them involved the intercession of the Blessed Mother. Though she can’t be seen in the pictures, I think she was there, over my shoulder, as I stirred.

Today, as I reflect on the nativity of Mary, I can’t help but think about how ordinary grape jelly is…until you make it. Maybe Mary was ordinary to everyone around her…until you got to know her. Maybe the Blessed Mother shares my delight in the ordinary, in the simple, in the world around me, full of children and loved ones, gradual beginnings and frequent failures, struggles and triumphs.

Filed Under: Farm Life, Inspired by the Virgin Mary, Memories, reflection

Tasseled!

July 24, 2008 By Sarah Reinhard 1 Comment

It was only a few weeks ago that the corn was supposed to be knee high (though it was tall even then, more like waist high). Now it towers over us, tassels waving in the breeze.

There’s a smell to corn once it’s tasseled, and it’s a smell that reminds me of my childhood and of my college years and of my right now raising kids years. I grew up at a camp, and I always remember corn in the field nearby. Every year. Once or twice we went out in it, but never very far – I never needed horror stories – a field that big, lines of tall whispering corn, a brother or boy cousin to taunt me…I would much rather be on the dikes or tucking myself into a hidden passage.

In college, corn was a thing to be studied, to be documented, to be known. (I majored in ag ed for my undergrad years.) It symbolized agriculture, farming, rural life. Knowing how it was raised, what fertilizing program worked best, which livestock digested it in what ways – these were all things that I was out to know and to master.

After college, having given up on teaching high school students (perhaps more appropriately said, having given up on myself), I started working for one of the largest John Deere dealers in the nation. There, corn became something to be planted, to be grown, to be harvested. We were at its mercy (and the mercy of the weather), and I started hating it, little by little.

How did the corn crop do? Did the extra rain – or the lack of it – ruin it for the guys in the southern part of the state? While soybeans and wheat were also important, corn seemed to be the important crop. (I might have it all wrong. It might not really be the important crop. Maybe it just seemed more important than it was.)

And now, five years out from that job at the big green dealer, I find I am enjoying the corn. Somehow, the walls of green around me are comforting. They’re a benchmark of summer, the smell of my childhood memories, symbol of what I want out of life.

In the whisper of the tassels, I feel the pull of nature, the hug of God.

Filed Under: Farm Life, Memories

For the Love of Horse

June 5, 2008 By Sarah Reinhard Leave a Comment

When I was ten or eleven, my parents drove me three hours away to a week-long camp.

I came back in love.

With a horse.

His name was Stormy, and he was beautiful, and, as it happened, he was for sale.

I knew what my dad would say…

…but that didn’t stop me from asking.

I still have pictures of Stormy in an old album. I remember how it felt to sit high up on him, and I remember how I almost ran out of underwear that week at camp. (The two are not related, I feel sure of it.)

So when we discovered Copper a mere 20 minutes from our house, and when we later met Raspberry, I knew two things for certain:
1. We would be going back as often as possible.
2. My husband really was as horse-crazy as me. (Well, as horse-crazy as you can be when you’ve “grown up” and (in theory) grown past the horse-crazy stage of your life…)

You see, I almost forgot.

Was it possible for me to forget what joy the smell of a horse’s mane could bring me? Did I really almost write off that equine elation as something I needed to get past? Would my life have as many smiles?

Maybe it would. I have a husband and children and plenty of reasons to smile in my life.

Even so…

…it’s hard to resist a face like this…

This is ‘pongebob (yes, a horse named Spongebob, but he can’t help what he’s named or that he’s, well, yellow). (For anyone who’s as horse-crazy as we are, there are pictures of our new friend here.)

You might say he’s the new love of my life. You might say he’s the new love of Prince Charming’s life. You might say that he’s captured Miss Muffet’s conversations completely.

In fact, we can’t wait for our next trip up to the horse farm!

Filed Under: family, Farm Life, Memories

The Comfort of Hot Tea, Made the Special Way

September 29, 2007 By Sarah Reinhard 3 Comments

The days are shorter and the sun is less penetrating. In the evenings, when we play outside and make mud pies, we’re finding more chill and less sweat coming from the western sky. Allergies are cropping up everywhere, and there are the back-to-school runny noses getting shared around all over town.

There’s something about a mug of something hot that speaks to the crispness in the air, that takes me back to days of hot cider and hot chocolate and boots piled by the heap of wet snowy coats and scarves and hats. Couple the mug of something hot with a fire blazing in our big blonde stove and a fleecy blanket and it’s a recipe for fall bliss!

From under the comfort of a broken-in-so-it’s-perfectly-soft blanket, one that carries the warmth of a dozen (or a hundred) Sunday mornings, I am contemplating the hot tea my husband makes me – because of his dear mother, whose mother taught her this little gem. Our house still has the chill from last night, and that hot mug will keep me warm inside the way the blanket cradles me outside. It’s not quite right for a fire…yet. Soon enough, we’ll be burning through our wood and I’ll lose my husband for half-days at a time to the inevitable woodcutting adventures.

But it is right for that special hot tea. It is past hinting at fall and it’s early enough on a slow-starting Saturday morning. There’s a qualifying blanket in attendance, a couch waiting to be shared, and, of course, the chill in the air.

There’s no special secret about this tea, except maybe its curative effects. We prefer just regular Lipton tea, piping hot. Get some milk (half-and-half is a special treat, one that I forget to have on hand) and douse it in until the tea is nice and chocolately looking. Then you dump in sugar until it’s nice and sweet. Voila! Sure to cure heartbreaks and flu symptoms, proven to make the day less chilly and the outlook much brighter, often the stimulant for cozy conversations and sharing of snuggly blankets.

Now, enough talk. I’m off to get a cuppa tea!

Filed Under: Memories

A Special Friday Surprise

September 24, 2007 By Sarah Reinhard 3 Comments

Friday morning, I was dead set on going to Woody’s, and no one was going to hold me up. Fridays have been, for the last few weeks or so, a time when our office staff (all whopping three of us!) get lunch together. By lunchtime on Fridays of late, we’re ready to vent a little and laugh a little.

Friday was no different. It had been a week in September (which, I’m remembering now that I’m in the midst of it, is about the equivalent to a week in May), worthy of all the groans and sighs and rolling eyes I could give it. It doesn’t help that my patience level is challenged by the frequent rib cage punches I’m getting internally, I suppose, and that I’m about as pregnant as I can be. (I feel like I’m using that as an excuse a lot lately. But I also feel like some of my rollercoaster reactions to things are attributable to that. If not that, then I need to say some serious prayers for St. Dymphna’s intercession, because I’m losing my mind!)

I was ready to go to Woody’s. The ladies and I piled into a car, and we headed over to Nama Gloria’s to drop off Miss Muffet for her Friday with Nama (and, of course, the Kitty of Infamous Patience, Sassy). Nama had a certain chatty look about her as she rocked on her dreamy porch under the shade of the front tree. I braced myself for a quick departure – I was HUNGRY and I wanted some barbeque pork in the worst way.

“Hey girls, come on in. I have a little project to show you on the back porch.” Ever the crafty person, Gloria is the sort of person I could just spend all day visiting with. I thought about just inviting her along to Woody’s as we walked through her house.

As she opened the screen door to her deck, she said, “Well, I guess we can all keep a secret,” and something like 23 women yelled “SURPRISE!” and I could only think, “Great, NOW it’s going to be a while before we get to Woody’s” and then, immediately after, “How thoughtful to have a party for the girls.” Our office staff deserves a party. I was really saluting this bunch of women for their thoughtfulness.

Then Gloria did the strangest thing. She pinned something on my shirt. As I looked down, I realized that this was a party for me. ME? Hmm, that seemed odd. Then the overwhelming pink theme struck me and I realized, no sooner than three minutes after hearing the word “SURPRISE!” from the lips of all those women, that this was a baby shower for me.

And I felt the tears start. Luckily for my pride, they didn’t get far, because I caught my mother-in-law’s eye and had to start laughing. You see, my mother-in-law is notorious in our family for not keeping a secret. Except she can. You just have to specify that she can’t tell anyone. She might burst, but she can keep a secret. She can even talk to all the people around you, your husband and your sisters-in-law and your friends at work, and never let on that she’s helping with a big surprise party. She can keep a secret so well, sometimes, that you’ll walk into the party and not know it’s for you.

I could go into detail about the day, and lull you to sleep with fun stories about the kids that were there, helping me open the gifts, and the beautiful stuffed tomatoes Gloria made. I could tell you all about how her backyard is the best place in the world (aside from some places that exist only in a young girl’s memory) for a gathering of friends. I could go on and on about each guest who was there (and the ones who weren’t) and how they have touched my life with their own example of motherhood and womanhood.

But really, I kept thinking to myself how unlikely it is in my experience to have a shower for any baby past your first. You don’t usually need anything. But what I needed – though I didn’t realize it until Friday afternoon – was a big group hug, a big shot of adrenaline from women who have been there and have loved it and hated it, a big dose of “what better reason to have a party?” as a reminder of just what it means to be a culture of life. The presents were nice, sure. But the presence was what made it a day of blessings, and one that I will cherish in my memories and link always with this pregnancy and this baby.