Judy Sunde Hanawalt

Things I'm Thinking About

Category: Remembering (Page 2 of 2)

My First Big Lie

February 17, 2015 / / 1 Comment

It was the first day of summer day camp. At Camp Wahne, kids  kindergarten through sixth grade spent hot summer days doing crafts, playing games and singing camp songs in a converted stable, while the parents attended meetings nearby. That first day, we lined up in front of the old tack room to give our names and ages to be assigned a counselor.

Standing in line, watching the other kids, I started to feel too tall and too big to be just five and only in kindergarten. Often, when I told an adult my age, they would exclaim how tall I was, how much older I looked. No other five-year-olds seemed to be wearing  glasses; my pink cat-eye glasses, with lenses that made my eyes look huge, felt conspicuous. As the line moved me slowly toward the desk where I would tell them who I was, I was nervous. What would they think of me? That I did not look like what I was, that I did not fit?

When I reached the front of the line, my mind started to spin. The woman with the clipboard asked me what grade I was in, and a little lie spilled out. “Fifth grade,” I said. I had thought for a moment before I said it. I might not look old enough to be in sixth grade, I reasoned, but five and fifth are close enough. It was just a little exaggeration. “Wow!” she said. “You’re small for your age!” That was just what I wanted to be.

The fifth-grade counselor was everyone’s favorite. Kids from all the groups would run to her for hugs. There were 10 or so kids in our large, concrete-floored stall, and one of our first activities was to choose a name for ourselves and paint the walls to illustrate our identity. We planned it out, sketched the outlines in pencil on the wooden walls, and began to paint our mural. I worked so carefully, staying in the lines, painting a horse and some flowers. Another camper watched my work, complimented my painting and commented on how small I was. “Yes,” I answered, “I’m small for my age.” It was working out just fine.

We listened to stories, we played games, we did crafts. On the second day of camp, though, my lie began to fray around the edges. Under a big, shady tree, we sat in a circle for story time, but today we were taking turns reading the story out loud. Panic clenched in my stomach. I did not know how to read. How would I fake that? I thought about confessing, but I was afraid. When my turn came, I said I did not want to read,  I was too shy. My face flushed bright red, like a neon sign flashing my deception.

That evening, after my parents picked me up, I tearfully told my mother about my problem. I skimmed over the details of how it happened that I was in the wrong group, and I think she thought it was just a mix-up. She told the camp staff, and soon after dinner, the kindergarten counselor came over to me, put her arm around me and welcomed me to her group. A safe, non-reading group. I sank into my chair, so relieved to not have to act older, to talk about things I didn’t understand, to worry that someone would find out.

The next day at camp, I felt free. No one mentioned my days as a big kid. Even the occasional “so tall!” or “four-eyes” comments rolled right off me. I was happy to let everybody think it was an accident, a simple mix-up of five and fifth.

When the other kids ran to the popular fifth-grade counselor, I went with them, but I stayed to the back, out of the flurry of hugs and greetings. I was sure that she knew it wasn’t just a mix-up. In my five-year-old mind, I had committed a grave offense. I had lied.

Looking back, I’m sure she must have known I wasn’t just small for my age, and she probably wasn’t surprised when I left for the kindergarten group. I’m also sure she wasn’t angry with me, even though I lied, and wouldn’t have minded if I ran to her for a hug with the others.

I wish I could have learned the simple lesson of being honest and being myself at that early age, but it has taken many more painful experiences of trying to be what I thought others expected, or trying to appear more important or accomplished or impressive than I felt. Seeing myself as that little girl with pigtails and pink glasses helps me to have compassion for myself, though, as I walk through this long process of growing up and becoming comfortable with who I am.

Thanksgiving

November 14, 2014 / / 3 Comments

Thanksgiving does not sparkle with magic and mystery, or glow with the promise of gifts and wishes come true like it’s holiday partner, Christmas. It is instead a day to be content, to appreciate what is already seen and known. Somewhere between the giddiness of childhood and the practicality of adulthood, I began to enjoy Thanksgiving instead of rushing past it as just another hurdle to clear before Christmas. It was a calm before the frenzy of holiday activity; a day to enjoy for it’s own sake, not for what would be given or gotten.

I was still living at home, and Thanksgiving meant traditional foods, grandparents and cousins, sitting and talking and playing games. I watched my grandmother, mother and aunt cook, sneaking tastes, disappearing when work was needed. When my grandfather began to carve the turkey, I would be at his elbow, ready for any small bits he would offer as he worked. The anticipation and satisfaction revolved  around the meal and the foods eaten only on that day. The gifts of Thanksgiving were received around the table.

My childhood Thanksgivings were spent as a happy recipient of the feast, almost as a guest. Whether by my choice or by design, the work was behind the scenes. I had little appreciation for how it happened that the lavish meal appeared on the carefully decorated table.

My perspective changed again when I had children and began hosting the day at my house. No more gazing into the kitchen in anticipation of delicacies to fill the holiday table.  I became the cook, with splattered apron, pumpkin in my hair, and the scent of stuffing as my perfume. I was up early to finish the pies, make the stuffing and get the bird in the oven. The day flew by as I was making messes and cleaning them up, rotating side dishes in and out of the oven, calling for helping hands and later chasing out sticky-fingered tasters, and then, with a sigh of relief, sitting down, everything done, to give thanks.

As my children have gotten older, they have ventured into the cook’s domain and wanted to help, even taking over a favorite dish. Their joy of eating was enhanced by the preparation, the camaraderie in the kitchen, and the pride of serving something that tasted good. One daughter would work on the pies, another on the green bean casserole, and others on the rolls, jello salad and stuffing.  Some would collaborate on the decorating and setting of the table, pulling the good china and silverware out of the cupboard, arranging the flowers and candles, and creating a centerpiece from fall leaves and persimmons from our tree.

The commotion in the kitchen tends to draw others in, and the jostling, the stepping over the dog and the ducking around sparring siblings–the happy confusion of so many in a small space–tempts me to shoo everyone out. When I stop, take a breath and look around, though, I love the busyness and the laughter.

Another change is upon me now. With only one child still living at home, my house feels quiet and a little empty, and when they all come home for Thanksgiving, I welcome the busy, loud explosion of activity. They come like waves, tumbling in with their bags and the food they are going to prepare and their excitement at seeing each other, dancing around with the dog, flooding the house with life. They come in with the cold, fresh scent of their journey  on their coats and wraps, but they take them off, leave them by the door and settle into being home.

They come hungry for all their favorite traditional foods, but also with new ideas. The sugary yam casserole topped with marshmallows was the first to get a make-over, becoming more about the vegetable and less about the topping. A couple of years ago, my practice of using a roasting bag for the turkey ended when a more ambitious cook found a better way, involving lots of butter and fresh herbs.  Another Thanksgiving, my dry, bagged stuffing went unused in favor of a delicious, from-scratch recipe. Last year, new side dishes free of processed foods were introduced, so the jello and the green bean casserole were replaced by seasonal fruits and greens. I think it is only the butterhorn rolls that remain unchanged.

With so much competence in the kitchen, I find time to sneak off to the living room to sit down and rest, leaving the meal to my opinionated, energetic children, and basking in the happy chatter and laughter. I’m still involved in the process,  but I can see a new era just around the corner. I will find myself again the recipient of the feast, and I will be content to savor these gifts of a life full of love and family.

High School graduation

Did You Plan to Have Six Kids?

November 6, 2014 / / 2 Comments

People ask me all the time if I planned to have a large family. Just last week, four people asked me this nicer version of their real question: Why do you have so many kids? It’s taken me a while to be able to answer this honestly. No, I didn’t plan on having a large family. The reason I have six children is, to put it simply, I wanted to. They came one at a time, and six times, we eagerly anticipated a new member of the family.

I didn’t particularly love children as a young woman. I babysat only reluctantly as a teen, preferring my own activities to trying to entertain children. I did plan on having a family eventually, like I planned on owning a house and taking two weeks vacation every year. No plan, though, could have prepared me for the experience of having my own child.

I was excited to be pregnant with my first baby. I had been married for three years–a respectable amount of time, one friend recently assured me–when I started to long for a baby. I started having dreams about babies, and thinking about what it would be like to be a mother. Suddenly, I saw mothers and babies everywhere, and I imagined having my own cooing, adorable bundle of joy.

As my pregnancy progressed, I felt like an alien being had taken over my body. My hormones were bringing chaos to my moods, my skin, my hair and my brain. My growing belly threw me off balance in every way. My clothes didn’t fit, and eventually I didn’t fit. Forgetting my new shape, I tried to squeeze by a grocery cart in checkout line in one embarrassing moment late in pregnancy. I was clumsy and forgetful, frighteningly emotional and hungry all the time.

I felt out of control and unprepared. I volunteered to work in a nursery, hoping to get an idea of how to hold and care for an infant. I was not a natural; I was stiff and afraid of hurting this little person and making him cry. The idea of doing this myself was terrifying. To push back the fear, I took classes on childbirth and nursing, read and re-read books on what to expect, what to buy and what to do. I could not really prepare, I know now. This was not merely a lifestyle or scheduling change. It was a transformation.

If someone had been able to make me understand–really understand–what I was going to have to do to birth this baby, I would have said it was impossible. I’m not that strong. There was no choice, though, and the result of my Herculean effort was a tiny, red infant, crying in my arms. I was overwhelmed. I was in love. How could this perfect little person have come from my body? This was a sense of accomplishment and amazement unlike any I’d known. I was witness to a miracle.

A mother doesn’t give life to a child. A mother is host to creation far above her control, an intimate observer, a captive witness. I began to see other mothers as fellow witnesses to the miracle, and children not as miniature adults, but as someone’s baby. This was wild, messy and mysterious, a connection to the world at a deep, basic level. I was dipping my toes into the surging, primal deep, peering into the unfathomable rhythms of creation, and it was intoxicating.

I dove in. One at a time, we were blessed with five more unique and amazing gifts of new life, and fell in love each time. I loved the whole process: the pregnancy, the birth, the babies, the community of other mothers and babies. As our family grew, I loved the dynamic of older and younger siblings, the playing, teaching, helping; the happy busyness. We had so much fun exploring, camping, creating and being together.

There were times, of course, when I was tired and overwhelmed, but my memory of the days when I was consumed with nursing and diapers and school and birthday parties has taken on a gauzy glow of sweetness and kinship that I think is not too far from the reality.

Sometimes I feel like I was greedy to want to prolong my stay in that stage of life longer than most women do. Sometimes, when I’m completely spent, emotionally, physically, or financially, I think I was crazy. Most of the time, I feel grateful.

I’m amazed by the love I give and receive, the incredible, gifted women and men who call me Mom, and the deep satisfaction I experience in motherhood. I could not have planned for this. My imagination would not have been big enough.

More Science than Art

October 24, 2014 / / 2 Comments

Preserving food–canning–is more science than art. The acidity, temperature and sterilization are all crucial to ensure that the end product, a jar of tomatoes or peaches or pickles, is safe to eat.

Fruits and vegetables must be at the peak of ripeness, with no bruising or mold. Sugar or acid, such as salt, lemon juice or vinegar, must be present in sufficient amounts. Food and liquid needs to come to a certain height in the jar, with headroom to allow expansion, but not to compromise the seal. The lids must be new, the jars must be free of nicks or cracks, clean and hot, and the water they are processed in must be be deep enough to cover the jars by an inch, boiling constantly for the prescribed amount of time to kill any bacteria in the food. The lids must seal, with their distinctive pop when the flexible middle of the lid pulls in as the contents cool, creating a suction that protects the food from outside air and contaminants.

There isn’t much room for creative interpretation of the instructions. The story of the unfortunate canner who erred in some crucial step, and paid dearly by dropping dead from one taste of a green bean from a contaminated jar keeps would-be experimenters in line.

Canning is not required for survival the way it once was. Before canned goods were readily available at the grocery store, preserving the harvest in warm months was essential to eating in the cold months when the garden was asleep beneath frozen earth. It still may be the best way to cope with a prolific garden, when there are more tomatoes or beets than can be reasonably consumed, but it is not a hungry winter that compels the modern-day canner.

For me, it is the desire to keep bounty from going to waste, and to preserve it for enjoyment later. There is romance to capturing the abundance of the season, whether from my garden, the farmers market, the neighbor’s fruit tree, or even the grocery store when produce is sweet and cheap. It is a way to reconnect with the values taken for granted by our great-grandparents–local, organic, in-season food prepared simply, so the natural flavors and nutrition are preserved and savored.

There is a wholeness to home-canned foods that is missing from grocery store cans. It isn’t big business, it’s personal. The peaches that grace the table in February were lugged home in August, peeled and pitted and snugged into jars, fitted with lids, carefully submerged in a boiling-water bath, then cleaned and dried an tucked away for the day when the only fruit the market has to offer is bananas from Ecuador and apples from Australia. The peaches in cans at the store can’t have been as lovingly prepared, and whether the taste is markedly different or not, the  experience of serving and eating them is unique.

A home-canned jar, taken from the limited stores in the pantry, is like a gift. The gentle whoosh as the lid lifts, breaking the seal that kept summer ripeness safely locked inside, the glugging of the contents into a bowl or pan,  and the aroma of the preserves recreate the ambiance of the hot kitchen at the peak of harvest.

The delight is not just in the serving, it’s also in the the storing. Rows of white pears, golden peaches, orange salsa, red tomatoes, ruby pickled beets, purple plums, brown cinnamon-spiced applesauce and green pickles line the pantry shelves, a rainbow of well-being.

As I survey my work, there’s a sense of fullness and readiness for the dormant season. As the cold months count down to spring, the jars are emptied and returned, and the color drains from the the shelves just as the the first blooms of forsythia, then lilac, begin to color the landscape and fill the air with a sweet scent; no fruit yet, but the promise is in the air.

Somewhere along the way, art mixes with science and the two are intertwined. The science of preserving food is necessary for the process, but the the labor and the sharing blend into the food to create something that feels more like art.

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