The first time I met my aunt Robyn, I thought she was the coolest woman I had ever met. She had a wicked sense of humor, and her laugh, while melodic, had a husky quality, with a hint of mischief. I was 14, she was 23. It was the early 70s, and she was a perfect blend of hippie and LA chic. Even her name, spelled with a "y" was cool. She had a flaming temper, though, and you truly never wanted to set that off (though it could be fun to watch when others did!).
Of course, she wasn’t my aunt then. She and my uncle were dating. She had accompanied him, from California to Arizona, to help my mother whose car’s engine had run dry of oil and seized. My uncle set up the appropriate repairs and then returned to California, with Robyn, and with me. It is one of those “times of your life” you never forget.
We left as the sun went down. It was summer and we had to cross the desert--something knowing folk don’t do under blazing sun. We made the trip in my uncle’s ‘63 Cadillac convertible. I can still feel that air as it hit my face and roared over and around my body the whole way. It was the sunburnt air of day being cooled by the ever so slight dampness that arises out of who knows where in the nighttime desert.
I don’t remember how long exactly I stayed with Robyn and my uncle in “the valley,” but it was long enough to change me forever. When I returned to my father’s home in Ohio, I put away my Bobby Sherman and Monkees records, and bought albums: Elton John’s Honky Chateau, the Rolling Stones’ Let It Bleed, and Cat Stevens’ Teaser and the Firecat. And, these were not played on my record player, but on my father’s stereo.
In time Robyn and my uncle did marry and there were other trips and vacations spent with them. There were visits to Malibu Beach, and Magic Mountain, and “the Strip.” The roughly ten year age gap between Robyn and I closed as I got older and we became less adult-teenager, and more adult-young adult, more pals. We did some crazy things--some things we shouldn’t have, some she wouldn’t have if not for me, but she rolled her eyes and giggled when we got away them. Maybe she was recalling her own not so long ago youth.
We did some serious things too. At one point, I decided I wanted to be a magazine editor, and since the magazine I knew best--and had recently “graduated” from--was TigerBeat, we called and made an appointment. She didn’t laugh at me, but instead donned professional attire and took me over the Hollywood Hills to the Highland Avenue office where the editor patiently showed us around her office and explained her routine.
It was also my Aunt Robyn who, as an executive secretary at Paramount Studios, took me around the grounds, popping into a taping of “Little House on the Prairie.” During a break, I met Michael Landon, who I still remember as gracious and kind. He had a ready smile, and a warm and generous handshake.
Eventually, my aunt and uncle went separate ways. I understood the divorce, but was still disappointed. Robyn and I stayed in touch at first. She took me to my first, and only, studio preview--where the studio shows the latest movie for employees. I don’t remember the movie, but I remember the “Wow!’ Aunt Robyn was still cool.
The last time I saw her, my mother and I met her for dinner somewhere off Sunset Boulevard. We sat outdoors, and the rest becomes a blur of mellow wine and laughter. I still hear her gentle laugh in my ear as she hugged me good-bye and kissed my neck. I was a bit annoyed when I found her lipstick on the collar of my satin blouse the next day. It took some doing to get it out. If I’d known this would be our final meeting, I might have just left it.
Earlier this year, Robyn was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. The doctors convinced her to try a round of chemotherapy. The treatment caused a stroke that left her unable to talk or eat--though my uncle told me they could sometimes hear her crying. They didn’t even try to save her, and instead let her starve to death. I do not understand this, but will save discussing the medical industry for later. She was 61. I regret I never told Robyn the impact she made on me, or how much she meant to me, how much I just plain liked her. I guess that’s just how things go. We take things for granted until we lose them--and all we have left are our memories.
Thursday, July 29, 2010
Sunday, April 18, 2010
In Praise of Poetry
April is National Poetry Month, and so, before the month is through, I want to share a couple of my favorites. Both are by e. e. cummings, a writer known for his unconventional punctuation and syntax. Many people are confused by his works--myself included at times. I think he did this on purpose to challenge his reader, and to make them work for the interpretation--to make them invest themselves, and at the same time to make them let themselves go and just intuit the meaning--a sort of “free association” of words, images, emotions, and thoughts.
The first poem is “the greedy the people,” the second is “dive for dreams.” Happy spring!
the greedy the people
the greedy the people
(as if as can yes)
they steal and they buy
and they die for because
though the bell in the steeple
says Why
the chary the wary
(as all as can each)
they don't and they do
and they turn to a which
though the moon in her glory
says Who
the busy the millions
(as you're as can i'm)
they flock and they flee
through a thunder of seem
though the stars in their silence
say Be
the cunning the craven
(as think as can feel)
they when and they how
and they live for until
though the sun in his heaven
says Now
the timid the tender
(as doubt as can trust)
they work and they pray
and they bow to a must
though the earth in her splendor
says May
dive for dreams
dive for dreams
or a slogan may topple you
(trees are their roots
and wind is wind)
trust your heart
if the seas catch fire
(and live by love
though the stars walk backward)
honour the past
but welcome the future
(and dance your death
away at this wedding)
never mind a world
with its villains or heroes
(for god likes girls
and tomorrow and the earth)
The first poem is “the greedy the people,” the second is “dive for dreams.” Happy spring!
the greedy the people
the greedy the people
(as if as can yes)
they steal and they buy
and they die for because
though the bell in the steeple
says Why
the chary the wary
(as all as can each)
they don't and they do
and they turn to a which
though the moon in her glory
says Who
the busy the millions
(as you're as can i'm)
they flock and they flee
through a thunder of seem
though the stars in their silence
say Be
the cunning the craven
(as think as can feel)
they when and they how
and they live for until
though the sun in his heaven
says Now
the timid the tender
(as doubt as can trust)
they work and they pray
and they bow to a must
though the earth in her splendor
says May
dive for dreams
dive for dreams
or a slogan may topple you
(trees are their roots
and wind is wind)
trust your heart
if the seas catch fire
(and live by love
though the stars walk backward)
honour the past
but welcome the future
(and dance your death
away at this wedding)
never mind a world
with its villains or heroes
(for god likes girls
and tomorrow and the earth)
Monday, June 22, 2009
Barbie Turns 50.
My father recently sent me a newspaper clipping celebrating the 50th anniversary of the Barbie doll. It brought back some memories.
My first Barbie doll was a gift from my father’s aunt, Mae. I was going to spend a school break at Aunt Mae’s. She lived in the city, where, unlike my small town, they had toy stores. I had decided I would get her to buy me a Barbie. I had been saving my allowance and planned to contribute it toward the purchase.
In my father’s desk drawer, he always kept a little box labelled “My Two Cents.” It contained two pennies. At the age of six, I didn’t fully understand the meaning of this, but Dad always got a chuckle out of it.
So, when the time came, instead of packing my savings, I packed two pennies. My aunt did not get my joke and was not amused. But she took me to the toy store anyway. She refused to buy me Barbie, though, insisting instead on Barbie’s cousin, Midge. She was more “wholesome,” my aunt explained.
I’m not sure why I even wanted the doll. I was really not a “doll” person. I can only think I must have felt left out when my cousins played with their Barbies--of course they had “real” ones, and Kens, too. There was a decided difference between “baby” dolls and adult dolls, though.
With adult dolls, one could make up stories and dress them in the latest fashions. We would make them zoom around in hot cars and do fun things. They could go on vacations, or to the beach, or just lie around the pool. The possibilities were endless.
With two brothers still in diapers, I found baby dolls much too close to real life. The only story lines available were “mommy” ones--and they came with a lot of work! I have since come to see baby dolls as a societal ruse to train little girls to be mothers. I could maybe forgive this if they were also used to teach little boys to be fathers. But I digress.
The small town I lived in was a rather conservative town, with a decidedly religious population. When I returned from the city with my “Barbie,” folks were wary. Might this be some evil influence in disguise? And none of my friends had one (which should have made me the object of envy, right? But, no . . . . ). And so, Midge, and later, my favorite, Skipper, only got to live in my little dream world, or when we went to the city.
This all changed when one of the teachers at my school created a series of instructional skits. One was designed to show the proper way to brush one’s teeth. It involved a huge set of choppers and an equally large toothbrush. For some reason--maybe to play the germs and bacteria?--they decided small dolls would be the perfect thing. But the only dolls anyone had were baby dolls. And then someone remembered my Barbies. The teacher called my mother, and Midge and Skipper finally got their moment in the spotlight. The ice was broken. My Barbies were no longer contraband.
In the end, my Aunt Mae gave me quite the gift. Now, forty-five years later, Midge dolls are rather rare--and that makes them worth a fairly pretty penny. Not a bad purchase--for my two cents!
My first Barbie doll was a gift from my father’s aunt, Mae. I was going to spend a school break at Aunt Mae’s. She lived in the city, where, unlike my small town, they had toy stores. I had decided I would get her to buy me a Barbie. I had been saving my allowance and planned to contribute it toward the purchase.
In my father’s desk drawer, he always kept a little box labelled “My Two Cents.” It contained two pennies. At the age of six, I didn’t fully understand the meaning of this, but Dad always got a chuckle out of it.
So, when the time came, instead of packing my savings, I packed two pennies. My aunt did not get my joke and was not amused. But she took me to the toy store anyway. She refused to buy me Barbie, though, insisting instead on Barbie’s cousin, Midge. She was more “wholesome,” my aunt explained.
I’m not sure why I even wanted the doll. I was really not a “doll” person. I can only think I must have felt left out when my cousins played with their Barbies--of course they had “real” ones, and Kens, too. There was a decided difference between “baby” dolls and adult dolls, though.
With adult dolls, one could make up stories and dress them in the latest fashions. We would make them zoom around in hot cars and do fun things. They could go on vacations, or to the beach, or just lie around the pool. The possibilities were endless.
With two brothers still in diapers, I found baby dolls much too close to real life. The only story lines available were “mommy” ones--and they came with a lot of work! I have since come to see baby dolls as a societal ruse to train little girls to be mothers. I could maybe forgive this if they were also used to teach little boys to be fathers. But I digress.
The small town I lived in was a rather conservative town, with a decidedly religious population. When I returned from the city with my “Barbie,” folks were wary. Might this be some evil influence in disguise? And none of my friends had one (which should have made me the object of envy, right? But, no . . . . ). And so, Midge, and later, my favorite, Skipper, only got to live in my little dream world, or when we went to the city.
This all changed when one of the teachers at my school created a series of instructional skits. One was designed to show the proper way to brush one’s teeth. It involved a huge set of choppers and an equally large toothbrush. For some reason--maybe to play the germs and bacteria?--they decided small dolls would be the perfect thing. But the only dolls anyone had were baby dolls. And then someone remembered my Barbies. The teacher called my mother, and Midge and Skipper finally got their moment in the spotlight. The ice was broken. My Barbies were no longer contraband.
In the end, my Aunt Mae gave me quite the gift. Now, forty-five years later, Midge dolls are rather rare--and that makes them worth a fairly pretty penny. Not a bad purchase--for my two cents!
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
The art of procrastination
For at least a week now, I have managed to put off vacuuming the kitchen floor. I’ve used legitimate excuses--appointments, writing deadlines, the piles of sorted laundry that cover it--and just plain flimsy ones--don’t want to disturb the sleeping cat, can’t put down the crossword puzzle.
I have even scrubbed the showers, sinks, and toilets to get out of doing that floor!
And yet, this morning, faced with writing this column, I vacuumed the kitchen floor--despite the piles of laundry, despite the sleeping cat, despite the crossword puzzle (in truth, there’s a fair stack of them). I’m not sure what it says about me, or about any of us, but clearly, when given choices, we have certain preferences that defy even our own logic.
To an avowed efficiency maven, like myself, it would have made more sense to do the laundry first, and I have a separate list of excuses for procrastinating on that. (I don’t like leaving wet laundry n the machine, and don’t want to dry it until I have time to fold it, and I won’t have time to fold it until I get this column off to the editor . . . .)
In terms of real life priorities, with no emergencies on the front--no illness, no flood, no fire--work, hence this column, should be pretty high on the list. So why am I stalling? Could it be a lack of inspiration? Perhaps. I didn’t really wake up with something I just had to get off my chest.
But inspiration is such a fickle thing. It comes and goes on its own whim. If I were to always await inspiration, I would write less often, and in different genres, more for myself, less for publication--not conducive to making a living.
Maybe I was inspired to vacuum the floor! No, that wasn’t it. While I do find occasionally find myself bitten by the cleaning bug--that isn’t so much inspiration as it is nesting impulse, or repulsion to mess, or a way to work out frustration.
I suppose I could be rebelling--against obligation, against the authority that demands I produce something, even when I’m not totally inspired.
Maybe I’m peeved at inspiration itself for abandoning me, leaving me to my own devices.
It’s ironic to me though that procrastination in one area breaks the procrastination in another. I suppose the best I can do is try to harvest that energy--and come up with a list of truly loathsome chores to help me buckle down to the ones I’m putting off while writing this column.
I have even scrubbed the showers, sinks, and toilets to get out of doing that floor!
And yet, this morning, faced with writing this column, I vacuumed the kitchen floor--despite the piles of laundry, despite the sleeping cat, despite the crossword puzzle (in truth, there’s a fair stack of them). I’m not sure what it says about me, or about any of us, but clearly, when given choices, we have certain preferences that defy even our own logic.
To an avowed efficiency maven, like myself, it would have made more sense to do the laundry first, and I have a separate list of excuses for procrastinating on that. (I don’t like leaving wet laundry n the machine, and don’t want to dry it until I have time to fold it, and I won’t have time to fold it until I get this column off to the editor . . . .)
In terms of real life priorities, with no emergencies on the front--no illness, no flood, no fire--work, hence this column, should be pretty high on the list. So why am I stalling? Could it be a lack of inspiration? Perhaps. I didn’t really wake up with something I just had to get off my chest.
But inspiration is such a fickle thing. It comes and goes on its own whim. If I were to always await inspiration, I would write less often, and in different genres, more for myself, less for publication--not conducive to making a living.
Maybe I was inspired to vacuum the floor! No, that wasn’t it. While I do find occasionally find myself bitten by the cleaning bug--that isn’t so much inspiration as it is nesting impulse, or repulsion to mess, or a way to work out frustration.
I suppose I could be rebelling--against obligation, against the authority that demands I produce something, even when I’m not totally inspired.
Maybe I’m peeved at inspiration itself for abandoning me, leaving me to my own devices.
It’s ironic to me though that procrastination in one area breaks the procrastination in another. I suppose the best I can do is try to harvest that energy--and come up with a list of truly loathsome chores to help me buckle down to the ones I’m putting off while writing this column.
Tuesday, December 02, 2008
Holiday Hurry.
'Tis the Season for turkeys. I’m not talking about the steaming basted birds served with dressing and sweet potatoes. I’m talking about the ones you find in the car that just cut you off in the turn lane, or the ones you encounter blocking the aisles in the grocery store, and in long lines at banks and post offices.
It never ceases to amaze me how the season devoted to gratitude and good will toward men instead brings out the baser side of humanity.
Just today, in an hour’s worth of errands, I witnessed two near accidents--caused by people in a hurry. One man just had to be first in line when the road narrowed to one lane and zipped around the car he was tailing, passing on the left and then cutting back in front of the car he passed. The accident almost happened when he nearly collided with a car turning into the lane from the other side.
The second near accident happened when a woman made a turn into traffic, causing another driver to slam on their brakes because there had not been enough room for the first woman to enter the lane in the first place. Undaunted, the first woman then pulled into the next lane, again causing the sudden breaking of, in fact, three cars, so that she could make a left-hand turn into the grocery store. Halfway through the turn, she finally signaled.
What kills me about such moves is these people who are in such a hurry surely can’t be saving themselves any amount of time that would make it worth the accident if it were to happen. Or even a ticket. And that’s just accounting for the time involved, not the money it could cost, or the potential injury and pain. The adage “haste makes waste” springs to mind.
I am not immune to the pitfalls of holiday rush syndrome, but I find that when I rush, I get distracted, I forget things and I’m more apt to make mistakes. I also find myself yelling and cursing at the other turkeys on the road, or in my way, and by the time I get to where I’m going, my mood is foul.
If I encounter a bothersome person in a store, or at the post office, I can turn a bit nasty and rude myself. This does not make me happy. When I return to a calmer “place,” I usually regret my behavior. I feel bad about myself, and I’ve vented on a stranger who’s probably just as frustrated as I am, maybe more. And this is the time of year we are supposed to spread cheer!
To combat the "syndrome," I have instated a “house rule.” When I am in a hurry, I actually make myself slow down. It’s the old count to ten, take a deep breath thing.
And so, my wish for the holiday season is that people will join me in deliberately fighting the urge to rush. No shopping, no party, no anything is worth the stress and grief and anxiety.
Remember the reason for the season, and do unto others as you would have done unto you. Give others the benefit of the doubt. Let them into the stream of traffic if it’s busy, or you can see they’re having trouble. Smile and hold the door for the folks behind you--even if it means they’ll end up in front of you in a line somewhere. Stop and help the person struggling through the post office door with a load of boxes.
Above all, keep your head as you drive. Use your signals, and check your road rage.
Courtesy can be its own reward. Use the slower pace to take in the sights and sounds of the holidays. Take a moment to observe the people around you, to connect with them, and truly share in the reason for the season--promotion of holiday cheer and good will toward others. And who knows, the life you save may be your own!
It never ceases to amaze me how the season devoted to gratitude and good will toward men instead brings out the baser side of humanity.
Just today, in an hour’s worth of errands, I witnessed two near accidents--caused by people in a hurry. One man just had to be first in line when the road narrowed to one lane and zipped around the car he was tailing, passing on the left and then cutting back in front of the car he passed. The accident almost happened when he nearly collided with a car turning into the lane from the other side.
The second near accident happened when a woman made a turn into traffic, causing another driver to slam on their brakes because there had not been enough room for the first woman to enter the lane in the first place. Undaunted, the first woman then pulled into the next lane, again causing the sudden breaking of, in fact, three cars, so that she could make a left-hand turn into the grocery store. Halfway through the turn, she finally signaled.
What kills me about such moves is these people who are in such a hurry surely can’t be saving themselves any amount of time that would make it worth the accident if it were to happen. Or even a ticket. And that’s just accounting for the time involved, not the money it could cost, or the potential injury and pain. The adage “haste makes waste” springs to mind.
I am not immune to the pitfalls of holiday rush syndrome, but I find that when I rush, I get distracted, I forget things and I’m more apt to make mistakes. I also find myself yelling and cursing at the other turkeys on the road, or in my way, and by the time I get to where I’m going, my mood is foul.
If I encounter a bothersome person in a store, or at the post office, I can turn a bit nasty and rude myself. This does not make me happy. When I return to a calmer “place,” I usually regret my behavior. I feel bad about myself, and I’ve vented on a stranger who’s probably just as frustrated as I am, maybe more. And this is the time of year we are supposed to spread cheer!
To combat the "syndrome," I have instated a “house rule.” When I am in a hurry, I actually make myself slow down. It’s the old count to ten, take a deep breath thing.
And so, my wish for the holiday season is that people will join me in deliberately fighting the urge to rush. No shopping, no party, no anything is worth the stress and grief and anxiety.
Remember the reason for the season, and do unto others as you would have done unto you. Give others the benefit of the doubt. Let them into the stream of traffic if it’s busy, or you can see they’re having trouble. Smile and hold the door for the folks behind you--even if it means they’ll end up in front of you in a line somewhere. Stop and help the person struggling through the post office door with a load of boxes.
Above all, keep your head as you drive. Use your signals, and check your road rage.
Courtesy can be its own reward. Use the slower pace to take in the sights and sounds of the holidays. Take a moment to observe the people around you, to connect with them, and truly share in the reason for the season--promotion of holiday cheer and good will toward others. And who knows, the life you save may be your own!
Thursday, November 20, 2008
By the people, and for the people.
In his acceptance speech, Barack Obama called his election a victory for the people. I think he hit the nail on the head.
As television broadcasts began to show people lining up across the country, waiting for their chance to vote, I couldn’t help feeling exhilarated--not for the impending change of political party, but for the fact that people were getting off their apathies and claiming their power. This government is of the people, after all, and they finally stepped up to the plate and carried out their responsibility.
As throngs filed into Grant Park in support of Obama, something I can only call pride welled up inside me. It was a truly moving sight seeing so many people come together--and peacefully. It was an historic moment, and these people knew it.
I was impressed by John McCain's concession speech too. I felt I was seeing the real McCain for the first time in the presidential campaign. He was humble. He was honest. It was as if even he was moved by the change that had come over America--a change he too wants, but couldn't bring about. As I watched him deliver his speech, I couldn’t help wonder what might have happened if he had just been himself.
Pundits opined that McCain’s age was his undoing. I suppose it was, but not in the way they mean. I think 72 is young enough to govern--my grandfather at 95 could have done the job. But the country changed the game on McCain--and his old guard methods couldn’t cut the muster. People have tired of pithy sound bites, and the smear tactics that kept him from his dream eight years ago worked against him in the new game. He was left baffled and unable to adapt.
McCain told his supporters that his loss was not their failure, but his. I do not agree with him. I think, in the final analysis, the failure was George Bush’s. A sign held up in Times Square said as much: BUSH YOU'RE FIRED.
Personally, I do not agree with all of Barack Obama’s ideas, but I am impressed at the thoroughness of his thought, by his sincerity, and by his overall aplomb. I am tired of living under fear. If he can change that, he has my support. Oprah wore a tee shirt reading “HOPE WON.” I can’t say it any better myself.
As television broadcasts began to show people lining up across the country, waiting for their chance to vote, I couldn’t help feeling exhilarated--not for the impending change of political party, but for the fact that people were getting off their apathies and claiming their power. This government is of the people, after all, and they finally stepped up to the plate and carried out their responsibility.
As throngs filed into Grant Park in support of Obama, something I can only call pride welled up inside me. It was a truly moving sight seeing so many people come together--and peacefully. It was an historic moment, and these people knew it.
I was impressed by John McCain's concession speech too. I felt I was seeing the real McCain for the first time in the presidential campaign. He was humble. He was honest. It was as if even he was moved by the change that had come over America--a change he too wants, but couldn't bring about. As I watched him deliver his speech, I couldn’t help wonder what might have happened if he had just been himself.
Pundits opined that McCain’s age was his undoing. I suppose it was, but not in the way they mean. I think 72 is young enough to govern--my grandfather at 95 could have done the job. But the country changed the game on McCain--and his old guard methods couldn’t cut the muster. People have tired of pithy sound bites, and the smear tactics that kept him from his dream eight years ago worked against him in the new game. He was left baffled and unable to adapt.
McCain told his supporters that his loss was not their failure, but his. I do not agree with him. I think, in the final analysis, the failure was George Bush’s. A sign held up in Times Square said as much: BUSH YOU'RE FIRED.
Personally, I do not agree with all of Barack Obama’s ideas, but I am impressed at the thoroughness of his thought, by his sincerity, and by his overall aplomb. I am tired of living under fear. If he can change that, he has my support. Oprah wore a tee shirt reading “HOPE WON.” I can’t say it any better myself.
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
It’s the Berries!
It never ceases to amaze me how inspiring it can be to get out of one’s own little world--and how little it takes to do so. The lesson was driven home once again as I attended Cranberry Harvest Days at DeGrandchamp Farms, in South Haven.
I couldn’t have asked for a more beautiful day. It was sunny and clear, not too warm, not too cold. The sky was the color that gives meaning to the term “blue sky”--and it was dotted with white fluffy clouds.
I had a nice easy drive north from Berrien County. Interstate 96 is a smooth highway, and scenic (Red Arrow Highway isn’t so smooth, but it too is scenic, and I took it all the way through St. Joseph to Hagar Shores Road before cutting over to the freeway.). There wasn’t a ton of traffic, so the trip was not stressful. In fact, it was relaxing. A good start.
Once I arrived at the farm. I fell right in line and started to learn about the growing, harvesting, and processing of the berries. Fascinating! And all those red berries!
I admire the way the family--four siblings--has divided the labor, working together, yet separately, with a common purpose, but not in each other's way.
I especially enjoyed going out to the cranberry beds to watch the harvest. In talking to the DeGrandchamps, I was reminded of histories I already knew--about the cranberries harvested in Grand Mere, and of the cranberries that grow wild still in Mud Lake Bog, alongside their cousins, wild blueberries.
I was reminded, again, how special this area is--geologically, and geographically, and climactically.
I learned that Wisconsin was able to surpass Massachusetts in cranberry production for one reason, and one reason only: it had not developed its farmland. It is a lesson I hope this region learns--and before it’s too late, before it sacrifices its geologic, geographic, and climactic uniqueness for real estate's promises.
DeGrandchamp Farms is proving there are other ways to be profitable. They have a thriving business that fills a necessary role in providing food, and they are creating a destination, and an event, where people can enjoy learning about something new, where they can get some fresh air, and let go their daily grind.
I, of course, also took the opportunity to stock up on (locally produced!) cranberries--dried to put in my oatmeal and cookies, and fresh for making sauce. I also discovered chocolate covered cranberries, sure to become a new habit.
All in all, the experience was invigorating. It’s not too late for folks to visit the store (where they have blueberry stuffs too), but I highly recommend Harvest Days--the first Saturday in October--and have already put it on my 2009 calendar.
I couldn’t have asked for a more beautiful day. It was sunny and clear, not too warm, not too cold. The sky was the color that gives meaning to the term “blue sky”--and it was dotted with white fluffy clouds.
I had a nice easy drive north from Berrien County. Interstate 96 is a smooth highway, and scenic (Red Arrow Highway isn’t so smooth, but it too is scenic, and I took it all the way through St. Joseph to Hagar Shores Road before cutting over to the freeway.). There wasn’t a ton of traffic, so the trip was not stressful. In fact, it was relaxing. A good start.
Once I arrived at the farm. I fell right in line and started to learn about the growing, harvesting, and processing of the berries. Fascinating! And all those red berries!
I admire the way the family--four siblings--has divided the labor, working together, yet separately, with a common purpose, but not in each other's way.
I especially enjoyed going out to the cranberry beds to watch the harvest. In talking to the DeGrandchamps, I was reminded of histories I already knew--about the cranberries harvested in Grand Mere, and of the cranberries that grow wild still in Mud Lake Bog, alongside their cousins, wild blueberries.
I was reminded, again, how special this area is--geologically, and geographically, and climactically.
I learned that Wisconsin was able to surpass Massachusetts in cranberry production for one reason, and one reason only: it had not developed its farmland. It is a lesson I hope this region learns--and before it’s too late, before it sacrifices its geologic, geographic, and climactic uniqueness for real estate's promises.
DeGrandchamp Farms is proving there are other ways to be profitable. They have a thriving business that fills a necessary role in providing food, and they are creating a destination, and an event, where people can enjoy learning about something new, where they can get some fresh air, and let go their daily grind.
I, of course, also took the opportunity to stock up on (locally produced!) cranberries--dried to put in my oatmeal and cookies, and fresh for making sauce. I also discovered chocolate covered cranberries, sure to become a new habit.
All in all, the experience was invigorating. It’s not too late for folks to visit the store (where they have blueberry stuffs too), but I highly recommend Harvest Days--the first Saturday in October--and have already put it on my 2009 calendar.
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