Thursday, July 4, 2013

We Celebrate!


I wrote this poem years ago for a children's holiday program book at Standard Publishing. I thought you might enjoy its simple message. Have a super Independence Day!

Grand Celebration

By Susan Sundwall

High waves the flag
Over people and nation
A red, white and blue
Grand celebration

Remembering the freedom
Hard fought for and won
By the valiant and brave
For each daughter and son

Sweet Liberty’s song
Rang joyous and clear
Defying oppressor
And beating back fear

Deep in the battle
From hillside to sea
They kept close to God
So we could be free

With each step you take
On the soil of our nation
Recall what it took
To secure it’s creation

Go—send up your rockets
And midst the red glare
Pray God that our freedom
Will always be there



Image: nirots                                                                     Free Digital Photos

Tuesday, July 2, 2013

Oh Boy, Canning

Right after I write this post, well – really after lunch – I’m going to be in the kitchen canning. It’s that season again. I can’t even tell you why I do it. I mean beets aren’t that expensive and neither are frozen peas. But I was bit by the “putting food by” bug way back in the 70’s. We lived in New Jersey then. Our crops of tomatoes were phenomenal. They don’t (or didn’t) call it the garden state for nothing. That’s where I learned to make tomato ketchup. I’ve been hooked every since.

There’s something about having a store of food you’ve put up yourself that’s satisfying on the same level as having a safe full of jewelry or a cask of gold coins under the bed or a whole new box of crisp white envelopes in your desk. Uh – wait – scratch that last one. The office manager in me escapes every once in a while and it’s so embarrassing.

Anyway, this year I’ll have beets and green beans to put up along with pickles and any number of tomato-y things. Like Peruvian Sauce. Bet you don’t know what that is. I found it in an old Ball Blue Book of canning that I’ve had from the onset of my obsession. It’s a relish that uses tomatoes and apples. I know, I know. Yuck – right? But those blue book people wouldn’t have put it in there if it wasn’t good so I gave it a shot. There are spices and other things in the mix and the first time I made it my kitchen smelled like heaven. Oh yes it did. And the sauce is so good a recent visitor cleaned the bowl I’d put on the table for our supper. He piled the last two tablespoons onto my awesome garlic bread and wolfed it down. Made my heart glad.

I guess that’s why I do it. It happy’s up my heart to go down to the basement and see all those jars full of food beaming back at me. People who quilt, run, bird watch, whip out a camera every time they think they see Johnny Depp, or read long into the night will relate. We’re the glad-hearted ones who are out there doing it and loving life.

So, off I go. I’ll turn the radio on and listen to Rush – yes I listen to Rush, get over it – while I scrape and boil and fill those jars up with the garden. My Grandma Blaine would be so proud.   

See that picture up there? It's just a foretaste of the things to come. I may need stamina prayers.


Friday, June 28, 2013

Just when you think it’s all going south . . .

...your grandson  pitches his heart out playing his part to help win the baseball game. One more on the way to the championship.

I’m like any one of you. I watch the news. I hear people say and watch people do awful things. I moan and groan and wonder what the world is coming to. But the Pollyanna in me doesn’t take long to surface and I vow to keep my sense of North as in . . . maybe it’s not all going South. Someone is constantly reminding me to keep my eyes and heart open for the amazing.

For example. My shopping buddy, Karen, and I were sitting in the Cheesecake Factory for lunch one day not too long ago. That place packs them in and right next to us about a foot and a half away sat three young people, a guy and two gals. Karen and I chatted, the kids ordered, and the wait began for the yummy lunch this nifty place would bring to our tables. The kids were served and just as I was about to make a profound point about – good grief, who knows? – Karen gave me a nod and mouthed “look.” And I did. The three young people had bowed their heads for a quiet grace. Astounding. I reached over when they were done and told them how encouraged I was by that prayer.

And another. It’s almost five o’clock and I’ve become a dishrag from trying to keep two little girls entertained all day. Melodi is on my lap – it’s hot. The floor is covered with toys and I’m wondering what the devil I’ll fix for supper, the last chore of the day. I look at the clock. Five O One. Sigh. I probably need to check her sister’s diaper, too. I love my grand kids, but the old bod gets tired, ya know? Suddenly Melodi turns her baby blues on me, takes my face in her hands and kisses my nose. “I love you, Grandma,” she says real quick like. Just then, as I melt from her sweetness, I notice I’m not so tired after all.

And one more. It’s early, I’m in my jammies at the computer wondering if anyone will come to my book signing. Nerves are jangling about it. This book promotion stuff is wearisome but necessary. I know that and I’m hanging in there. The phone rings. It’s Barb, someone I haven’t heard from in a long time, but I’d sent her an invite to the signing anyway. “I’ve already read your book and loved it. I can’t be at the signing, but I’d like one for my daughter.”  I told her I have some in the trunk and we arrange for her to pick it up the next morning. While she stood in my cool morning kitchen we had a nice chin wag. Just delightful.

People can be awful and every day we’re tempted to wallow in gloom and despair. But if that’s all we look at the whole world can seem like 100 shades of black and gray instead of blue and pink and yellow, too. I think, for the most part, I’m going with the rainbow – like the double one that appeared after it rained on the ballfield last week where Sam pitched his awesome inning.

Next I’m expecting The Prize Patrol to pull up in the driveway, balloons all over the place, and a dapper fellow in a suit to come grinning towards me with a big cardboard check. For 5 Million.

Okay, okay. Even Pollyanna can’t pull that one off. Guess I’ll just stick with looking up, looking North, like Someone would have me do. Oh – and I’ll keep my eye out for Handsome Harry with that check in his hand.



Image: Free Digital Photos

Tuesday, June 25, 2013

A Clean Swept Floor

This essay was first published in Prairie Times in early 2012. I hope you enjoy and can relate.


The Beauty of a Clean Swept Floor
By Susan Sundwall

Several years ago I traveled east with my family to visit an old Shaker village. If you know anything at all about the Shakers you know how clean their communities were. In fact, cleanliness is next to godliness was a dictum they strove mightily to live by. As we wandered through the various old buildings, the meeting house, the school rooms and kitchen, I was particularly taken by the clean swept look of the floors. Of course no one lives in these places now, but one gets the distinct impression that the floors were always clean and cleared of clutter back then. I despaired when comparing them to my own floors.

I had this exact visit in mind the following spring as I vigorously swept winter from the patio. I was appalled at the crud lurking beneath the mud and leftover autumn leaves. But while sweeping I glanced back at intervals to view my handiwork. Nice. The patio seemed to be glad of the lifted burden and gleamed back at me all tidy and ready to face the sun again. Naturally that begged the question of when the patio furniture would be set out, what flowers would be planted along the patio border and whether the grill would need a good scrubbing before it came out of hiding. But those were thoughts I didn’t trouble myself with right then. I just kept sweeping and then gave in to the call of the fresh cup of coffee I’d set to brewing before the sweeping began.

Mother was the kind of housekeeper whose regimen demanded the floor be swept after the supper dishes were done every night (we kids were the dishwashers). Make supper, set the table, eat supper, do the dishes and sweep the floor. In that order. Like setting the family’s evening ritual into a comfortable old picture frame and it felt good to get it done. When the kitchen light went out everything was in order. I confess that discipline often escapes me now and I don’t always sweep the floor at night. I know, I know – I should and hereby resolve to be more vigilant in that area.

In case you think this is a big deal about nothing, consider the economic angle. Visit the home appliance section of your favorite discount store and view the stunning array of mops, brooms, dust bunny busters and vacuum cleaners. You can swiff, steam, buff, spot clean, foam and special tool your floor like crazy with all the equipment you find there. And the info-mercials! My stars, what they don’t go through to let you know the power of their product for keeping your floor spotless and eat off of clean. Probably the demos are rigged, but it sure sets up a lust in the heart for clean floors.These savvy marketers know what a great first impression a clean floor makes and more importantly, how to keep it that way. I’d love to know their annual sales figures, especially for that little robot guy that does the work all by itself. Genius.

Remember spring cleaning? Modern technologies have made it possible for us to have top to bottom clean homes year round. Most of us don’t have soot from the wood stove or cow manure from farm boots to clean up like our grandmothers did. But maybe we should again relish the prospect of throwing open the windows in April to let the spring sunshine in. That bright light sweeping into the rooms shows us the task ahead and fills us with vigor for the job. And then months later when autumn rolls around and the windows must be shut up again against old man winter, it’s a comfort to think that the rugs are all thoroughly shaken, the broom has been applied to all the spider-webbed corners and the fireplace is swept and ready for a log or two. Bring on the mulled cider!

Yes indeed, those Shakers were on to something. Their common saying, hands to work and hearts to God, hovered over their daily tasks and are still an inspiration to us today. A clean swept floor is tantamount to a well ordered life and a mind free of chaos. A beautiful thing.



Image: lamnee                                                                          Free Digital Photos

Friday, June 21, 2013

A Little Flag Waving

We hopped into the car, anxious to get going, to yet another ballgame. We have three outstanding young athletes in the family and try to get to every game. The other night on our way to one of them, we passed two kids on bicycles. I was instantly transported to a place in my mind where somehow boys on bikes make me think of what a great country this still is. The bikes were not fancy. Nope, they looked like they could be hand me downs. You know, kind of wiggly, maybe in need of some paint. The boys? Jeans, t-shirts, and crew cuts. Does it get any more Americana than that? I’ve seen similarly dressed boys walking, fishing poles over their shoulders, on their way to the bridge in Niverville that crosses over the outlet for the lake. Like Tom and Huck. So cool.

One town over, in Kinderhook, there’s a People’s Parade on the 4th of July. Folks put red, white, and blue bandanas on their dogs and kids. Radio Flyer wagons are festooned with crepe paper and little flags for the toddlers to be pulled along in. Small marching bands and the local Elks club pull out all the stops rousing the crowd with their music and courage. And when the parade is over, right there on the village green, the Declaration of Independence is read while everyone munches on hot dogs, yells at the kids, settles the dog, or listens with quiet intensity. Quite awesome.

Today I’ll be in the strawberry fields picking with my daughters-in-law and the grandkids. Shortly thereafter my kitchen will become a jam factory. We all ran out of jam way too early from last year’s efforts so we’re going into overdrive this year. We’ve done this for the last many years and it’s a glorious chaos of kids running around, fingers red from hulling fat berries, and someone calling over the noise “what do you want on your pizza?” when the men venture into the kitchen later looking for food. We’ll make them go and pick it up, too. I love that there are acres of strawberry fields, jam filled Mason jars, slamming screen doors, and pizza around the corner in my life.

Every time I sing The Star Spangled Banner, go to a church supper, hear the crack of a bat against a baseball, gab with a neighbor at the grocery store, zip by a field of corn reaching for the sun, or dip my toes into Kinderhook Lake, I feel grateful. Silly, sentimental woman that I am.

How about you? What are some of the simple ways you enjoy this land where we  live?  


Image: Free Digital Photos

Wednesday, June 19, 2013

For Writers

Today I'm posting an article that originally appeared in Writer's Weekly about two years ago. I wrote it shortly after my mother died and I felt the will to write take leave of me - for a while.

There have been so many deaths this year and at least three of them that I know of were for people too young. Why should an infant die, or a young man of only twenty one years, or a "beautiful man" as the young pastor, only 44, was called at his memorial service? The eternal question, I guess. For you who are writers take note; here's what can happen.


When Your Muse Gets Mugged

Death stops everything. And I don’t mean just in the person who’s died. It stops normal activity for however long it takes those involved to recover. It’s especially hard on the creative mind because like it or not, for those of us who count on imagination to survive, there’s often a high price to pay – like no productivity for months.

My 84 year old mother died recently. In the months before, she had been failing, but my sisters (all five of them) and I planned our first big trip together anyway. We had everything in order, the house rented, the plane tickets, the rental car reserved, restaurants chosen – and then Mom, who had rallied so many times, trumped us all by passing on to her reward. Needless to say I did precious little writing in the time when this all happened and didn’t even want to. Eventually, though, I had to wonder if my muse would ever return to sit on my shoulder after the awful mugging she’d endured.

Many people hammer out their grief in writing. I wrote a poem and a short eulogy piece that, combined with those of other family members, was read at Mom’s funeral service. I discovered that this cathartic manner of writing can lead us down paths we didn’t know were open to us. Writing in the moment can begin the healing process, but it may take a while before you feel you can present that writing to the world. Bear in mind, however, that your personal essay or poem may be the springboard for helping others whose muse seems also to have abandoned them.

Thinking about subject matter, consider first the children. Have you learned anything that might help young people cope with the loss of a close relative or friend? You may even have some tips about children and funerals. Four of my neices and one nephew spoke at Mom’s funeral and they were all under the age of 12 – quite amazing. Magazines devoted to the care and keeping of children may welcome your findings.

Sometimes we’re not as emotionally involved in the grief process but understand the problems others face. These may include funeral planning, wills, memorial services, insurance policies, death certificates, cremation vs. in ground burial and any number of other factors. On this, more practical level, there are also opportunities. A few years ago while attending my brother-in-law's funeral I noticed the large number of teens who were there. His children were young and their friends had come for support. It occurred to me that for some of them this may have been their first funeral so I wrote “How to go to a Funeral,” and sent it to a teen magazine. I covered every aspect from first hearing of the death and what to do and say, proper attire for a funeral, and how to conduct  yourself at the grave side and reception.

In additon, anyone who bears the responsibility of seeing to the guests who come to the home after the service might need some direction. Wouldn’t they welcome some practical ideas on what to serve or how to create a memorial picture board as my nieces did for my Mom, their grandmother? When you feel your muse once again at your side, reward her with some writing from the gut. There are many who need to read what you have to say.
  
A tender word of advise, though, be kind to yourself. Take as much time as you need to get back on your feet.  Your readers will understand and then welcome the writing that then comes from an older, wiser you. 




Image: Free Digital Photos

Monday, June 17, 2013

Volcano!



Years ago my husband and I traveled to Washington State to visit our son and his family. One of the the most interesting things we did was a trip to the Johnson Ridge Observatory, located in the heart of the blast zone at Mount St. Helen's - the volcano. Many of you remember the last eruption there in 1980 that blew down or scorched  230 square miles of forest. Yikes. Anyway, we learned much and one thing in particular piqued my interest; a phenomenon known as "the silent zone."

It intrigued me to the extent that when I got home I wrote an article, geared towards children, and attempted to sell it. Never happened. But as I perused my files this morning I came across it again and thought it might interest you. Let me know. Oh - if you have kids or grand kids they might be interested, too.

An Eerie Silence
By Susan Sundwall


When you think of the eruption of a volcano, do you think – silence? Probably not. Most likely you’re thinking – BOOM! So imagine living near Mount. St. Helen’s in Washington State on the morning of May 18, 1980, when the volcano blew its stack. You watch the whole side of the mountain being torn away but you can’t hear a thing. It seems impossible, but a ten-year-old girl named Darcy Mitchem had it happen to her. At the time she lived with her family about twenty air miles from the volcano. “We saw the blast, but heard nothing,” she says. “It was like an eerie silent movie.”

There were many reports from other people who had the same experience. Hikers and climbers on Mount Adams as well as nearby Mount Hood and Mount Rainier also saw, but couldn’t hear, the astonishing volcanic eruption. When Mount St. Helen’s blew, the energy released was equal to ten million tons of dynamite. So why couldn’t some people hear it? It’s because Darcy and the people on those other mountains were in what scientists call the sixty-mile “silent zone.”

Way Up and Back Again
In order for you to hear a sound, sound waves must travel through the air and into your ear canal. The sound bumps against your eardrum signaling your brain that there’s a sound. The sound waves from the Mount St. Helen’s volcano blast rose so high and so fast that there was nothing for the waves to bounce off of until they reached the upper atmosphere. The atmosphere acted something like your eardrum, bouncing the sound waves back. But the objects they hit back on earth were sixty miles away from the center of the volcano. People many miles away heard the noise, but people in the silent zone couldn’t hear a thing. How weird is that?  

Recently
Since the day of the big eruption there has been other activity on the mountain. From October 2004 to late January 2008 there were four explosions blasting steam and ash up to 10,000 feet above the crater. This was scary, but not like the big explosion in 1980 when the eerie silent zone occurred.

Volcano Visiting
If your family is planning a trip to the Northwestern part of the country you can visit the Johnson Ridge Observatory to see and learn more about the volcano. Each year, over 10,000 students travel to Mount St. Helens and check out the dramatic effects of the 1980 eruption. You’ll also find out how local plants and animals have responded

I hope this has added a bit of obscure, but interesting, information to your carry-all this Monday. And thanks for reading!

Susan

Photo: Teddy Bear [Picnic]                                                              Free Digital Photos