A Half Bushel of Beets

I am back [from Pennsylvania Dutch Country] with 1/2 bushel of red beets. A young Amish farmer had his “red beet” sign out, and when I perceived his hardship, his youth, etc., I felt I couldn’t buy less than $5. I tried to talk him into giving me less for the same money, but he was determined to give me full measure. I hadn’t realized he didn’t have the beets harvested and would have to pull them as we watched.

He is having a difficult time as a dairy farmer. No matter what price the grocer puts on it in the store, he always gets the same paltry amount for his milk. He had a full dark beard, rosy cheeks, and a constant full smile. His clothesline was filled with baby clothes--at least three toddlers and an infant, judging from the sizes. Karen [Athay] was laughing at me all the way home for my half bushel of beets, even though she was ready to hand him $20 herself.

Rain and Wind

I went to graduate school in New York City, and my mother used to come and visit us there, in our one-bedroom apartment on Tiemann Place just off of Riverside Drive, a block from the Cotton Club and 125th Street in Harlem. When we first told her we'd found a place, she had visions of a tiny, dirty apartment in a dingy building, and we did nothing to disabuse that notion. She arrived in due time, armed with mops and scrub brushes and ready to do battle with filth and vermin, only to discover she'd be had: our apartment there was clean and spacious, with plenty of light through large windows facing south and west.

I share the following brief excerpt because it demonstrates her gift for words. Notice her attention to the sounds of a place. In just a few lines, she takes me right back to New York City, years ago, on a night of wind and rain ...

Dec. 2, 1996

Dear Peter,

It poured rain all Saturday night and into Sunday. Rain and wind. New York City is quiet in bad weather. Few sirens and car alarms. Only the subway train whooshing by in the night and the sound of the rain beating against the windows.

Moved to Mars

My mother taught me a love of new places and new experiences. But that doesn't mean transitions were always easy for her. She wrote the following shortly after a move to Ellicott City, Maryland, from Highland, Utah, where we'd lived for many years. What I see in it is her determination to find what is good and beautiful and interesting in this new place, far from friends and family. Before the move, I remember her reading maps, articles, and everything else about Maryland she could get her hands on. I think she was determined to try and get us excited about this big--and potentially disruptive--move, and even to persuade herself. In the end, Maryland became very much home for her, in so many ways, and she deeply loved the house and yard there on Wild Filly Court and so many new friends who came into our lives.

June 1, 1987

Dear Ones,

In some ways I feel we’ve moved to Mars. We are so far from anyone familiar, and the world around us is so different. We remember you all in our prayers, and that is our tie to home.

* * * *

We took a walk after Church along the Patapsco River. We walked through a tunnel of huge, green trees, and the undergrowth was filled with wild roses, blackberries, ferns, wild rhododendron (that’s what it looked like to me), and even some grapes. Tangles of vines and some honeysuckle climb the trees and bushes. All the growth kills noise—except for the bird songs. It was like the Pagsanhan River in the Phillipines, except the trees and plants weren’t tropical. They were just as green. There were lots of irridescent bugs around—greens and blues. The trail we walked on used to be brick or cobblestoned, but it was crumbling and covered with years of dirt. We saw an old, moss-covered chimney and wondered how old it was. It appeared that in the very old days some homes were built along the river. I’m sure it was used for transportation. It must have been difficult to cut roads through these forests. If all the people here now were to leave, it wouldn’t be long until all trace of us would disappear too.

Thunderstorm Days

In the early 1960s, my mother served a full-time volunteer mission for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints (Mormon Church), in what was then called the Greater Far East Mission. She served for roughly six months in Hong Kong, and then spent the remaining eighteen months of her mission in of the Phillipines. Her voice was younger then, but unmistakable.

July 19, 1964

How I’ve loved the rides along Highway 54—especially on the thunderstorm days of July! The skies, the countryside—everything—seems to feed my imagination with all sorts of beauty, rest, or excitement, depending on my mood and theirs. These days, the sky to the South is exciting, piled high with thunderstorms or black, with white, whispy clouds swirling along close to the ground. The flat land above the highway reminds me of what I would imagine a misty England scene to be on a rainy day—all lush green under a dripping sky with patches of darker green where thickets of bamboo or pampas grass have sprung up. A few thin Brahma cattle generally graze there alongside a caribou or two. It’s strange to see such bony cattle in the midst of what looks like abundance. (Reminds me of the 7 lean cattle in Pharoah’s dream.) I used to wonder if they all had worms, but, apparently, it’s just a matter of the wrong kind of grass.

Rain means suffocation in the back of the bus. All the wooden windows bang up, and the breezes stop, but the smoking goes on, regardless. No more thoughts of a misty English countryside. Mid-bus is a fair place to be this time of year. There’s but a sparking rain curtain over the door that waves in the wind and occasionally draws aside to give us a few of the floods outside or splash us all—love it.

Singing in a Dark World

From a letter to my brother Peter, who at the time was serving a Mormon mission in eastern Germany.

February 4, 1999

I have just been listening to Katie's high school choir concert on tape. She would love to send you a copy. Here are the words to one of their songs (written by a Jewish prisoner in Germany in World War II):

I believe in the sun, even when it is not shining.
And I believe in Love, even when there's no one there.
And I believe in God, even when He is silent.
I believe through any trial, there is always a way.

But sometimes in this suffering and hopeless despair
My heart cries for shelter to know someone's there.
But a voice rises within me saying, "Hold on, my child.
I'll give you strength; I'll give you hope.
Just stay a little while."

I believe in the sun, even when it is not shining.
And I believe in love, even when there's no one there.
And I believe in God, even when He is silent!
I believe through any trial, there is always a way.

May there someday be sunshine.
May there someday be happiness.
May there someday be love.
May there someday be peace.

The music for these words is magnificent. The kids raised the roof with it. They also sang, "Didn't my Lord deliver Daniel? Yes he did! Didn't my Lord deliver Daniel? Yes he did! Then why not every man?!" Many of their songs had religious substance to them. These youth are singing their hearts out in a pretty dark world.

More Work Than Miracle

[During a church service in Manhattan,] the bishop announced that we would be treated to Polonaise in A Flat Major by Chopin. Unusual for sacrament meeting, unheard of for testimony meeting. Then a tiny blonde girl 8 years old stood up to play it. She disappeared onto the piano bench. They lifted the lid on the beautiful Manhattan Ward grand piano and then--wow!--we heard Chopin. Katie and I wondered if some adult with large shoulders and big hands had crawled back there to trick us. She was wonderful--beautiful phrases, sparkling music. We thought she was some NYC protege but learned afterward that she is from Salt Lake City, taught by her mother, had gone to a piano competition in Texas and won the opportunity to go to New York City to perform at Carnegie Hall. Her 10 year old sister had done the same thing two years before. She gets up at 5:30 to practice and averages 4 hours per day when preparing for competition. The mother has no degree in music but played from the time she was 5. She studied music after she was married for two years at the University of Utah. Beautiful young mother. Every phrase of that music had been carefully and beautifully practiced. More work than miracle, as always.

Garden Notes ...

Nearing the end of her life, my Mom's garden and compost pile were something to behold. She took such good care of the soil that it felt like damp sponge when we walked on it. In the Spring, the flowers and vegetables would rocket skyward.

July 21, 1995

Ben and I planted bare-root tomatoes at the side of the house, and even though we’ve planted tomatoes on the same spot for nearly eight years, they look pretty good. I think it’s time to rotate, though. I planted two fig trees there this year. Four little figs are forming. I had a beautiful clump of squash growing on the corner of that garden until some wild animal came in the night and nibbled away all the youngest and greenest leaves and quite a few of the blossoms. I think it was a wood chuck. It also ate most of the pole beans that had begun to climb in the other garden. This morning, I bought 4 lbs of dried blood and scattered it around all the plants in hopes that all the wild rabbits would have nightmares when they smelled it and leave our plants alone.

I am in my blue phase. I love blue and white dishes, blue clothes, blue and purple flowers. The dark blue lobelia in front is a perfect color. I am also in a garden phase. I keep thinking of Grantma Groen and wishing I could walk around her garden again. I would learn something. I am remembering many of the plants she had there and wanting to duplicate them in my own yard. I am haunting the garden section of Borders book store and would like to buy three $30 books and one $50 book. So far, I’ve resisted. Perennials are so expensive in the nurseries here that I am in complete sympathy with Grantma’s theft. I would love to dig them in the wild but conservationists have made even that a guilt trip for me. I want to learn more about propagating plants and building soil. My compost pile is almost as interesting as the wildflower garden. I look at it every morning and imagine the wonders it will produce in the garden next year.