Back Window Adventures

My ears perked up anytime Daddy or one of the “old timers” told family stories.  I have always had a passion for the history of our ancestors and intricate connections to other families and old pioneers. Anytime they started one of their tales they had my complete attention. I wasn’t quite as quick to listen when my mother spoke. She didn’t tell many family stories but when she did, they didn’t have the same pizazz of a storyteller as my dad, grandparents, aunts, and uncles.

One day when I was at my parents’ house, Mama took me into the sewing room and showed me a box. She opened the lid to reveal quilt blocks, taking each one out and talking briefly about each of the patterns. Each one looked like a miniature quilt. In the box was also a large piece of fabric she had selected for the backing. I’m sure she told me more about the finished squares, and I’m also sure I didn’t listen, and I’m sure that I wish I would have heard her tale.

Just a few hours before Mama’s death as I sat by her bedside, though I don’t know if she knew it, I told her I would finish the quilts that were left undone. There were at least two quilts for grandkids’ graduations to be finished, another box with a partially completed quilt, and a few unfinished projects.

One day while looking through some of her fabric and items in her sewing room, I found a little box containing 30 quilt blocks. Upon further thought, I remembered Mama showing it to me. What had Mama said? I didn’t remember the story of the individual squares, but I did remember that she wanted it made into a single quilt. Daddy knew nothing about the blocks – he didn’t listen to Mama either since he had selective hearing.  How I wish I had listened! It might have revealed the secret of the mystery quilt.

I had no idea how she intended to put the blocks together, so I began piecing them with black strips. But there was something odd. Fifteen of the blocks were a little bit smaller than the others.  That puzzled me especially since my mother was a perfectionist and would never intentionally make her blocks two different sizes. 

Now what? It required more time and effort, but I knew Mama wanted it completed and she had all the pieces just waiting to be finished. The bigger blocks couldn’t be cut down because it would mess up the individual designs. My only option was to “frame” the smaller blocks to make them bigger. After making the small blocks the same size as the larger ones, I added two strips of fabric pieces and sashing to sew the quilt squares together. I ironed the quilt top, grabbed the backing, and headed to the quilt shop to get the whole thing quilted. When I got it back, I decided to finish the edges with prairie points and binding. The mystery quilt looked good as it hung from the loft railing.

Since I couldn’t show the finished quilt to Mama, I decided to send a picture and the story of the mystery quilt to my aunt who was Mama’s sister and best friend. About two weeks later, I received a response from my aunt along with a photo of a quilt she had made. I was totally surprised to see her quilt contained identical blocks to Mama’s and she used black stripping as well.

Her note contained the rest of the story: The sisters decided to make a “sister quilt”…  well if the truth be told, I’m sure that Mama decided…… Both sisters were to make two identical blocks of 15 different blocks. Each sent their duplicate 15 blocks to the other. That way, they would have the exact same 30 squares and have matching quilts. The reason the blocks were different sizes was because one made theirs an “unfinished block” which is the size of the block plus the seam, while the other made a “finished block” which is the size of the block minus the seam. That information made the quilt take on a different meaning. The mystery was solved!

The quilt I put together, on the left, looks busier than my aunt’s. I added two rows of strips so the quilt would fit a bigger bed. If Mama would have had the opportunity to make the quilt, it would have looked just like my aunt’s – I’m sure of it! Look how neat my aunt’s quilt (on the right) looks. Those two sisters are expert seamstresses!

The shelves along the narrow aisles were crowded with stuff. Some stuff was junk to some, but treasures to others. I took one last look not finding what I wanted and weaved in and out of the crammed rows as I headed toward the front of the shop. About that time a pleasant looking man accompanied by two other people came through the door of the junk antique store. The gentleman looked up at me, flashed a big smile and said, “hello.” I returned the smile and the greeting. He walked toward me and asked me where he might find a particular item. My mind said one thing, but I responded with quite another.  “Well, I’m not sure, but if you ask the lady at the desk who works here, I’m sure she can help you.” He smiled again and said, “Oh, I thought you worked here.” My mind said, “I might look like an antique, but that doesn’t mean I work here.”

What’s up with that? It happens to me all the time.

I was in Wal-Mart a few weeks ago looking for anti-biotic ointment. A guy in obvious need of medical supplies walked up and stood beside me. He, too, was eyeing the multitude of choices of ointments, liquids, and creams. I looked at his arm dripping with blood and said, “It looks like you got in a fight with a chain saw and it won.” He proceeded to tell me his story and then asked me which product he should get. When I told him I was just looking myself he said, “I thought you worked here.” “Nope, I don’t work here, but I can tell you about some of this stuff. This is the original… this one tends to leave more of a scar… this one is better for deep cuts… use this one if it is a burn… and this one if it itches… this is a good brand of band aids…” In the middle of my Wal-Mart anti-biotic discourse, a lady walks up on my other side. She got in the conversation, “Oh, do you work here? I’m looking for….” My mind said, “What? Do I look like the Wal-Mart lady? Do I have on a blue vest? Do you see me wearing a name tag?” Instead, the words that came out of my mouth said, “No, I don’t work here. I just act like I know a lot. I was telling this gentleman about the anti-biotic ointment I would get and why.” She was satisfied and I helped her find what she was looking for.

These are not just random happenings. It seems that many places I go, someone thinks I work there. I’ve been in grocery stores where people ask, “Do you work here?” I usually answer, “No, but I’ll help you find what you need.” If I know where the item is, I will direct them or even go with them to look. I have helped ladies find the right makeup or shampoo, several men find items in the grocery aisles, and the list goes on. I really like being mistaken for “working here” in the fabric store. Many times, I just help someone and never tell them I don’t work there. I wonder if any of those people have gone back to store looking for the lady who helped them.

So, when you go in a store try to look smart and maybe someone will ask you, “Do you work here?” Don’t tell them any different. Just help them. They will think the establishment has upped its service and it will make your day!

I am a dreamer. I dream every night. Some are pure nonsense, some are vivid with bright colors and sounds. I have solved many problems through my dreams, written poems and songs that I scribbled on a notepad in the dark. Some dreams I choose not to remember. Other dreams I cling to hoping it will come again. Such was the dream the other night.

The other night we had a family gathering at our house.

Margaret & Hank blew in late – obviously having stopped at a farmer’s market or two along the way. Boxes and bags of fruits and veggies (and yes, plenty of watermelons) were scattered around the kitchen. I stepped over a box of lettuce that still had water droplets on the leaves (evidently fresh from the market) and decided for sanity’s sake to make my exit.  I glanced out the window and saw Matthew come up the walkway with his handsome family.

Kids, siblings, nieces, nephews, and grandkids crowded the rooms. When Keri and her troops came in, I said “Oh, your dad said you weren’t coming. He said Jonathan was the only one coming!” She said, “We are ALL coming,” which meant ALL the nieces and nephews, kids and grandkids. Kellie had to take me for a ride around the block while she and Kayli laughed about an old boyfriend Kellie had seen. Karis and I walked out the back of the house and climbed down a cliff and peered into caves looking for extra bedrooms for all those gathered. Michael sat by the door. His face was beet red from some sort of malady. He laughed as he asked other family members if they had experienced a similar condition that could be genetically connected.

How was I going to feed all these folks when I had only a meager dinner in the oven to feed just a few mouths? Concern fleeted quickly as I knew it would all come together.

Amid all the commotion, I saw the side door open.  All the preparations could wait, for coming through the door was my daddy. Before anyone else could see him, I led him to the front room. I grabbed my knitting out of the blanket on the sofa and as we sat down, I took his hand in mine. Oh, what a feeling! We just sat and chatted as we watched the comings and goings of family.

When I awoke from my dream, my heart was full, though it ended too quickly. Not only had I spent an evening with the warmth of family all around, but I got to spend some time with daddy. After five years of being separated from him, I relish those moments – even the dreams that bring us together again.

I stood transfixed in front of the refrigerator, door opened, and pondered the scene before me. Now understand that my refrigerator is often dangerous territory while searching for the unknown or for some science project. But on this particular day, I was looking for something else. I had started a pot of soup with a chicken broth base and a few potatoes, tomatoes and meat tossed in the mix. Surely there was something in the fridge I could add to the pot. Soon my refrigerator was roomier as I emptied containers of left over veggies, gravy, tomato sauce, and even a few mashed potatoes. I took the “taste test” and the soup passed with at least a 9. It was ready to take to the church Family Night Supper. One of the ladies declared the soup was delicious, asked what kind it was, and wanted the recipe. Hmmmm. “Well,” I said, “I don’t have a recipe, but I call it refrigerator soup. It’s different every time depending on what’s in the ice box. Just start with a broth base and you never know what you might end up with.”

That is just a prelude to my new soup recipe I recently fixed a couple of weeks ago. It actually started a couple of days prior. One night I made burgers and wanted baked beans to go with them. The cupboard did not give me any pork ‘n beans, but I did find a can of mild chili beans. How would that taste all doctored up like baked beans? There was only one way to find out. I dumped the beans in a pan, stirred in some ketchup, a little squirt of mustard, garlic, brown sugar, a shake of Worcestershire Sauce, homemade sweet pickle juice, and various spices. The beans turned out acceptable. The few leftovers joined the other containers stashed away in the fridge.

A few days later, my oldest granddaughter came to visit. In preparation for more company, she was helping in the kitchen. I had her cut and seed tomatoes to roast them in the oven with garlic, basil, and olive oil. After they were roasted, she chopped them up and placed them in covered dish in the fridge.

The next day, the menu was Creamy Tomato Basil Soup and grilled cheese sandwiches. Yum! Garlic sauteed in oil to which juice was added along with fresh basil and other ingredients. All I lacked was the roasted tomatoes and cream. I grabbed the container out of the refrigerator, dropped it into the mixture, and poured in some cream.

I served the soup with freshly made croutons. My daughter took a few bites and said, “this tastes a bit sweet.” Well, I had not added any sweetener. My grandson said, “Does this have beans in it?” How ridiculous is that? Someone else dipped into their bowl and presented the spoon on which was a bean. “How did that get there,” I proclaimed with innocence. It was truly a mystery.

Later that evening I opened the fridge and stood quietly eyeing its contents. How did beans get in the soup? I shifted and rearranged the containers. There in the back on the top shelf was a dish holding a red substance. I opened the lid and took a sniff. Ahh Haa! It was chopped roasted tomatoes! So, what did I put in the tomato soup? Then it came to me! You guessed it – baked mild chili beans sweetened with brown sugar. To redeem myself, a few days later, the roasted tomatoes went into meatloaf.

End of the mystery of the Creamy Tomato Basil Baked Chili Bean Soup!

End of the Tale!

…unless you want the recipe….

The yips and yowls of the coyotes sent shivers down my spine. My imagination took over as I thought about our missing dog facing the relentless scavengers that called from just over the hill. If that wasn’t enough, the evening storms caused another surge of fear as I visualized our furry friend shaking uncontrollably with every clap of thunder and gust of wind. Where could she find refuge? As the days went by the prospect of her return seemed to fade, yet every time we turned into the driveway, we anticipated her running to greet us, her tail wagging with excitement.

T-Bug had been with us for some time. About thirteen years ago she came to us by the loving arms our little granddaughter who arrived at our house with a present for Puppa.  She thought her grandfather needed a special gift – a puppy. Every time one of our dogs died, Puppa determined he would never have another dog that would break his heart. But on that particular occasion, he looked at his little granddaughter who held a cute wiggling black mixed Lab puppy with warm brown eyes. How could Puppa refuse such a gift from a cute wiggling little girl with warm brown eyes? He named the puppy T-Bug for the little squirming girl who was sometimes called by the same name. That was convenient at times because if someone called, “T-Bug”, they both came running.

T-Bug certainly knew her master. She was an outside dog and if Puppa was outside, T-Bug was by his side. If she was left on her own and the neighbor’s dog was around, the two would sometimes run off together. I’m not sure which one was the instigator, but I have my suspicions. They could be gone for hours or overnight. When they returned, T-Bug was put in her pen and was only released for a short time only if Puppa was close by. She always redeemed herself and was allowed more freedom until the next time it happened again.

When we moved from the South to the great Northwest, T-Bug came with us. She adjusted quickly. There was one big difference – she became an inside dog. That was probably more of an adjustment for me. We soon had our routines in place – that is until she disappeared. We went through the neighborhood and posted a photo and plea on social media.

Six weeks from the time she left, Puppa got a phone call from our local dog care center. T-Bug had shown up at the neighbor’s house just that morning. Sure enough, when he stopped to inquire, a black haggard thirteen-year-old dog responded to her master’s voice and crawled out from her resting place.  She sat in front of him and looked up at him with those warm brown eyes. He looked down at her, petted her and asked, “T-Bug, where have you been?” She didn’t answer but when he opened the door to the truck, she hopped right in.

All we can figure is that she came looking for us, got lost, and was making her way back home.  Six weeks wandering across the prairie took its toll on her. She lost nine pounds and had an infection. It took a few days, but her restlessness and uncertainty soon began to fade. Her strength is returning but the evening wails of the coyotes and thundering storms still frighten her.  I guess we’ll never know what she experienced those six weeks. Though she’s not talking, when I see her resting peacefully in her bed, I simply dismiss my fears and let sleeping dogs lie.

Looking out the plane window I saw the shrouded city of ChongQing getting smaller and smaller. I said a quiet “goodbye” to the billions of people who called the city home. We had met new people, experienced life in the Mountain City and witnessed just a fraction of their culture. I hoped I would never forget the sights, sounds, tastes, and smells that were imbedded in my mind.

Arrangements had been made for us to stay at the ELIC (English Language Institute China) headquarters in Beijing. We were picked up at the airport by a driver the organization used on a regular basis. The accommodations were very nice. A balcony overlooked a courtyard with pretty flowers, a gazebo with the traditional architecturally curved roof, and a group of waving school children who were curious about the Americans. We order Papa John’s pizza for our evening meal, and they delivered! I slept well that night. There were no opened windows in our room, no sounds of jackhammers and people working through the night, and no bright lights.

Our driver picked us up the next morning. Our first stop of the day was Subway where we got sandwiches and drinks for a picnic lunch. On our way to the Great Wall, we visited the Ming Tombs, built from 1409-1644, which contain the mausoleums of thirteen emperors of the Ming Dynasty. The palace and tombs were quite impressive.

From there we went to a section of the Great Wall that is less commercialized. It was hard to fathom that for centuries, portions of the wall were built, rebuilt, and extended many times by China’s emperors to protect their territory from invaders from the North. The Great Wall is aptly named. It twists over mountains, plateaus, deserts, and plains for 13,170 miles. We climbed sections of steps to the top of the wall. The scene was breathtaking! Unique mountains thick with trees seemed to flow to the ends of the earth. Rocky jagged cliffs rose above the ocean of green like spikes along the back of a huge sleeping dragon ready to awaken and take flight from its secret lair.

The width of the wall averages from 13-16 feet wide, but the widest section is about 55 feet. There was ample room for weapons and soldiers to move strategically along the top of the walls to defend against enemy attacks. The walls were constructed of stone, earth, brick, lime, and wood. For a time, mortar for the bricks were made with sticky rice mixed with lime. As many as 400,000 men lost their lives building the wall, many of whose bones remain buried within.  

After all the walking we did in ChongQing, we were better prepared for the steep uneven steps. Along the wall were towers of different sizes at various places. Looking across the landscape, the wall seemed to go on forever as it wound up and down and around while terra cotta soldiers stood guard.

As we traveled back to the house where we were staying, we noticed a lot of construction going on. Facades were built and placed in front of dilapidated apartments and buildings as a means to cover the unsightly scenes. New bridges, street work, updated signs, and construction was underway in preparation for the Olympics and the influx of foreigners into the city of Beijing. There were more bicycles than in ChongQing and longer buses ran through Beijing’s streets. It was quite a difference from the chaotic streets of ChongQing where six lanes of traffic moving in all directions tangle through a four lane road.

Soon our time in China came to an end. We had a few more unforeseen travel adventures before we pulled into our driveway at home. It had been a memorable once-in-a-lifetime trip, one of which still stirs my memories from time to time.