Santa Claus

This may begin as a story about Santa Claus, but it is not. Many years ago now I exchanged a few words with my Grandfather. I wish I could say it was a conversation but it was not…and that is why this story is so significant to me.

As a young child Christmas obviously had religious meaning. I attended Catholic Mass several times with my mother on Christmas. I attended High Mass one Christmas Eve and was struck with the additional pageantry that was not a part of my normal church going. Of course there were gifts, which is what Christmas was really about. And Santa Claus, perhaps magical at an age I can’t now remember, was a confusing figure in my earliest memories.

I remember wondering how Santa Claus made it to every home at Christmas; and he did that it only one night?? it just didn't seem right. Okay, my mom said he had keys to everyone’s home (she said the story of coming down the chimney was an old-time story and obviously couldn't work in our modern age when chimneys were not common). That seemed odd too, why didn't I hear more about unlocking doors? Why would you want Santa Claus to have keys to your house, even if he was a good guy? What if he lost the keys, how did he get them, what if you changed the locks…something was not right. And then there are so many kids in the world? She said each country in the world had a Santa Claus specific to their country. And not everyone had snow, and he had a sled, and…

Christmas was simple at our house: On Christmas Eve we would open the gifts from relatives or friends. These gifts were most often socks or a shirt; something practical and useful. Then I and my siblings each received one gift from Santa Claus on Christmas morning along with a Christmas stocking he filled with an orange, nuts, and one candy cane. With little reference to other families outside my immediate and extended family, I thought this was typical. Then one Christmas we had dinner with a family on our block. They had been my god-parents when at the late age of eight I was baptized in the Catholic Church (a story for another time). I was told he was an Engineer at the company where my dad worked. They had several kids, and Santa had brought MANY gifts to each of them. I was amazed. My mom said it was because they were a rich family and Santa had to give them more.

When the day came that my mom had to tell me the truth I remember feeling validated…the story was fake and now I knew the truth! With all my suspicions, and now knowing the truth, I felt so grown-up. I was told not to tell anyone, to let it be a secret, and to let my younger siblings enjoy the fantasy. Okay, the important thing now was I knew something only adults knew and kids did not. I was not a kid anymore!

Soon after this ‘adult-creating’ moment we went to my grandparents for a quick visit. My mom encouraged me to ‘tell grandpa what you know’. And yes, I wanted to share, I was so proud of what I knew. I grabbed my grandpa’s big hands and pulled him back into a bedroom, “Grandpa, I know a secret I want to tell you”. I don't know if he knew what I was going to say; but when I told him he looked at me for an extended moment and then asked if I knew what Christmas was really about. Well of course I did! I had just told him! He started to explain the REAL meaning, and I said, rather impatiently, 'I know, I know'...and I left the room.

I wish I had stayed and listened. I wish I knew now what he would have said to me. I can imagine what he might have said, but I missed my chance to know. Whatever my grandfather might have described to me, about how he 'felt' about Christmas it is lost to me...but I know today that it would have been extraordinary; he was going to share a part of himself about something that was very important to him. My grandfather died many years later, and I never really knew him.

This story happened long ago, but every so often I catch myself repeating this mistake. I think I know something and in my rush to speak I miss the opportunity to know something deeper, something more meaningful, something more personal. I miss the chance to connect at very intimate level. 

It happened again to me just the other day: I missed a conversation; instead I exchanged a few words. And I can't pull it back, can't replay it. I missed another intimate connection.

No, this is not a story about Santa Claus…  

Wash Day

I’ve written about the dairy animals we tended when I was a child and the opportunity and pain of morning and night chores. But there was a time, before the discipline of farm chores hit me and my siblings, when the passing of time and weight of responsibilities were not yet a part of my immediate experience. We lived on our small farm, without dairy animals from the time I was in third grade until about the sixth grade. When I think of that time period I remember wash day.

I’ve commented in other stories that my childhood memories and experiences are likely uncommon to other’s my age; because I was born to my parents, as their first child, when they were in their late 30’s. Therefore, my memory of wash day may sound very old fashioned. It focused on my mother rolling out the wringer washer into the packed dirt area outside the backdoor of our house; that immediate area served as roadway to the backfields, a driveway, and a backyard. The washer was white and sat high on top of four legs. Using a garden hose my mom would start to fill the washer. While it was filling she would bring out a simple platform that would hold two large galvanized rinse tubs; the tubs would sit side by side on the platform, just behind the washer.

One job I remember fondly was being responsible to fill the rinse tubs. My responsibility was to hold the garden hose and fill both tubs without splashing water everywhere or getting dirt or any debris into either tub. It doesn’t sound hard as I am describing it, but for some reason I would become distracted or, playing with the water as it entered the tub, the hose would get away from me and flip out of the tub or spray water on someone (my mom or a sibling). I wasn’t in too much trouble but I would be yelled at and told to pay more attention to my job.

The wash cycle began when the agitator was started and clothes added to the washing tub. With the agitator making a load mechanical sound as it thrashed about, water and soap suds would jump unexpectedly out of the washer. I don’t ever remember a lid on the washing machine and I remember being amazed at the mechanical marvel working to clean my clothes. At the time I didn’t think much about the details; looking back now I marvel that my mom had used some type of metal grater to shave thin shards of lye soap, from a large bar, into the wash tub. She had made a large pan of lye soap prior to wash day, and had cut the soap into large blocks to be used on wash day.

Another job I enjoyed was swinging the wringer assembly. It had a stick that could be pulled, which then allowed the wringer assembly to swing around so clothes could pass from the washing tub into the first rinse tub. My mom always moved the clothes from the washer, through the wringer, into the first rinse tub. After the clothes landed in the rinse tub I was sometimes allowed to help by lifting and dropping the clothes, getting them ready to pass a second time through the wringer, this time going from the first rinse tub to the second. When it was time, I would shift the wringer and move it between the first and second rinse tubs. Not often, because my mom was afraid I would catch my fingers in the wringer, I was allowed to grab a piece of clothing and push an edge between the moving cylinders that would ring the water and suds out of the clothes. I know it made my mom nervous to let me do it, but it was an honor to be given the chance.

A repeat of lifting and dropping the clothes in the second tub removed most of the suds form the clothes; the next step was a final pass through the wringer into a waiting clothes basket, to the side of second rinse tub. Again, I was allowed to move the wringer, and then, as my mom inserted the clothes into the wringer I would stand and ‘guide the clothes’ into the waiting clothes basket. I remember thinking how important the job was, if the clothes missed the basket they would land on the dirt (and we would have to start over); the clothes moved slowly through the ringer and always landed in the basket, but I thought it was good that I was there, just in case.

I didn’t help with hanging the clothes; the clothes line was way too high. My mom carried the basket of still wet clothes over to the clothes line and would hang the clothes where they would flap and swing with the least breeze. My siblings and I liked playing in the hanging clothes; my mom did not like it, and yelled at us if she caught us. Later she would come out and remove the clothes and take them into the house to be folded or hung up. The wash day ritual must have been highly evolved, from determining when to start the process to when to bring the clothes in at the end of the day. While I was intrigued with the process of wringing water and suds out of the clothes what I most remember was the open air, the bright sunlight, the fresh smells and the excitement of this major activity. While wash was being done we would run and play, watch cats resting in the warm sun, or play with our dogs.

It was an idyllic moment, I was aware enough to appreciate the beauty and comfort around me and to some extent the mechanical sophistication of the washing machine. I was not yet aware of the challenges that would come in the following years, the anxiety and doubt and worry that is a part of being human. At the time my work was play and I didn’t understand it, but I enjoyed it. Wash day was fun.

Propellor Toy

The toys my grandchildren play with today are very different from the toys my children played with. Today my grandchildren play games on iPads and have customized electronic toys that can speak their names and appear like they are talking directly to them. But the toys I played with are a far throw from my children or grandchildren's toys.

I played with some interesting things as a child, chemicals, explosives, and electricity…but I also had simple toys that had a significant influence on how I think about the world and how things work.

Some of my childhood toys were simple molded objects, like plastic planes or tractors, with no moving parts except for the wheels; others were repurposed objects like cans, spools, or string; and then there were the created toys. In this final category was a wooden propeller my grandfather made for me.

My grandfather carved a propeller out of a 1” wide piece of pine, ¾” thick and maybe 8” long. I watched him carve it, using his pocket knife that he always carried with him. He had carefully marked a center square on the front surface of the wood and carved away the wood on top and bottom on both sides of center, to leave a thin section of wood that resulted in a diagonal section of wood on either side of the center, but the diagonal was a mirror opposite from one side to the other. It’s difficult to describe, yet it was so elegant. What was amazing to me was the simple pattern of removing wood would create an object (a propeller) with a function that was totally new for the block of wood. To think this was what made it possible for planes to fly and my grandfather was creating it in his lap, in long careful strokes to a rectangular piece of pine, was an exhilarating thought. I began to realize then, even as a young child, that creation required looking at what exists and imagining it in new ways, either by adding or subtracting parts and pieces.

Of course there was more to creating the propeller toy than just carving the shape of the propeller. After the propeller was carved I knew it had to be connected to something, a handle or something. But how was that going to be done? My grandfather found an old kitchen chair with round legs but with a decorative design and sawed a section that created an amazing shape, a section that just fit my small hand! My hand wrapped around a narrower center section that curved into a larger diameter section at both ends of my hand-hold. Then my grandfather searched for a nail…ok, I thought, I know how this is going to work, he is going to nail the propeller to this section of table leg, I will hold this ‘handle’ and the propeller will spin.  

But after finding the nail my grandfather pulled out some copper tubing…copper tubing; what is that good for, I wondered. Carefully he measured the thickness of the wooden propeller and then compared the nail to the copper tubing; then he cut off a section of the copper tubing. He used a hand drill to make a hole in the center of the propeller. And now I am confused, how does the copper tubing figure into this?? Well my grandfather carefully tapped the copper tubing into the hole he had drilled in the propeller and the nail was a perfect fit inside the copper tubing. He had created a copper bearing! By nailing the propeller to the center of the chair leg, through the tightly fitted copper tubing, my grandfather had created a propeller that spun with the slightest movement of air. I was beyond joy, immediately swinging this exquisite creation my grandfather had created for me. After a tiny drop of oil was placed on the nail, I ran across the yard, holding the propeller out from my side and hearing it spin rapidly with the moving air.

Then my grandfather said, “Let’s go for a ride.” He slowly got up and pulled out the keys to his 1951 Plymouth sedan and I climbed in with him. I rolled down the large side window and I thrust the propeller out the window. As my grandfather drove the car, the propeller spun at an incredible speed. To this day I marvel at the stability and soundness of that simple design. By the time we reached 30 mph I was at the limit of what I felt I could hold and had to pull the propeller back inside the car. My grandfather showed me how to move the propeller back out into the moving air (hold it vertically and then slowly bring it horizontal) and how to protect myself (and others) from the rapidly spinning propeller blade (it was more like a blade when it spun rapidly than a carved block of pine wood).

To this day, as I remember this story, I am amazed at how these simple items came together to create this toy, how stable and strong it was, and how my grandfather’s simple and unhurried method built it. I kept this toy far into adulthood but lost track of it a few years ago; now it is just a memory. But it is a constant reminder to me of (what can be) the simplicity and elegance of making something new. I doubt my grandfather understood the impact this event and toy had on me, or maybe he did. Sometimes I think about this story when I interact with my children and/or grandchildren and wonder what events or interactions will they remember, and how will those childhood experiences inform a life. It can be the little things and the simple things...

Night Sky

One of my memories childhood memories is my grandfather going outside after dark, standing in the dark on the front porch, and looking at the night sky. This is a particularly strong memory which includes sounds, smells, and even the texture of the concrete steps of my grandfather's porch. I wondered what he saw in the night sky, what was different on those many nights when I observed this activity. While my grandfather seemed to enjoy and embrace the falling night, I was insecure and more fearful of the darkness surrounding my grandparents' home. I wondered what lurked beyond the safety I felt in my grandfather's immediate presence...he may have looked up into the night sky, I peered into the surrounding darkness and wondered what unknowns were hiding there.

The story I eventually told myself was that my grandfather completed this nightly ritual because he wanted to determine the weather for the next day; would it bring rain, or just clouds, would it be a good time to plant, to plow, to cut hay (and would it have time to dry and be bailed before the next rain). But I have recently questioned that interpretation.

I don't remember my father going out before bedtime to observe the night sky, but I was impressed with his ability to predict the weather. He would watch the weather reports on the nightly local news; and then he would make his own prediction for the coming days (sometimes in agreement, but just as often with a contrary prognostication)...I didn't pay enough attention to know who was right or wrong most often, but I do remember times when he was right and we acted on his prediction ('it's not going to rain, we will cut the hay tomorrow') and he was right. My father assigned our chores based on his weather prediction for the next day.

These memories of my grandfather and father intrigue me because as I get older I experience an overwhelming urge to go outside late in the evening and look at the night sky. While waiting for my eyes to adapt from the blaze of indoor lights and porch lights from the neighbors, I wonder just what I am expecting to see. I am confused by the urge I feel; because I don't have a sense of purpose for the observation I am making. And yet I don't feel the day can properly end without this observation of the approaching night.

I wonder if the urge is genetic; I imagine that my ancestors had to pay close attention to their environment. As farmers they had to work with nature and make good choices if they were to survive. Planting or harvesting at the wrong time could ruin a crop of hay or a grain harvest. And a bad harvest was tied directly to their ability to care for their families.

My nightly ritual comes as a response to a deep urge without a logic purpose in my head. I wonder if this is where my interest in astronomy comes from...a fascination with events in the sky: comets, phases of the moon, satellites, auroras, and planets, this is more than wondering about the weather. It seems connected to an overarching wonder about the world, almost as if there could be some greater clarity with the quiet and dark of night. I want to feel the moving of the seasons, the symphony of smells and sounds that describe a world I cannot see, but know I am a part of.

My childhood fear of the night has left me. In its place is a craving to see beyond the visible world and the humans moving in it; a need to sense the flow of nature. Maybe that is what my grandfather sought as well.

Maybe this is a valuable attribute for the dry farmer; increasing his chance for survival. In my world today it brings wonder and encourages awareness of the natural world around me.

A Boy and a Rooster

I've listened to my children tell stories of their childhood. Sometimes it takes me awhile to figure out what story they are telling...because it is not the same story I remember. I've come to realize that, while both of us experienced the same event, we've each come away with a totally different experience; my perspective is just one version of the story; theirs is another. Both are true, their version is as real to them, as mine is to me. So as I tell some of my stories I now realize that the real facts (or better, the facts as someone else might tell them) may be far different from my story. Yet, I will insist that this is what happened...these are my facts. With that said, I remember a particular encounter with a Rooster...

I was probably between 6 and 8 years old. I was staying with my grandparents who lived on a farm they homesteaded in the early 1900's. I often wandered around the farm, looking into old buildings, climbing fences, and walking through alfalfa, grain, or fallow fields. My grandparents' farm was large and always provided adventure (especially to a young child).

My encounter with the rooster happened during a time when I was staying alone with my grandparents, without my parents or siblings.

I often helped with simple farm chores. Mostly running errands, like getting a tool, putting something away, or relaying a message (no cell phones in those days). Sometimes I helped with the animals. The milk cows were large and I generally stayed out of the barnyard where they milled about. I sometimes helped feed the cows with my uncle, who ran the farm with my grandfather, or helped to carry milk or feed calves.

One chore I both enjoyed and feared was collecting the eggs from the chickens. The chickens were restricted to a small chicken coop and an adjacent, fully enclosed outside area. I often fed and watered the chickens. The chickens would gather around my legs as I spread the grain into their feed troughs...but if I moved suddenly they would scatter quickly, often startled and making short, frantic half-flying leaps to get away from me. My grandfather told me I had to always move slowly around the chickens. I should not startle them...if I did they might not lay as many eggs.

While I did not mind feeding the chickens in the open area, it was much harder to complete the feeding in the chicken coop. The chicken coop was very small; nesting boxes lined the walls, the ceiling was low and the floor was dirt (or more accurately it once was dirt; the walking surface was composed of years and years of "chicken debris" making each step soft and springy). It was very important to move slooowly in the chicken coop. If the chickens were startled, in this small space, it would set off a chain reaction; all the chickens at once would begin to fly and flap and what was already a small space became even smaller, as the coop filled with random flying, clucking, and hysterical chickens. The commotion was so great and the dust so thick that it was hard to breath. I could tolerate the smell of the chicken coop, but when the startled chickens stirred up the years of "chicken debris" I felt like I could not breathe.

I collected chicken eggs from the nesting boxes inside the chicken coop. Getting the eggs was fairly easy unless a chicken was sitting in the nesting box. My grandmother told me to just slide my hand slowly under the chicken, feeling for eggs. I always had the feeling that the chicken was not so sure about my actions and I imagined the chicken pecking me or flying up in my face as I moved my hand under its body; I was sure it was irritating to the chicken. But getting the eggs out from under the chickens was never a problem.

The problem I encountered was unexpected. I had collected all the eggs and was headed back to the house with a stainless steel bucket nearly full of eggs. Suddenly, out of nowhere, a large rooster appeared and lunged toward me. I was startled but tried to move out of the way...the rooster lunged again and then again. I started to swing the bucket of eggs, trying to keep the bucket between me and the rooster while I tried to keep on the path back to my grandparents' house. I don't know how long it took me to get to the house. The rooster followed me a long ways...my memory of getting to the house is blurred; I just remember swinging the bucket around wildly trying to keep it between me and the rooster.

I do remember telling my grandfather what had happened, between tears and sobs. I was confused to why the rooster behaved that way...I had never had problems with the chickens before. My bucket now contained a mass of cracked eggs in an sea of egg whites and egg yolks. My grandfather did not seem very concerned about all the broken eggs (like I thought he would be). I remember he said something like, that's the last time he gets away with that, and my grandfather left the house.

That night my grandmother made chicken for dinner.

My grandfather killed the rooster that day. I did not know that was going to happen when he left the house after I told him what had happened. My grandmother had plucked and dressed the chicken quickly and cooked it. My grandparents did not make a big deal of the event, neither my ordeal or their reaction.

As I have reflected on this story over the years I am amazed at how simple and straightforward the events of that evening had been. My grandfather had just casually explained that he had killed the rooster and that 'ma' had cooked it for dinner. I remember feeling cared for. It is an odd story, not typical of how a young child might describe a feeling of being loved. But it created a sense of belonging, of connection with my grandparents. My grandparents were quite and soft spoken...but their actions that day, without drama or analysis, seemed loud and clear and gave me a profound sense of being valued.

I don't really remember dinner that night. I just remember the feelings I had for my grandparents.

I never had another bad experience with the chickens...