I Wonder As I Wander March 2023: Things I Miss

 

I thought I'd do one of these posts once a month but somehow, just as quickly as I thought it after posting last time, I forgot.  I wonder why we forget such simple things as even this?  

Some things I don't mind having forgotten.  Things like the reason I felt so very hurt after an argument when something hateful was said.  Or even why we were fighting.  Or unkind things that were said...Those are blessings to have forgotten.  

I regret the good intentions sort of things I've forgotten; the things I'd said I'd like to do but thought of while busy with something else and then forgot and weeks or months later remembered but it was too late to enjoy them or share the pleasure of them.

And then there are the inspirations I had for blog posts or poems, the right turn of phrase that was so rhythmical and lovely but again, I was busy and didn't stop what I was doing and then it slipped away, lost to me forever.

Where do all the forgotten thoughts end up?  Do they float about in space waiting to drop suddenly into a vacancy in someone else's mind?  If you find any of my forgotten things, would you let me know?

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When did toothpaste stop tasting like mint and being flavored with anise instead?  Anyone else notice that?  

One of the things I used to really enjoy about brushing my teeth was that lovely minty sting.  A gentle sting not a painful one.  And the aroma.  

But for years now, all of my toothpastes seem to taste like anise.  And a little sweet.  

The dental floss picks I buy are mint flavored and the children sneak them because they like the flavor so.  Not surprising since so many children love peppermint candy, but most toothpastes for children are now bubblegum or fruit punch flavored (like Juicy Fruit gum).  

That said, I remember that Granny almost always had Wrigley's Double Mint or Juicy Fruit on hand, but Grandmother never had anything except Wrigley's Spearmint.  As kids we loved them all, even the cinnamon flavored Dentyne that Mama favored.  It burned the tongue, but gum was gum was gum for us kids back then.

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Roadside picnic areas were a thing for all my childhood. Drive down any state highway and somewhere there was a glade of trees with several concrete picnic tables and benches and even a rather grotty and gunky grill that anyone could stop and use for a roadside meal.  

As a child I recall my family often did stop to enjoy a picnic meal or a grilled treat, especially on vacations, at those roadside picnic areas.  Mama and Daddy always packed foodstuffs to make our own meals.  Daddy grilled for some of the meals, Mama made sandwiches and a few times I recall eggs and bacon frying on a frying pan brought from home and toast being toasted on the grill.

As a young bride, my first husband and I took advantage of those roadside parks for meals too.  

John and I have had many picnics but picnic tables at roadside are all gone here in Georgia.  You can find them at travel centers next to the interstate, at state parks, municipal parks, but not any along old state or federal highways.

I passed such a spot the other day, a picnic site on a state highway I passed many times over the years.  The glade of trees still stands, but once the state highway department dropped the maintenance of the parks, they were all cleared of tables and grills and left to grow wild and abandoned.  There are likely two generations who no longer even know that area was once a roadside picnic spot.   

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“Oh, Lucia the captain said softly, you are so little and so lovely. how I would have liked to have taken you to Norway and shown you the fiords in the midnight sun, and to China- what you've missed, Lucia, by being born too late to travel the Seven Seas with me! And what I've missed, too.”
― R.A. Dick, The Ghost and Mrs. Muir

At my age, while hardly ancient, there are many dreams that have been set aside. One of my dreams was to travel the world.   But the world I wanted to travel was not the modern-day world.  No, I wanted to visit the Middle East in the heyday of world travel when Istanbul and Persia were still common names.  I wanted to visit the Italian countryside about Florence.  I wanted to see a world that no longer existed because I was 'born too late', just as Lucy was born too late to have met Captain Daniel.

I wanted to be a homemaker all my life but in the post WWII era when homemaking was a woman's privilege.  Instead, I became a full time stay at home mom and wife in an era when many women took great offense at my decision.  Apparently 'freedom of choice' didn't include a traditional role as wife and mother.

I don't doubt that there were hardships and privations that had to be made in that era just as there were in the era I became a homemaker right in the midst of a recession in the 1980's and later again in the 2000's but none of my friends were stay at home homemakers.  They had 'careers' outside the home.  They often asked if I was "still just at home' as though it was a temporary passing fancy on my part or a sabbatical from a 'real job'.

Lately, I've realized that I'm now at an age where some of my long-held dreams are never going to come true.  I'm not old, yet, but practically speaking it's rather unlikely I'll ever have physical ability or time to hike the full Appalachian Trail, or that I'll ever have the financial requirements to drive the Coastway of all of the United States, or that I'll ever become a designer, or suddenly start a farm or that I'll uproot myself and move from one small town to another refurbishing old homes along the way.  

These days I know those things are behind me.  Instead, I can review those dreams and look at how I can have a taste of them on a much smaller scale.  A potted garden.  Designing flower beds about the house.  Travel perhaps along the coast of my state and three or four more here in the southeast.  But I've missed the opportunity to do the bigger things.

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A few years ago, I realized that I was missing something important: seasonal joys and pleasures.  I recall the day very well.  I was standing in the sun, on a hot sunny patch of porch, hanging up things to dry in the summer sun.  The heat pressed down on my skin.   It was September and I realized I'd missed all of summer.  I hadn't taken time to enjoy the first Fried Green Tomato, had bought peaches only once, hadn't even set foot outdoors much less enjoyed a sprinkler of icy well water on my flesh.  It was too late to look for blackberries and in casting back in my mind, I realized I'd missed asparagus and wild blueberries in the spring.  I vowed then and there I'd enjoy the seasonal pleasures.

And perhaps for a few weeks I did.  But then I went right back to life as normal and focused on the daily routines and so I find myself now, with winter passed and I think of the things I missed.  Not once this year did I get out for a walk while the wind was wild and high and cold.  Not once did I listen to birds scattering the dry fallen leaves as they looked for hidden bugs and seeds.  Not once did I buy a box of fresh seasonal citrus and enjoy them fully.  Or eat a pecan pie.  And what a waste Christmas was for me as I mourned the loss of the life, I thought I'd might have in this life season...

Perhaps I should do as I did last summer and write a list for each season of things to enjoy, moments to take time to notice the offerings each season has to make.  

No, I WILL.  I won't leave it to chance.  Time to start a list of things not to miss now that it's spring!

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Granny was a singer.  She'd had some singing lessons, the sort one gets in a rural area, from a teacher who'd been trained at college and knew what was what.  She had a lovely voice and a perfect pitch.  She could read music and she sang beautifully.  She led songs at our little country church unless there were visitors who were known for their leading (usually men...No woman visitor ever led songs in another church.  It just wasn't done.)

When I was a little girl, we'd get her bed all made up in the morning and then I'd ask if we could sing.  She'd fetch our songbook from church, The Old School Hymnal, and we'd fluff the pillows on that freshly made bed and put them at our backs and we'd go through and sing five or six songs until we'd both gotten winded and then we'd make the bed up all over again.  Granny did this often for me and only now do I appreciate the sacrifice of that bit of work being undone immediately upon it's being finished.

Lately I've been thinking I'd like to get out that Old School Hymnal and just go read those powerful lyrics, but I'll bet if I do, I'll start singing again.  Is it Granny's singing I miss?  Or the old old songs we sang?  Some of both...

But neither of those things nearly as much as I miss her whistling.   Granny truly did whistle while she worked.  She'd whistle the tunes of the same old hymns we always sang.  She whistled doing yard work and she whistled while she was doing dishes.  She whistled when she hung laundry, and she whistled as she walked to the field to pull barbwire.  She whistled in the garden and when she went to round up cows.  She whistled on her way to the mailbox, and she whistled when she was pulling weeds.  

When we moved here, just at first, I was too wrapped up in work to visit with Granny very often, but I'd often here her whistling as she worked.  

Every now and then when it's warm enough to work in the yard I'll be working along and suddenly lift my head to the wind.  Sometimes, I'd swear I heard her whistling in her yard.  Of course, it usually turns out to be a bird that has hit a true note or two in a row, but I always find myself smiling just the same, as though I really had heard her whistling once more.

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"God spoke today in flowers, and I, who was waiting on words, almost missed the conversation."     ~Ingrid Goff-Maidoff

A few weeks ago I found a new to me blog and read the loveliest little post.  She's not posted again and from what I can see, isn't a regular poster anyway.  But I like to check back periodically and see if she might have written.

This is the fourth time I've gone back and today I noticed the quote above the post, something I've missed each time I've visited.  Since I am a great lover of meaningful and profound quotes, I'm shocked at myself.  I read the quote and then stopped short.

It made me wonder how have I missed God speaking to me?  Did I miss a child's sweet laughter, something beautiful and wild growing nearby, a particularly lovely sunrise or sunset, the opportunity to sit quietly and observe rather than busy myself with needless activity or thoughts?   Did I miss God speaking in a bird's trilling song, or the aroma of something lovely?  Did I miss a chance for a meaningful conversation with another because my shyness prevented me speaking?  Or even hearing a profound and lovely thought because I didn't stop to just listen to the man of my dreams speaking to me in his quiet manner while I remained stubbornly engrossed in a vlog?  

There's a lot of food for thought in this small quote for me today.  Pray God I pay closer attention in the future, from this moment forward, and don't miss God's conversations.

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One of the books I discovered on Granny's bookshelves as a young teen was a slender book with a soft, dove grey vellum cover.   The pages were smooth as glass and a heavier weight than most books it's size.  It measured perhaps 4 inches wide and was perhaps 8 inches long.  It was a book of poetry and the publication date was in the 1930's.   It was titled 101 Best Loved Poems.

 Inside were all sorts of poems by a wide variety of poets.  I remember reading The Children's Hour, The Gingham Dog and Calico Cat, The Raven, The Road Not Taken...I borrowed that book often and often, almost more than I borrowed Jane Eyre.  

Recently Kristi shared a poem by Edgar A. Guest on her blog and the moment I started reading it, I remembered it was in that book of poetry I'd borrowed from Granny long ago.  I don't know if I wore the book out, or if I'd returned it to Granny and it had been borrowed by a cousin who also loved to read.  

I've thought of that book often through these adult years and wondered again and again what happened to it.  I'd dearly love to find a copy exactly like the one that came from Granny's bookshelf, but despite looking for years, I've not found one.  I'm still looking.  Recently I purchased a reasonably priced paperback titled 100 Best Loved Poems.  I don't know if it will be the same, but some of the poems are definitely the same.  And in the meanwhile, I'll keep scanning shelves in antique shops and thrift stores in the hopes I'll stumble across a copy like the one that made me learn to love poetry.

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