A case for the Papparazi . . .

Nearly every week, I run into people who read this blog.  From the feedback, I get the idea that Baby Dylan is a popular character.  Dog people tend to flock with other dog people.  And it seems that Dylan’s hilarious adjustment to condo living has become legendary.

Because Dylan has fans, I thought a current photo of him might be fun to post.  I have photos from past years, but nothing fresh.  Ha!  Little did I know, that Dylan has added camera-phobia to his list of silly quirks.

Each morning when Dylan wakes up, he goes for a walk with Joe.  (I would happily be the dog walker, but back issues prevent that at present.)  When the guys come in from their walk, Dylan gets a dog cookie which he proceeds to hide hither and thither around our home. 

He starts with burying the cookie in the blankets on our bed, then changes his mind and carries his cookie to other stashing sites.  His cookie appears, disappears, and re-appears many times in a day before Dylan decides to eat it. 

Yesterday I got out my camera and tried to capture the cookie’s first burial, among the bed dressing.  But Dylan, with his new found phobia, was too quick for me.  He saw the camera and split, leaving me with a shot of his butt descending from the bed.  Then I discovered that I had the camera on the wrong setting.  Instead of a snapshot, I had a video of Dylan’s butt descending from the bed.

I didn’t give up immediately.  I followed Dylan all over the condo with my camera–and he simply would not let me anywhere near him as long as I had that thing in my hand.  Finally I put the camera back in its case, and Dylan came to me immediately for kisses and hugs.

Today I got a bit smarter.  When Dylan made his bee line to the bed with his cookie, I was waiting for him with the camera tucked behind my back.  Voila.  I surprised him with the cookie in his mouth, and got the above shot before he flew off the bed.  This was a split second maneuver, but it paid off.   

Now you can see Baby Dylan in all his glory–with his cookie.

Margaret L. Been–All Rights Reserved

The joy of soap making . . . .

Nestled among the Fenton, shell pink milk glass, depression glass, antique vinegar cruets, heirloom lamp, 19th century sawtooth crystal, and 21st century decoupaged tea tray, you will find one of the greatest of our household “treasures”:  my elegant handmade complexion soap.

When we moved to our condo in Southern Wisconsin in September, we left my soap making supplies at our northern home.  There was so much to move, just to settle in here and start living, that my beloved hobby had go “on hold”.  I rationalized that we have enough of my soap to last for many years, so we could retrieve the supplies later.

It’s odd, how one can miss a part of one’s life so terribly that there’s an empty spot in the heart.  I reserved a vacant niche in the storeroom of our new home, as a waiting dedication to the art and appurtenances of soapmaking.  Indeed, I wasn’t quite “all here”, because my soap making materials were 290 miles away.

But then 2 weeks ago we made a north run, and brought back many of the “left behinds”–including the soap making paraphernalia.  Now my molds, packets of organic pigments, a case of sodium hydroxide (lye)*,  designer base oils, perfume oils, stainless steel soap kettle, a digital scale, and 2 quart Pyrex measuring pitcher are neatly and conveniently arranged in the storeroom (which is mine and mine alone, because Joe has a lot of storage cabinets in our garage).

Yesterday we received a delivery of my favorite base oil, beef tallow.  The gorgeous snowy 52 pound block of rendered fat came from Columbus Foods, in Chicago.  Joe sliced the block into 10 rectangular increments, and these are stored in the freezer in our garage–waiting to be pressed into service.

It’s fun to glance back over the years and recall the development of a hobby.  I made my first “soap” (quotes needed as that attempt produced something really weird) with a bunch of women in a large church kitchen in Milwaukee.  We each brought our rendered bacon grease and left over fats from pot roasts, etc. 

Soap making is not a thing to do away from home, and en masse.  The techniques were iffy, and the sloshing-around-in-transit of my fledgling excuse for saponication caused separation of fats and lye.  Not good, not safe, not in any way desirable to have around–and suitable only for quick disposal in a double layered garbage bag.

Many (maybe most) individuals would have quit there.  Why did I persist?  As I discarded my awful “soap”, I knew the process was just beginning.  A dream had grabbed me.  I would learn to make beautiful soap.

A few weeks later a daughter, a friend, and I made soap–this time in the quiet, controlled environment of my own kitchen.  Although the soap was not fancy, we did use clean rendered beef tallow (no more of those grease-can leftovers) and our soap turned out to be white and lovely.  From that day on, we never again used commercial soap in our home.

Soapmaking never grows old.  Although it’s a chemical process, there are variables.  I have charted years of batches, noting the ingredients used and results.  In the beginning, failures were not uncommon–but I kept on, inspired by the successes along the way.  Now I understand enough principles that my batches are consistently fine–only varying from a standard of excellence when I goof up on my measurements.

Over the years, a lot of people have wanted to make soap with me.  Some of these folks think it’s a cute, homesteady thing to do–not understanding that it’s an expensive hobby.  Along with the tallow, which I now buy rendered, I use costly vegetable oils with emollient qualities:  apricot kernel, coconut, a smidge of castor, avocado oil–and that Lamborghini of oils for soapmaking as well as culinary purposes, olive oil.  After the base oils and sodium hydroxide have blended to a frosting-like consistency, perfume oils are added–and these are especially costly. 

Conversely, the pigment powders I use for color are fairly inexpensive, and a bit of powder goes a long way.  But when most of the ingredients are tallied you can see that soapmaking is like knitting with designer yarns:  we do it only because we love it, and never to “save money”.

Homemade soaps are superior in every way to commercial face and body products.  Commercial “soaps” often contain petroleum oil (detergent!) which is drying to the skin, plus harsh preservative ingredients.  Glycerin, that priceless skin-edifying ingredient which is a by-product of the saponification process, is removed in soap factories so that it can be marketed for the manufacture of pharmaceuticals and explosives.  In homemade soap, the glycerin remains–doing what God intended it to do for our skin.

For years I sold my soap at fairs and a farmers’ market.  But that got tiresome.  Factoring the Wisconsin sales tax and filling out the required forms almost drove me nuts, because the tax varies with the county in which one is selling.  Sometimes the demand for soap was greater than I could supply and still have enough soap left for the members of our large family, who had begun to realize that there was nothing on earth quite so wonderful as homemade soap.  So I quit selling forever.  Instead, I give the soap as much appreciated, special gifts. 

Now one of our daughters is making soap, big time.  Her soaps are gorgeous; she seems to have circumvented the trial and error stage which consumed my early years of saponifying.  Two other daughters have made a few batches of soap, and undoubtedly will make more.  A daughter-in-law has been hooked by this fabulous hobby.  And we have granddaughters who are potential saponifiers.  Like true love, the good things go on and on.

If you have read through this long entry, there’s a chance that you are dreaming of making soap–if you have not already started.  I will share a couple of authors whose basic methods can serve to start you on your saponifying career:  Ann Bramson and Sandy Maine.  Just GOOGLE their names, and you’ll find great resources at your fingertips–plus info on where to find these ladies’ books.  There are many other books out, on the subject of soapmaking, but those of Bramson and Maine are (in my opinion) the most helpful.  Best of everything, as you embark on one of the most exciting hobbies on earth!

*People have asked me if they could make soap sans lye.  I don’t think so.  As far as I know, some form of caustic soda must be used in the soap process.  The sodium hydroxide form of lye is the refined ingredient in beautiful homemade complexion soaps such as those which I make in my kitchen.  Extreme care must be exercised when working with sodium hydroxide.  (I have never made soap when small children or pets were underfoot.)

Sodium potash is the pioneer ingredient, created by pouring boiling water over wood ashes.  You may see this soapmaking process at living history museums such as OLD WORLD WISCONSIN.  The pioneer soap is not an elegant, skin enhancing luxury product.  Unless you delight in doing things the primitive way, or enjoy attending a Rendezvous, you probably won’t ever want to do the sodium potash thing. 

All soap must be aged for several weeks before using.  In this time, the caustic soda textures out and is no longer lye–just as the oils are no longer oils.  You have created a NEW THING–SOAP! 

My soap is gentle and beautifying to the skin–perfect for baby humans, adult humans, and my dog!

Margaret L. Been–All Rights Reserved

“Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness . . . .”

John Keats certainly had it right when he wrote the above words about autumn.  And so far this November is as gentle and mild as I imagine an autumn in England would be.

We are savoring every moment of the season.  This morning we headed north for our breakfast, through little villages, past soybean and corn fields.  Most of the beans have been harvested, but many stands of corn remain as the corn harvest sometimes goes into early December.

Flocks of Canada geese are gleaning the harvested fields, along with sandhill cranes and gulls–those migrants from the big water east of us.  I wonder as I see the Canadas, if any of them might be of the same group that “summers” in our Big Elk River up north.

We wind circuitous roads, up and down through scenic hills.  We’re thankful to have state and county highways that meander, just as they did decades ago when they were not so heavily traveled.  Even now these roads are peaceful, except during weekday rush hours when workers are coming or going from the little subdivisions tucked away amongst the fields and forests. 

Subdivisions notwithstanding, farms still abound along our local byways.  Many of them are hobby homesteads and/or “gentleman farms”, but they are farms nonetheless.  We delight in seeing evidence of a quality of life on the land.

Joe and I ate at what has become one of our favorite restaurants in our new locale:  a rustic place about 15 miles from home.  The place has a miner’s atmosphere with wooden walls, floors, and furnishings–and Tiffany style lamps hanging everywhere.  The food is awesome (to use that overworked but still efficacious adjective) and the price is do-able for us on a regular basis.  Most of all, I think we love the restaurant because it reminds us of places our son Karl and his family have taken us in the Colorado mountains.  One can close one’s eyes and recall the high altitude!

As if all of the above were not enough to constitute a perfect morning, we made one more stop–at a local shopping center where I completed my Christmas shopping.  Too exciting! 

In just a few more days, we’ll begin decking the halls!  Then the “season of mists and mellow fruitfulness” will give way to “the season to be jolly”! 

Margaret L. Been–All Rights Reserved

A No Nonsense Woman

The petite beauty is my Grandma Rose, as a very young lady.  She lived on earth from 1865 t0 1952.  I was 18 years old when she died.  Someday I’ll be reunited with Grandma Rose and her husband–my Grandpa George featured in my blog entry “A Man for All Seasons” (Autumn, 2008).

Because of Grandma Rose and other women in my family, I was shocked when I first heard of a “woman’s liberation” movement.  I grew up thinking most American women were movers and shakers, like the feminine role models I knew.

Grandma Rose lived much of her adult life as a pastor’s wife in a small Wisconsin town.  These grandparents had four children, one of them being my dad who left me a precious legacy of Grandma Rose’s diaries.  I love to sip tea and read the diaries.  They take me back to a world which was in many ways more real than the world we live in today–a world where no one locked their doors (at least in our neighborhoods) and guests were always welcomed and fed, even when uninvited.

Grandma Rose’s journal entries are filled with homemade bread, garden produce, and kittens–all of which she shared with people in her town.  In reading decades of her diaries, I have never spotted a word of navel gazing–that nauseating, entropic meandering and self-centered processing that characterizes so much journaling and conversation today.  Rose never wasted time “finding herself”, because she always knew who she was!

Neither have I found a word of complaint in the journals–although Rose’s life was hard at times.  From the tragic loss of her first baby (in a primitive logging camp town in Northern Wisconsin in 1893) through years of hard work and sacrificial ministry, Rose never dumped woes into her diaries.  She simply stated facts as they happened, in a minimum of words–sparing her readers the emotional theatrics.  And numerous family members and friends have attested that she never dumped her troubles on other people in conversation. 

Although a servant to many, Grandma Rose understood the wisdom of Psalm 90; she numbered her days and applied her heart to wisdom.  A community leader active in many causes, cultural as well as charitable, Rose occasionally wrote things in her journal like:  “Stayed home from ‘Friends of the Library’ today and listened to the opera on radio” or “Missed the Sunday School teachers’ meeting so I could stay home and bake.”

An interesting and charming facet of the diaries is the frequent use of the term “Mrs.”.  In a town where her husband served as a pastor for decades, Rose called most married women “Mrs.” rather than mentioning their first names.  Only family members and the occasional long-standing friend were called by their first names.

Like my own mother, Rose was a woman who never raised her voice–yet we grandchildren stood in perpetual awe of her formidable (58 inch) stature.  She fed us bountifully, played Chinese Checkers with us frequently, and invited no nonsense.  She assumed we’d behave respectably and respecfully, and we did.  Rose was a well of quiet contentment, expressing her love and approval of her family members without excessive words.

Yet well-chosen words were huge in Grandma Rose’s life; she typed volumes of memoirs describing her girlhood in an Alsatian community in Michigan, her husband’s work as a minister, her faith, and her love for family.  She also wrote plays for her Sunday School–plus articles, and essays.

Rose passed the word gene and example onto me.  I recall watching her type, and I always knew she was doing something terribly important.  By the time I was 9 years old I was compelled to record my own words on paper as well.

I’m thankful for a legacy of diaries and memories of Rose Longenecker–a no nonsense woman!

Margaret L. Been–All Rights Reserved

Home and hearth . . . .

If this seems like an overload of photos, bear with me.  Today is rainy and blustery, and I’m experiencing an overload of joy in hearth and home. 

The fireplace consists of 4 light bulbs hidden in a nice wood surround with a mantel.  The fake flames flicker and flit when we throw the switch on, and our fireplace delights our hearts.  We’ve had many good years of burning real logs.  And now our 4 light bulbs please our eyes and warm our hearts with surrogate flames.  (The electric fireplace has a heating option, as well.)

Our condo homestead is comprised of 4 rooms, 2 baths, and some hall spaces.  Joe and I are filling every nook and cranny with that whole hearted joie de vie we’ve experienced wherever we’ve lived over the past 56 plus years.

The approaching winter augments the joys of hearth and home.  Now we’re close to family, and the holidays promise mellow times with loved ones.  It will be fun to decorate our 4 rooms (and bathrooms, too) for Christmas, knowing that company will be on hand to savor the atmosphere and decor. 

Small children will enjoy our favorite ornaments–clock, train engine, puppy, etc,– and play with the collection of toys waiting for them in the antique trunk pictured below.  I ding out with delight, just to think of the children visiting.

And when those January winds howl, and the outside temperature drops to zero and below, we’ll just “light” a fire in our fireplace and sip tea beside our hearth.

Margaret L. Been–All Rights Reserved

 

The Wild Side . . .

Today we strolled in the forest preserve which is less than 1/2 of a mile from our front door.  I’m overwhelmed by the plethora of trees and shrubs abounding in the southeast corner of our state.  I identified many old friends on our walk:  shagbark hickory, bur oak, eastern cottonwood, staghorn sumac, alternate leaved dogwood, American elm, bigtooth aspen, and white baneberry–sometimes called “doll’s eyes” because of the white berries with a dot resembling the pupil of an eye.

But so many beauties went uncategorized.  I will walk often (God willing and back permitting) to study the bark of these trees and shrubs–along with their configuration in the winter when the leaves are all down, and their catkins and flower spikes in spring. 

It excites me more than I can express, to have a whole new playground of wild woods to explore.  When we first settled here, a neighbor told me that she will “never go in the woods because coyotes and bob-cats live there.” 

The idea of coyotes and bob-cats made me want to rush right into the woods and sit there motionless for hours.  The chance of seeing coyotes and bob-cats when we are hiking with our dog is nil, but how wonderful to know that the wild critters may be peering at us from a den or tree. 

Deer and foxes live in the woods also, and the wild turkeys that we frequently see on the road.  Today I brought home a turkey feather, and an interesting collection of leaves gleaned from the ground where they’d fallen.

I found a large palmate leaf, not in the wild woods but blowing around on the grass at the park which separates the nature trails from our home.  I puzzled over this beauty, and tried to find it in my limited reference book on local trees.

Finally I found the leaf–not in my book, but online.  My treasure is unmistakeably the leaf of a horse chestnut–no longer found much in the wild since the demise of this tree due to a blight a few decades ago. 

According to one website, the horse chestnut is being cautiously restored in controlled settings such as parks and botannical gardens.  Thus, some planner of our lovely community park decided to plant at least one horse chestnut.  As the spring tree signatures emerge, I’ll walk around the park and find the chestnut tree (or trees).

As always, nostalgia springs from the simplest revelations.  I’m remembering the horse chestnut tree I hid in as a kid, and the glossy brown nuts which I extracted from their prickly pods each autumn.  No wonder the huge, palmate leaf appeals to me.  It’s a part of my history!

Now the treasures from today’s hike are piled on our dining room table:  the assorted leaves from the woods, a few “doll’s eyes”, a fallen hickory nut and it’s shell, a turkey feather, and the horse chestnut leaf–nature’s treasures which I value even more than the Minton and Wedgwood dishes lining our shelves.

Joe and I will find a constant source of refreshment and restoration in the wild side of our new neighborhood!

Margaret L. Been–All Rights Reserved

“Heaven on earth”, and our wild Apache

Here is our patio and part of our garden area, growing more settled each week.  We live in a condo community of gardens, yard ornaments, and fun and funky outdoor decor–expressing the individual tastes of each condo owner.

I’m thankful for creative freedom.  I won’t say my soul would have died in a restricted setting, but I would not have experienced the abject joy of realizing I can be “me” outside of our new home. 

Of course we can always do what we like indoors, wherever we live–but outdoor freedom is a special gift.  Come spring I’ll haunt the garden centers, as I hope to create a cozy English cottage garden of perennials and herbs.  The cement patio will host houseplants in the summer, as they’ll face a semi-sheltered eastern exposure while being protected from the afternoon sun.

The trellis, now decorated for autumn, will support some of my favorite vines:  bittersweet, woodbine, and possibly morning glories.  We found the trellis at a rummage sale, and hope to find another for more vines–thereby adding panache and pizzazz to the generic aluminum siding of our home.

But one member of our family has adjusted to significantly less freedom than he ever had before.  He doesn’t give a hoot about decor and plantings; he’s contented just being with his people.  I’m speaking of our Pembroke Welsh corgi, Dylan.  Having run freely on 14 acres in the northwoods for nearly 6 years, Dylan is now a model condo dog–well, almost model.  

As happy as Dylan appears to be, walking on a leash in the park, he still regards freedom in his racial memory.  Yesterday I made the mistake of forgetting to close the sliding patio door behind me when going outside–and Dylan shot out, barking and whooping in circles like a wild Apache in a 1940s western movie.  Wondering if I’d ever see him again, I came back in the house for a leash and then raced back out–praying. 

We’ve discovered that a commanding voice never works with Dylan.  The only solution is to get down at his level and talk baby talk to him:  “Come on sweetie, come Baby Dylan–come to Mommy.”  (Those words may be disgusting to any of you who are not dog lovers, but there it is.  I can’t help you–and I confess I don’t really want to!)

Anyway, the above routine brought Dylan to me immediately–and I put his leash on him as he wagged his stump of a tail.*  Whew!  One more adventure, at our new little bit of “heaven on earth”.

Margaret L. Been–All Rights Reserved

*Traditionally tails have been docked on corgi puppies, possibly because they were bred and raised as drivers–running on their short little legs amongst the hooves of large cows in Wales.  One can imagine what a mess it would be if those naturally long and fluffy tails were dragged in the muck and manure of a cattle yard–plus the tails would have gotten stepped on by the cows.  (Now tail docking has been outlawed in some countries–Norway and Japan, and perhaps others.)

The corgi’s function was not to herd his own cattle, but to drive away invasive neighbor cows.  Aggressive behavior toward most other animals still exists in many corgis today, including our Dylan.  (However, we’ve just learned something very funny.  Dylan likes, of all things, cats!)

Go Gently, Autumn

Epilogue of a County

Go gently, Autumn,

spilling sunlight out across stone walls,

soothing ancient land

where glaciers scooped our hollows,

piled moraines, and thawed a legacy of lakes.

Gently! Life has been the thrust of this dark soil,

of oak and hickory woods, abundant springs,

and prairie interludes where cornfields called

to Angus clustered hills.

Yesterday, our forest echoed Cymric rhyme

(and still of restless year-end nights

the melody is heard—wind singing old Welsh tunes

in dying oak).

Go gently, Autumn,

gathering the poignance of October haze,

Savoring the texture of these days.

Margaret Longenecker Been–All Rights Reserved

Those gluttonous gulls . . . .

Joe and I have been watching gulls, soaring and dipping over our park.  We see them at shopping center parking lots as well–and wherever else someone might have dropped a bit of food.

During the heyday of Great Lakes shipping, the gulls hung out mainly alongside and over the big water.  I recall childhood excursions on Lake Michigan, and watching huge flocks of gulls as they followed trails of garbage dumped out from the big boats into the lake.

Now, with limited shipping in the big waters and the demise of random garbage dumping, the gulls come inland to satisfy their appetites.  We are 26 miles from Lake Michigan, a comparatively easy flight for a hungry gull.

As comically ungainly as the gulls are walking about on land, they’re transformed in flight.  Their graceful patterns and plaintive mewing stir something profound within me–perhaps a racial memory of Celtic roots and my ancestors who lived surrounded by the Atlantic Ocean and Irish Sea.

But I’m especially aware of a more recent memory–that of being a child and watching the gulls zoom in on garbage expelled from a Lake Michigan ferry.

Margaret L. Been–All Rights Reserved

The voices of wind . . . .

How I love to go to sleep to the voices of wind.  Last night I could have envisioned myself on the Yorkshire moors, with an apparition of Heathcliff floating behind the banging of shutters on an ancient grey stone mansion.

Actually last night’s wind climbed inside the slats of (not wood shutters but) the aluminum siding on our home, and rattled therein like castanets.  But the moaning had the tone of a Gothic tale, transplanted from the north of England to the north of the USA.  How soothing!

Wind up to a certain velocity is soothing; beyond that, it can be as terrifying as anything in the world.  While drifting off last night, I thought of the power of God–sometimes benevolent and other times earth shaking.  

The voices of wind that set our sails in motion can grow to decibels sufficient to destroy a city.  Orchestrated with fire or water–well, you know!

Most mind boggling of all to me, is how anyone can consider the voices of wind yet deny the sovereign power of our Creator!

Margaret L. Been–All Rights Reserved