stuff in The kitchen … My kitchen, where treasure is … heart will be also
Got up this morning to make a pie and I got to thinking.
I was using my rolling pin that I have had for years and I posted a photo it on facebook with the question, “Name something in my kitchen that hasn’t been washed in 35 years.”
What did I mean actually by saying ‘my kitchen’?
Did anyone in literature every write a better sentence on kitchen’s than EB White did in Charlotte’s Web when he wrote, “The kitchen table was set for breakfast, and the room smelled of coffee, bacon, damp plaster, and wood smoke from the stove.”
And I thought about kitchen’s in time past for myself.
My Mom lived in the same house in Grand Rapids, Michigan for over 50 years.
I can still say the phone number that started 363 (or if you are really old, EM3 when the city used ‘exchanges’).
There was a kitchen that was the heart and soul of a family.
As there were 11 kids in our family, the kitchen was huge.
Had a island with a 4 electric burners AND a metal surfaced prep counter that by itself was a big as most kitchen islands today.
They was a butcher block ‘sandwich’ counter at one end of this vast wrap around counter that turned into a breakfast area with kitchen stools on one side and then the dining room table that you could land a plane on.
Mom’s kitchen was quirky.
Mom had wooden bread box and the side that opened had a hair trigger.
If it slipped when you opened it, or sometimes all on its on, that side would fall fast and smack the counter with a band like a gun shot and made everyone jump.
The oven, somehow, gave off a AM Radio signal.
If you were in the car and someone was listening to a ball game on the radio, when you pulled into the garage, the radio would start giving off this low buzz buzz buzz and you know something was in the overn.
In her later years when she got a little forgetful, I would often drive over to see her and hear that sound and know that I should go in to turn the oven off for her.
Not hard to visualize Mom on an almost daily basis (Wednesday was prayer meeting so to give my a break that was night we went to McDonalds. Back then we ate in the car and two of the older boys would walk to the window to place the order. They would come back with a tray of drinks and hand to Mom who would then take a sip and say Coke Coke Root beer and pass them out. My brother Pete and I got out this by ordering the Orange Drink.)
She would take a break from the never ending laundry and walk into the kitchen and start frying up pans and pans of pork chops or stir and giant kettle of spaghetti sauce or peel the 10lbs of potatoes she would need for the evening meal.
In one corner of the kitchen was a tall under the counter cabinet.
It was in there that Mom kept the 10 different kinds of cereal we demanded.
Cheerios, Frosted Flakes, Sugar Crisp and Cap’n Crunch.
The Cap’n Crunch was for Dad who liked to sprinkle a handful on his vanilla ice cream.
Then over under the butcher block counter top was a giant two drawer cabinet known as the ‘cookie drawer’ where every kind of cracker, cookie and snack anyone ever heard of was kept.
As we were Dutch, there was always a box of Rusk.
An old friend of mine named Gordon Olson once said he never doubted the business acumen of the Dutch as there were able to sell boxes of stale bread by calling it rusk.
Almost more than the contents of the cookie drawer, what I remember was how the Grand kids eyes would go big whenever they discover Grandma’s Cookies.
They would stand there and almost cry as it was so hard to make a choice of ‘just one’.
Come Thanksgiving Day, Mom and the kitchen when into high gear and enough food to last Laura Ingalls Wilder’s family in their little house in the big woods through the entire winter.
Pots and pans and baking sheets piled up.
Food piled up.
Plates and glasses piled up.
That, folks, was a kitchen!
I realized that there is a big difference between ‘the kitchen’ where you live and ‘my kitchen’ which means more, ‘What’ not ‘Where’.
In the short story, “The Man Who Gave Up His Name”, Jim Harrison writes that the man in question had “In the trunk there was one suitcase, one box of books, and one box of assorted cooking equipment he could not bear to part with in his urge to travel light.”
One box of assorted cooking equipment he could not bear to part with.
That, for me, up what I mean when I say, My Kitchen.
I am happy to say that my box of cooking equipment includes utensils from my Mom’s kitchen.
We have lived in a dozen different homes since getting married and the The Kitchen always changes.
But in that kitchen, I will spread out the one box of assorted cooking equipment I could not bear to part with and once again, I am in my kitchen.
I am reminded of the Bible verse at Matthew 6:21, that says, “For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.”
For me, where my rolling pin in, there MY kitchen will be also.
60 miles of beach no people and no dwellings just beach and water
If you take out your Rand McNally you’ll note that the Upper Peninsula is a long piece of land, over 300 miles, and thickish in places.
It is about 30 percent of Michigan’s land mass but contains only 3 percent of its population.
Growing up in northern Michigan I was early on mystified by the Upper Peninsula even before I traveled there.
In the 1960s I went up a number of times, and it did not cease to mystify me with its wildness.
While camping I would study maps to try to figure out where I was other than within a cloud of mosquitoes and black flies, that irritating species that depends on clean water, of which there is a great deal in the U.P.
There is little or no industry; therefore you could drink the water directly from Lake Superior — at least I always did on my long beach walks.
There was a place near Grand Marais of nearly 60 miles of undisturbed beach, no people, no dwellings, just beach and water.
Climbing on Miner’s Castle near 12 Mile Beach, when climbing was allowed and it had two towers – me in the gold shirt and bell bottom jeans …
If you grew up in the State of Michigan’s lower peninsula or lower half (a designation that led to directions to the town of Gaylord … in upper lower Michigan) at some point your family most likely made a trip to the UP.
My family went often.
Drive across the Mackinac Bridge and up to the Soo and then left over into the wild that was upper Michigan and the Lake Superior shore.
We were all early on mystified by the Upper Peninsula and we weren’t quite sure what the UP was, as what it was, was mostly old or older, as if the 1950’s never stopped.
I could tell lots of stories of the UP with me as a kid or with me as a parent.
I could tell how fun it was to climb all over the Tahquamenon Falls when I was a kid and marvel at the lack of protective railings and at the same time tell you stories about being a parent and being grateful someone finally put some protective railings along the Tahquamenon Falls.
But the story on my mind is of the last trip I took with my parents and little brothers.
As it seems to me that it was me and my brothers Steve and Al, (Pete had a summer job and a girlfriend so he stayed home) and Mom and Dad.
I probably was about 17 and it was the last summer trip I went on with my parents.
It was the usual trip over the Mackinaw Bridge and then Paradise, White Fish Point then on to maybe Newberry and Seney and Grand Marais and Munising.
We got to Grand Marais and had dinner and stayed in a motel there overnight and had breakfast also in Grand Marais which more or less used up the dining options for Grand Marais.
Dad spotted an IGA Grocery store and put forward the idea that he could grab some cold cuts and a loaf of bread and some pop and we could have a picnic lunch at 12 Mile Beach on the shore of Lake Superior.
Mom said okay and we stopped at the IGA and Dad offered to run in and grab the food and Mom was happy to let him go and wait in the car, which she should have known better or maybe did know better but by that time in their relationship, she didn’t care anymore.
I can’t remember if I waited in the car or went in the grocery store to watch but in about 10 minutes Dad came out with two full grocery bags (there were, you recall, 5 people on this trip) which he put in the trunk.
Dad got in and we drove off and Mom asks, “What in the world did you get?”
“Just a little lunch,” was all Dad said.
We found 12 Mile Beach and drove into the park and Dad spotted a picnic table on the sand where it looked like the black flies wouldn’t be too bad and we parked and Dad unpacked his little lunch.
First he had a bought big table covering and plastic plates and silverware and cups.
I mean who wants to eat off a picnic table top.
Then he set out two or three loaves of bread (White, Wheat and Rye).
And a full pound of butter.
And a selection of of least 3 different cheeses (one was an unsliced big block of cheese, so he also bought a carving knife) and lots of different meats – Turkey, Ham, Roast Beef and I think an old fashioned ring baloney.
These were NOT the machine packed cold cuts of today, but sliced to order deli meat wrapped in white paper.
And he got out a jar of mayonnaise and two types of mustard.
I think there were two kinds of chips and there were crackers (for the cheese) and a bag of apples and a bag of oranges.
The store must not have had any watermelons or he would have bought one.
He got a gallon of milk and a case of Coke.
Mom watched and helped spread out this bounty.
Then there were the specials.
Dad was a sucker for small grocery stores and the local goodies they often sold.
Seems like there was small jar of pickled herring and a bag of Trenary Toast and two cold UP pasty’s wrapped up in paper and some fresh potato salad and maybe some cold pickled eggs.
So we sat down to eat.
Mom had us make our own sandwiches and offered up the chips and other sides.
Watching Dad make a sandwich was to watch an artist at work.
He once told me that he learned how to dress a plate by watching Army Cooks get dinner ready for the Generals in his unit during World War 2.
I do know from his letters home that he and the Doctor that made up the Medical Team assigned to the Headquarters Unit of the 12 Corps (Spearhead of Patton’s Third) would often find time to INSPECT the Generals’ mess just before dinner and the Generals’ Cook took good care of them – My Dad famously gained weight in the Army).
When Dad made his sandwich he would select his bread and lay it out just so, then the mayo and the butter and then the layers of meat and cheese and the sandwich would be assembled.
Then, and my brother Bobby said this was the magic part, Dad would take the biggest knife he could find and with the precision and grace of a surgeon, he would cut the sandwich into four triangles.
Bobby said watching Dad make a sandwich with ring baloney and a giant butcher knife was like watching a magician – cut – swoop – spread – cut and POOF – a baloney sandwich in bite sized pieces for little kids.
Using the tip of the knife, he would pick up each triangle of sandwich and move it over to his plate where the triangles would be arranged in an arty pattern.
Then potato salad would be added to the arrangement on the plate and chips and fruit all in the way that somehow made you hungry just to look at it.
Dad took as much satisfaction in the creation of the plate as he did in eating all the food on his plate.
And he enjoyed eating, boy, howdy!
And we ate.
And ate until we were just nibbling on fruit and chips to fill in the edges.
That’s when Mom surveyed the table and pointed out we were on 12 mile beach in the UP, miles from anywhere, with no cooler or anything like that, and asked so what did Dad plan to do with all this food, Mom wanted to know.
It seems like Dad, after thoroughly enjoying the food as well as the success of his picnic idea, just smiled and shrugged as Mom looked him in the eye and shook her head.
So we packed up best we could and Dad loaded the grocery bags back into the trunk and we started off.
We drove about mile through the park, past the park campground and there ahead of was a couple of Park Rangers and a young lady who was visibly distraught.
We slowed to stop as they were standing in the road by the Park Ranger’s jeep.
Dad’s window was open and one of the Park Rangers explained that the young lady had driven to the park and set up her tent and had been met by some friends and as these things will happen, the friends had just driven off with the young lady’s coat in their car.
The problem was the young lady’s car keys were in coat.
At this point, the visibly distraught young lady spotted Mom and saw a sympathetic face so she came over to the other car window to talk to Mom.
Mom had that effect on a lot of people.
The young lady had her tent all set up and was set camp wise but she couldn’t get in her car.
She pointed to her tent over in the campground, next to a picnic table.
She said she and her friends had driven over to the swimming beach and she had left her coat and car keys in their car and now, they had just left.
The young lady said that is wasn’t terrible as they were coming back the next day but she was stuck, couldn’t use her car and had planned to drive into Grand Marais to go the IGA for groceries.
But at that moment, she had no food and they, the Park Rangers, were trying to decide if one of them could drive her to the store.
Ding, Dong, Saved by the bell!
Dad put the car in park and said to everyone, “Nothing to worry about!”
He got out and looked at me and said, “come on” and he opened the trunk and we carried the two bags of food over to the picnic table.
The Park Rangers and the young lady just stared.
Who carries two bags of groceries in their car in the middle of summer?
We got back in and the the Rangers looked at Dad and said “thank you”.
The young lady started crying and Mom reached out the window and gave her as much of hug as she could and off we went.
Did I mention how big a smile Dad had on his face?
Mom too, had to laugh.
Mr. Harrison writes: There is also a tradition in the Upper Peninsula that you never pass by anyone needing help. An Ojibwa Indian once towed me 60 miles after I broke a fan belt on Fourth of July weekend. He seemed startled that I couldn’t install a fan belt. A gas station had a spare, which he installed. He wouldn’t accept money so I stuffed a C note in his wife’s pocket. She smiled, having more sense than he did. Where can you find someone to tow you 60 miles and install your fan belt? Only in the U.P.
I am sure somewhere to this day this is a lady who tells about the miracle of the food on her camping trip.
I still laugh when I try to picture that young lady’s face as she unpacked the bags and looked over that collection of food.
think God’s on your side John Calvin’s under floorboards during board meetings
He told me that I should note in my reading of journals, monographs, and texts how all the great predators were theocratic …
that if you were going to rape the land and people, whether it was the original Indians or the working class that followed …
it was important to think that God was thoroughly on your side.
“John Calvin is always under the floorboards during America s board meetings.
From True North by Jim Harrison (New York, Grove Press, 2004).
Probably quote from Mr. Harrison a lot more than I should and I admit it isn’t without some misgivings.
The passage I quote today, I feel it explains much of what makes the Evangelical Church of Trump work.
There is a lot of my West Michigan background in the background of Mr. Harrison, though his foreground can take in a lot of life I did not experience.
And I wonder, do other people get it?
Take the John Calvin reference.
I am sure that most folks might know who Mr. Calvin was, but in West Michigan, where I grew up, John Calvin wasn’t under the table, he had a seat at the table.
The local college was named, Calvin College.
My wife went to a grade school operated by the Christian Reformed Church name Calvin Christian.
Most folks I knew had copies of The Institutes of John Calvin on a shelf in their home.
But I was raised Baptist.
Mr. Calvin was there in our theology with his TULIP acronym*, but we also told the joke that Calvinism was the fear that someone, somewhere, was having a good time.
BUT I DIGRESS.
I make no apology for Mr. Harrison’s content.
It is what it is.
But his use of language and narration and view of life, lives and lifestyle is powerful.
I remember back in the day when I worked in a bookstore and this one customer, who by his dress and manner and overall appearance was probably from what we called, ‘Up North’ which took in the part of the State of Michigan that was north of Kent Country up to and including the Upper Peninsula of the state.
Boy Howdy, maybe just north of the Grand River all the way to Lake Superior.
Nothing wrong with guy understand, but going north, you entered a different world that often times might have been more comfortable had it been about 1952.
Close to the same feeling I get when I drive across the back country of the State of South Carolina.
This feller as I remember him would not have stood had he been in the band, ZZ Top, including the long beard and dark sunglasses.
He was buying a copy of Garrison Keillor’s latest book, though I can’t remember which one.
I chit chatted with him, told him I hoped he enjoyed the book as I read all the Keillor stuff and enjoyed it all myself.
He stopped and looked at me for a second.
“I am getting it for my nephew”, he said, “he needs to read about life.”
Well says I, you should get something by Jim Harrison.
He stopped and looked at me for a second, looked away then back at me and said, “No, no way, this kid is not ready for Harrison …”
He looked off again, then said:
“Someday …”
And he caught my eye, nodded, a nod with a lot of understanding and kinship in it, and walked out.
*The acronym TULIP is used to represent the five core doctrines of Calvinism: Total depravity, Unconditional election, Limited atonement, Irresistible grace, and Perseverance of the saints.
changes in our lives accidents, happenstances the slightest pushes
It was the first truly important night of my life.
Despite my aching bones and blistered feet I sensed a possibility of strength, of a mission that drew solace and the chance of success or victory from the fire, from the dog, from my fellow human Fred, the night, the bright moon and stars, even the owl we were hearing intermittently.
This sounds vaguely absurd now but then so many changes in the direction of our lives come as a result of accidents, happenstances, the slightest pushes in any direction, and on the more negative side the girl you met at a gathering you didn’t want to attend who infected your life to the extent that the scar tissue will follow you into old age.
but then so many changes in the direction of our lives come as a result of accidents, happenstances, the slightest pushes in any direction
From True North by Jim Harrison ( Grove/Atlantic, New York, 2004)
So many changes in the direction of our lives come as a result of accidents, happenstances, the slightest pushes in any direction.
Then toss in the forward march of time.
Like the tide that twice a day comes in and sweeps the beach clean and leaves a clean slate wide open for accidents, happenstances or the slightest pushes in any direction.
All blank and wide open for changes that will infect your life to the extent that the scar tissue will follow you into old age.
Maybe this is where Jesus was going when mounted up on that hill side and sermonized saying, “Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own.”
Trouble enough for each day that will infect your life to the extent that the scar tissue will follow you into old age.
knowing that time stops when heart stops walk off the earth into the night air
Marching by Jim Harrison
At dawn I heard among birdcalls the billions of marching feet in the churn and squeak of gravel, even tiny feet still wet from the mother’s amniotic fluid, and very old halting feet, the feet of the very light and very heavy, all marching but not together, crisscrossing at every angle with sincere attempts not to touch, not to bump into each other, walking in the doors of houses and out the back door forty years later, finally knowing that time collapses on a single plateau where they were all their lives, knowing that time stops when the heart stops as they walk off the earth into the night air.
As printed in Jim Harrison: The Complete Poems by Jim Harrison and Copper Canyon Press.
As it says in the preface – or epigram – or prologue or as it is labeled, Editor’s Note:
Poetry, at its best, is the language your soul would speak if you could teach your soul to speak.
