SNOW----NO!

The sunny May day retreats into shadows and darkness.  With nightfall, the loons cries wildly then a loud whooshing sound announces a change in the weather. Is it wind or is it rain?  Run down to close the car windows, or stay curled up in a chair?  It is only wind, until it turns into a torrent of rain setting off a scramble to close the windows after all.  The rain settles to a steady nightlong soaking conducive to green growth and deep sleep.

Morning reveals a cool misty world.  The path down to Round Lake is squishy wet.  Green grass and budding trees shout renewal in a fresh moist world.  The fog is thicker as the path nears the lake.  
 
Stop.      

No.   

 Piles of snow on the beach?  
 

Clumps of white stuff on the lawn march right up to the landlord’s house. 

No, not snow, but  evidence of a wild night. Wind on the shallow lake churns up wave action, which bubbles into frothy foam at lake’s edge.  Tuesday night’s wind and waves generated knee high piles of foam.   
 
Clumps were blown forty feet up onto the lawn and encroach on the garden swing.  The mounds of white stuff are a fluffy, funny sight once closer inspection certified they are NOT SNOW. 

It is spring and the crazy weather brings beauty and destruction.  Foam drifts, evidence of the strong wind, are soft and harmless compared to downed trees and destroyed homes.  The comical looking clouds of white stuff that trespass on the lawn make me laugh at the happy residue of the storm.   

I am glad there is no damage in my neighborhood.

And giddy with relief that it isn’t snow!
 
 
 
--Sireen

 

 

MARY, MARY, IT'S A GRAND OLD NAME

She was born in Detroit into a large Catholic family.  Irish ancestry figured prominently in the family history.  Nuns figured prominently in her education.  Looking back on her girlhood, she talked about shopping at Hudson’s downtown, Hot Fudge Sundaes at Sanders, and dressing up to go downtown.  That was life in a beautiful city--Detroit.

MARY HELEN IN 1945

She married, a young man she met at Catholic school and had six or seven kids of her own.  It was the 1950’s and she moved to the suburbs to raise her family.  A series of Easter snapshots shows the growing family dressed up to go to church, paused for a photo in front of the little house.  Another series features girls and boys lined up in First Communion garb, then, playing in the yard. She packed kids, diapers, bathing suits and sleeping bags for the whole crew into the car to vacation on the shores of Lake Superior every summer.

So many similarities and yet, two different women: one a decade or so older than the other.

Mary Helen, my mother, grew up during the Depression. She went to work during WWII and went back home to raise a family when the war was over.   She had the careful habits of many people of that era which served her well raising seven children on one income during the fifties.  She bought whole chickens and cut them up herself to save a few cents a pound.  She clipped coupons and compared sizes and prices.  She was frugal, but life was full of love, good food, and good times. 

Mary Helen’s Christmas dinners meant turkey, mincemeat pie, date pinwheel cookies, green-Jell-O-pineapple salad and sugar cookies decorated with candy sprinkles.  In the days leading up to Christmas, she knit snazzy sweaters for Barbie dolls and hid her handiwork under the covers if a child wandered near.  She led the troop on the big trip to K-Mart, where each child had a few dollars to buy Christmas presents.  This involved teamwork and budget negotiations that stretched limited funds to buy presents for nine people including Grandma.  

 

One year, the three youngest bought her bubble bath in a tall, elegant bottle with a purple flower blooming in the round base.  It was an awesome present, probably her favorite one ever.  Eventually the bottle sat empty on a bathroom shelf.  It was so beautiful she kept it for decades and it was still there when she passed away.  It fits nicely in another bathroom now and is a testimonial to the woman who singlehandedly “made Christmas” every year in magical ways. 

 

Mary Anne, the younger of the two Marys, became my mother-in-law when I married the eldest of her six children.  As is common in such relationships, some adjustments had to be made.   At first, I resisted alien practices like putting chunks of Italian sausage in spaghetti sauce and using mayonnaise instead of Miracle Whip in potato salad.  It may seem minor but it was major when I decided I liked her recipe for potato salad better than my own mother’s. Ditto her spaghetti sauce—well, I sort of combined them to make my own.

Mary Ann, ma belle mere, my beautiful mother, as the French say, had her own magical way of making Christmas.  She was the mistress of Christmas rituals in her Upper Peninsula home.  She made the best Russian teacakes and frosted cutout cookies ever.  As a child, I loved turkey dinners for Christmas, but Mary Anne patiently convinced me that standing rib roast could be delicious also!  Christmas deserts of pumpkin and mincemeat pie were wonderful but I learned to expect and enjoy apple pie and creamy chocolate desert at her cozy, magical, holiday home.  She was a hostess extraordinaire who pampered her guests from the moment they walked in the door.  Driving to Grandma's on Whitefish Point Road on any cold weather holidays we sang:

Over the river and through the woods, to Grandmother's house we go.

The Dad knows the way, to drive the Caravan sleigh,

On an icy and winding road...........

When we arrived, Grandma rolled out the holiday in style.

Mary Helen passed on, but her traditions, her kindness and her love are still with her family.  When Mary Ann stopped baking those cookies and pie I know her daughters kept right on using and cherishing her recipes.  So when the spinach dip, the chocolate chip cookies and the bagels with salmonor the peanut butter sandwiches cut and arranged like a butterfly on a child's plate appear, it's a salute to Mary.

Mary, Mary, It’s a grand old name.  How fortunate I am to have known two such grand women!