Category Archives: Home and Hearth

Home and Hearth

Tree Hugging: His name is Gus

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His name is Gus and he is appropriately named for the journey he has been on. You see, Gus was a Christmas tree in December of 2022, confined in a pot, possibly root bound, maybe over-watered and not well drained; or perhaps over-heated and parched. We’re not exactly sure. But I am getting ahead of myself here.

In 2010 I helped my cousin tear down a log house that had not only belonged to, but been built by my grandfather. It was built from 1936 to 1938 by hand from windfall logs hauled from the backside of Grand Mesa – the largest flattop mountain in the United States. Had the building happened on site in the mountains where the trees fell, I would call it a cabin. But, the logs were hauled down by wagon to the outskirts of a city in the valley, so we always referred to it as a log house. Uncle Willis did the bulk of the collecting and hauling with Granddad. Uncles Emil and Milton helped build. My dad, being only five or six had not much hand in the work but he did grow up in the log house from the age of six through graduation from high school.

During the years I was growing up we paid Sunday visits to Granddad at the log house. In the summertime, we frequently paid visits to Granddad at the cabin on Grand Mesa – by Eggleston Lake. Granddad took great pride in showing off all the little projects around the mountain cabin. At a young age I knew where the spring was located to go for a bucket of water and also how to clean fish in the driveway of the cabin. Granddad had stripped a lodgepole and constructed a flagpole. Off to the side of the cabin he transplanted other conifers, tended them, watched them grow and- most importantly-gave them names. He named them after his children. “Look how Willis is growing this year!” “Emil is not doing so well, I need to give him more water….” “This little guy is David.”

Have I said recently that I love to hug trees? And pat rocks? Well, I do. I love to see the little pine trees with their new growth shoots. I call them Musha trees because the new shoots remind me so much of the wagging tail of our long time departed malamute. Musha trees. Willis. Emil. I think we have a tree-naming trend going on here.

A fine Musha tree still clad in Christmas decorations and putting out new growth

In November 2022 my roommate (aka my daughter) and I went shopping at a local nursery and for several pretty pennies came home with a lovely three or four foot blue spruce tree in a four gallon bucket. We loved the tree, watered the tree, decorated the tree, undecorated the tree and then subsequently moved it outside when February arrived. Once the snow finally melted at 7,680 feet this year; once the ground had thawed and we could actually get a 4-wheel drive truck into the One-Acre-Wood; we continued with the goal to replant our Christmas Tree out in the forest where he belonged.

Even when bringing the tree home in November we had used the truck with the tailgate hatch open. By April the tree was significantly heavier and more difficult to move despite one side having dried out and died. Andrea called a friend from the gym. The two of them lifted the tree into the truck, positioned it through the hatch and commenced what should have been a mere 16-mile journey. But a bridge was out. Detours were made. Finally, the tree was returned to the ground as originally requested. Andrea’s friend stood back and said, “His name is Gus. Gus from Lonesome Dove, my favorite movie. We’ve had a long and circuitous journey to return him to the ground. His name is Gus.”

By the way, Gus is quite happy in his new habitat. We may even see new life coming from the dead side.

Emotional Health, Goals and Dreams, Health and Long Life, Home and Hearth, Spiritual Well Being

Jigsaw puzzle piece

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What a wonderful morning. The air, though wintery, was alive with portent. Her sleep the night before had been complete, restful, scattered with positive dreams rather than riddled with anxiety. The morning cup of tea was just the right temperature juxtaposed with the frosty air from the open front door. The morning was like a bordered jigsaw puzzle waiting for a choice piece, the piece that had been held to the light, examined from all sides, compared with each preceding piece and each potential piece until, yes! Even from 18 inches away one could tell it was a perfect match. The piece, that one choice piece, was falling into place. Home. She was singing a new song. She had purchased a feeling, a feeling of home and happiness and success for yet another two months. She was alive. She was grateful. She savored this moment, enjoyed it fully, all the while knowing that once you finish a puzzle and breathe that sigh of satisfaction, soon enough there will be another challenge waiting in the wings.

Books and other Soul Food, Character, Emotional Health, Goals and Dreams, Health and Long Life, Home and Hearth, Leadership, Relationships, Spiritual Well Being, Uncategorized, Write

remembering Shirley Bryan-an introspective

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Shirley Bryan is dead, and she didn’t get to read the book. The book in which a very important supporting character is modeled after her. The book in which I put words in her mouth – made her say what I understood her to say. The book that was dedicated to her because she believed in me, mentored me from afar. Just knowing she was there, just knowing what she would say gave me the affirmation to move forward. Shirley Bryan died January 1 of this year. I found out when I googled her address to send a copy of The Cemetery Wives – albeit with fear and trembling because she has a much more particular grasp of the English language than I do. Nevertheless, I thought proper to send her a copy because I dedicated it to her. Would she still be at the same address? A mere three months ago when I penned the dedication line, I searched online and found her husband, Chaplin Bill, had died two years ago. I have not seen Shirley, talked to Shirley, or been in contact for over 25 years. It is I who am totally responsible for the distance and lack of communication. For the first 12 years after leaving seminary, I chose not to burden her with my day-to-day frustrations because she had plenty of new young women to mentor. For the past twelve I have been ashamed to reach out. I am divorced. My life did not go as it ought. It would have grieved Shirley, as it grieved me. My presence at the seminary was due to my marriage to a seminary student and we are no longer married. 

Back in the day when I was married to a seminary student and Shirley mentored young mothers, we had an understanding. Speaking to young wives was her calling, writing was my growing passion. We would travel the ancient biblical lands together. She would gain knowledge and speak. I would be her amanuensis. In both speaking and writing, we would reach the maximum number of people with truth. In addition, we would both luxuriate in seeing the wonders of the world.

It was never a real plan – only a casual conversation – but her participation in the dream was true encouragement. Something that told me I could move forward. I was free to pursue writing. It might even be my calling.

Character, Emotional Health, Family, Goals and Dreams, Health and Long Life, Holidays and Traditions, Home and Hearth, Relationships, Spiritual Well Being

Why We Weep at Weddings

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We attended a wedding yesterday. Yes. We suspended our Saturday busyness and took baths in the vintage claw foot tub, dressed with care in garments chosen from the special events side of our closets –seldom used of late – and Zoomed in and attended the wedinar. It was a very early wedding for some of the guests. 9:00 AM Mountain Daylight time for those of us in Colorado. God forbid you woke on the west coast this morning and had to be washed and dressed and in attendance by 8:00 AM.

It probably seemed a late wedding for the principals who have known each other – known this was the one – for three years and who have been waiting, waiting for COVID19 to clear. Late or not, it was a beautiful wedding. 11:00 AM in Cambridge meant the bride looked fashionably appropriate in her street-length, flare-skirted, professionally tailored, white wedding dress and elbow length veil. The ceremony took place in a lovely, huge, Presbyterian church complete with pipe organ, vestments, linens and vessels of communion; and empty pews. Fortunately, both bride and groom are musically astute so they obligingly sang the congregational hymns. But most of all, the bride and groom are intelligent and wise. We loved them for their integrity. We applauded them for pulling this off in the midst of a socially distanced pandemic and in such a way that we could be invited and included- something that would not have been possible from a distance of 2,000 miles in more traditional times.

And we cried. Not because of Coronavirus and because these kids can’t have a regular wedding with hundreds in attendance. No. We cried for all the reasons guests usually cry at weddings. We cried because they are young and idealistic and have perfect plans for their lives. One of us is old and disillusioned and knows what too often happens to idealistic plans. So she wipes her tears and smiles and says in her heart, may theirs come to fruition! The other of us is still young and idealistic and listens to their vows with rapt attention and thinks, it finally happened for them. Will this ever finally happen for me? We listen to the bride’s parents extol her virtues. She is literary and loves to hike and camp. Sigh. She is a perfect woman. We weep. Like women of any age and any era we look over the groomsmen in Zoom thumbnails and try to decipher who is most eligible. In the plus column, we see that all have beards. Wonder of wonders, they are quoting C.S. Lewis in their wedding speeches. What riches! What intelligence! We have found our people! Briefly, we cry again for joy. Where have all the young men gone? We also see companions in the thumbnails; family members in the guestbook photo gallery. Ah, most of the wedding party have found their people and are surrounded by wives and toddlers. The best woman (aka sister of the groom) is planning her nuptials That is good! The world is unfolding as it should. And again, we weep.

Not one tear do we shed for social distance. We are happy to be invited and attend virtually. In no other way would it be possible to be present. We didn’t have to wait until cake was served. You can have your cake – and eat it too, and your popcorn or chips anytime you feel like it at a virtual wedding. You can run spontaneously to the kitchen for chips and juice to take communion with the un-crowd. I even answered a phone call from the other room.

So yes. It is August of 2020 and we went to a wedinar yesterday. We laughed. We were inspired and comforted. We wept. What makes you cry at weddings?

IMG-5714CherryAndreaFrederickwedding

Character, Home and Hearth, Music and Theatre, Neighborhood

The Perils of Improvisation

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She came up on the patio porch about 7:00 last evening while Andrea and I were woodshedding Wayfaring Stranger; Andrea leading on mandolin and I, fumbling along on guitar – my second or third or fourth axe. It was a warm evening and neighborhood doors and windows were open. She cupped her hands around her eyes and pressed up against the screen door, peering in like a snorkeler ready to dive.

“Is that you smokin’ weed?” she asked – and laughed. She knew the answer. No one smokes inside. A few moments earlier I had detected a sniff of the same pernicious flora wafting in from the sidewalk and wrinkled up my nose. Andrea laughed at me and said, “If you’re going to do concerts, get used to it.”

Now the shadow snorkeler at the door continued, “Thanks for praying for us. It really helped.”

Neighbors are close and noisy, walls are very thin, my daughter is very vocal and active in her faith. She reaches out to the neighbors the second she is prompted. I am the quiet one, shy, and frankly, it’s not in my personality to say everything I believe or philosophize. No. I take my feelings directly to the piano. Sometimes, I am so timid I close the door.

“We sing along with the piano,” she continued. “My family knows most of the words to the old hymns.”

My Elvis and pop-folk to hymn ratio is about eight to one. Perhaps my neighbor perceives the hymn value in Love me Tender, Can’t Help Falling in Love, and Danny Boy. Or maybe it’s You Raise Me Up or Water is Wide – those often masquerade as hymns.

Andrea and I rounded out the second verse of Wayfaring Stranger and paused. The neighbor added, “But sometimes we are singing along with the hymns and the piano just goes da da da off to a different tune all together.” She made a spiraling motion with her finger. I laughed out loud, “That,” I said, “is the peril of improvisation.” Next thing you know she’ll be complaining that she can’t reach the high notes and I’ll have to move Unchained Melody out of the key of “C.”

“Can you do Amazing Grace in “A”? I asked Andrea as I strummed a I, IV, V. This one’s for the hymn loving lady on the porch. Andrea lead. I followed. We eased into a rhythm. The lady’s live-in came out their door. She pulled him into a hug. And they danced. Yes, they danced with Amazing Grace on our patio and then moved off down the sidewalk.

And that is why we make music  – why we improvise – so people can still sing and dance.

Family, Health and Long Life, Home and Hearth, Music and Theatre

In A Music House

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I have been long gone from the music house I grew up in – the house where my dad bought my mother musical instruments and paid for our weekly lessons – but when I visit, Dad will frequently ask for those old hymns. Time was, my mother and I would play duets. Duets happened less and less frequently this past decade as arthritis, knee surgery and the pain of old age exacted a toll on Mom. However, in July of 2018, when I paid a regular visit home and sat down at the well-used piano, Mom surprised us by maneuvering her walker to the vibraharp, picking up the mallets and joining in. Bent and gnarled, she was nearly leaning on the tone plates. After three tunes, she was fatigued – so she sat – on the organ bench – and played a medley. Thankfully, I had presence of mind to whip out my cellphone. Mom didn’t know she was being recorded. Please look past my shoulder and beyond my attempts to accompany by ear and enjoy an 85-year-old woman who didn’t quit on her music – or the old tunes.

Mansion Over the Hilltop

It Is No Secret

When We All Get to Heaven / At the Cross

My youngest son came to visit. This in itself was a grand occasion. I hadn’t seen him in the flesh for 16 months – though we do have the advantage of Duo Video calls and Instagram. We hiked. We ate. We talked. The kids pulled out the mandolin and guitar and I sat on the piano stool and luxuriated.

Andrea Shellabarger, mandolin, Philip Shellabarger, guitar, May 10, 2020
Andrea Shellabarger, mandolin, Philip Shellabarger, guitar, May 10, 2020

Soon I exclaimed, “Oh! It is wonderful to live in a music house!”

My 31-year-old daughter looked at me blankly, “But Mom, we have always lived in a music house.” Now that she mentions it, this is true for her – and for her brother(s). She grew up in a home where the acoustic piano was in use not only for family pleasure, but for the teaching of countless piano students. Frequently, both guitar and piano rehearsed together for the occasional music and worship gig. I taxied them to marching band and chorale rehearsals and performances. And yes, I treasure the memory of the night I sat down at the piano to relax and my pre-teen son crawled under the bench, curled up against the piano, basked in the vibration of the strings. Even when the kids flew the nest and moved out on their own, housing was with other band members – in the rehearsal house. Music was expected. Rehearsal required.

My daughter holds the lease now and I am the roommate in my current domicile for an indefinite period of time. I got the blank look again the other day when I expressed my reticence to embark on vocal exercises with neighbors so close or to play the piano and practice guitar while she reads and writes in the adjoining room.

“Mom,” she remonstrated, “when I lived with the band it was expected you practice your instrument two hours a day in addition to band rehearsals. When everyone plays more than one instrument and practices two hours a day, the projects are going to overlap. Get used to it.”

Sheesh, and I feel like I am encroaching when I woodshed for a few minutes, play piano for an hour, practice guitar 30 minutes and try to wrangle the bass for fifteen.

Yes, my children have always lived in a music house. Their roommates have been fellow band members.

Thank goodness they have never known the poverty of living with roommates who have a television running every waking moment and who, rather than cooperating to schedule times of silence for piano practice, simply turn the volume up to hear the telly over the piano.

It was not like that in the house I grew up in. When I was growing up, many years we didn’t even have a television – and the times we did, it was never allowed on Sunday. Instead of television, we practiced our instruments. And on Sundays, we played hymns.

Emotional Health, Health and Long Life, Home and Hearth, Write

The Interruption Muse; or why I keep a regular schedule during COVID-19

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I love to write. I love to make music. In former days I fancied myself a songwriter – and a poor one at that. Poor in that I have always had to work to keep food on the table while I sighed and pined for the time I would be able to pursue my heart’s desire. But the Muse would not be put on the back burner. No. There were days I had to close the cover on the piano just to make it to work on time the next day. Otherwise that grand piece of walnut furniture sat there smiling at me with all 88 teeth, beckoning hypnotically, “come play me,” as I hurried out the door.

Conversely, I learned to write on Saturday morning before I did anything else. No bath, no toothpaste, no breakfast, just write until the sun came up and grew full in the sky. Otherwise, my time clock would get distracted and my brain and body would decide to keep working; cleaning house, taking out garbage, reading the news, catching up with friends.

And that is why, during the isolation of COVID-19 quarantine, I continue to rise while it is yet dark. I stumble to my laptop and type out whatever thoughts woke me. I write charming little notes to people while the rest of the world sleeps. I sip my tea on my schedule. I make the oatmeal when hunger growls. I continue to type until my thoughts thin and fade. And then I jump right in and keep my daily grooming schedule. I shave, I bathe, I do my nails, I comb my hair; I get dressed and ready to go out – confident my muse will interrupt me with a fabulous trope as soon as I have soap on one side of my face or as soon as I am soaking wet in the shower luxuriating in hot water streaming down my back -or when I am half-dressed in a room an open picture window’s length from my computer.

Once I am dressed (usually early afternoon), I go out – alone-into the hills and as much isolation as I can find. I carry my phone – for taking pictures and making verbal notes – because sometimes my interruption Muse finds me even there.

Everyone is approaching the quarantine of corona virus in his or her own way. One writer friend has cut out all the grooming nonsense, another stays in her pajamas all day. My advice is to do everything you can to let that interruption Muse out of her cage, because if you don’t let her interrupt you now, she is certainly going to interrupt you with regret when things get back to normal.

 

Note: This post was written in bathrobe and slippers with wet tangled hair whilst shoveling oatmeal cookies in and out of the oven.

Character, Emotional Health, Family, Health and Long Life, Home and Hearth, Relationships, Uncategorized

An abandoned house and a kept house – the tale of two households

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She lives in an abandoned house and spends her days away, searching for jobs, and her nights shivering under extra comforters because there is no warmth in an abandoned house. Another person sleeps there too, and is employed. But still, whether the occupants are at home or at work the house is abandoned, for you see, something that would make that house a home is missing. No one fills the role of keeper of the house. There are two who huddle there. It would seem they could come up with an understanding of how to make that house a safe haven or even a comfortable temporary harbor. But plans are most successful when everyone concerned is on board. A team of one becomes exhausted without reciprocity from the other.

Meanwhile, in the same state, two other unrelated and unattached people occupy a large house. They both work and they both travel frequently. The house is often empty of people – but never abandoned. Both people are housekeepers. Broken things get fixed. Needs of the house are addressed as a means of meeting the needs of people. Both principal occupants are agreed that a stitch in time saves nine and that an ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure. Both the principal occupants understand the value of beauty and cleanliness in making a house a place of refuge, renewal and restoration for all who lodge there. The house is a place of welcome for all who pass through, whether for tea, dinner, or a temporary bed.

All four of the persons living in the two households share a philosophy in common: people are more important than things. All four verbally champion: “Use things, love people.” (The polar opposite, of course, is to use people and love things.) Yet, in an attempt to emphasize loving, some ignore or neglect material things. Notice how the two in the second household operate: Needs of the house are addressed as a means of meeting the needs of people. How much more effective and efficient it is to use things to love people!

Home and Hearth

Not at this address

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“Not at this address”

But I am!  I am at this address.  I am residing at the address to which this important piece of mail was directed. Not once, but two times the woman at the desk asked me to verify my home of record and the address to which I wanted the renewed license delivered.  I was provided with a temporary – good for 30 days.

When I was young, we had a traditional mailbox.  It was metal, DSCN2485vintagepaperboxesweathered pewter color with the family name and address painted on both sides in the artistic script of my sign-painting uncles.  Mounted on a post of rough, but precisely measured timber, it served as receptacle for penny postcards and 4-cent first-class missives delivered by a rural route mail carrier.  Airmail was even more expensive. Christmas packages meant the postal carrier took a little detour up our gravel drive and knocked on the kitchen door.  We got to know our mailman by name. As times changed with inevitable postal increases, we placed a canning jar lid in the mailbox – upside down. This lid was for additional postage due.  For pennies and nickels on those occasions a friend or relative shipped us a package that was a bit too fat or weighty for the stamps attached.  Our mailman delivered anyway and we just put the change out next day.

When I became an adult, things were a bit more complex. Neighborhoods had grown and folks seemed to move more often. It was possible to receive a piece of mail for someone who previously lived in your house.  If you recognized the name, you simply wrote, “moved” or “please forward” on the envelope and put it back out.  The mail carrier would take care of forwarding it.  Postal persons have vacations and days off just like normal people and substitute carriers can get a bit confused.  On the rare occasions a letter addressed to someone else got stuck to your bundle, you simply walked across the street and placed it in the right mailbox or mail drop or courteously knocked on their door and got to know your neighbor better.

Nowadays the free-standing individual mailbox is rare.  Gone too the mail drop in urban doors.  Security, you know. On our street we have a stack of numbered boxes on a pole, each of the boxes with an individual key. One of the boxes has a slot for outgoing mail, but none have a slot for in-coming. Those times we get mail in our box for some other street address we simply put it back in the outgoing slot to be redelivered. But that is not what happened with my driver’s license.

I watched the mailbox diligently for 30 days. Mail came and went. We received personal letters.  We received bills.  We received junk mail.  We received business mail for each of my roommate’s three grown children.  We accepted letters for two other individuals who used to room here. I attempted to call the driver’s license bureau for Colorado and found I had to go back down to the agency and wait in line to address my issue.  I took a number. I communicated the problem.  The helpful young man verified again that the address on my temporary license (which was now expired) was correct. He conferenced with a supervisor.  They went back to the database.  Bingo! This flag just in. My license was returned to the post office as undeliverable. “It will take about a week for it to get back here,” said the supervisor.  “Try back next Tuesday.”

Tuesday came.  I waited in line.  I waited through a concentrated team search.  Nothing. “Try back after 3:30.  That’s when the mail comes.”  I returned 20 minutes before closing time, 42 days after renewal, and there was my license.  Correctly addressed to the place I reside.  Neatly printed across the front by an unknown neighbor, “Not at this Address.” No.  I am not at their address.  The mail was obviously miss-delivered.  Would it not have been better to simply put the envelope back in the out-going slot?  I am, in fact, at the address on the envelope.

Character, Family, Health and Long Life, Home and Hearth

Taking Care of Yourself

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This is my belated college roommate experience, the one folks swear you must complete before you can relate in harmony as an adult – just like growing up with siblings. Two weeks ago I moved from solo dwelling on a couple acres to house-sharing with two teachers.

Welcome to my suite life where things are a good deal more glorified than your average college dorm or apartment share.  For one thing, we each have our own private room and our own private bathroom.  We live with traditional proper decorum; Guys on one level, Gals on the other.

In the kitchen, we share common ground. Three bottles of olive oil are tucked into three separate corners. Three bulbs of garlic reside in respective baskets and bowls.  The fridge is stuffed with fresh produce on designated sides. We are consciously healthy-living in diverse ways.

At 7:00 a.m. we converge and diverge.

Me (bustling into kitchen):  Need oatmeal

She (groaning): Need coffee

He (chopping fresh vegetables):  Need smoothie

That is a brief and accurate description of our personalities.

And they all lived happily ever after, because each got for herself / himself  what she or he needed.