Four Years Ago

Arthur and I set off to drive across the country from northcentral Pennsylvania to northeastern Washington on the day after the 2016 presidential election.

Salem Sue, the World's Largest Holstein Cow
commanding the Interstate in New Salem, North Dakota

That journey across Middle America began after a sleepless night, tossing and turning, haunted by the stunned blank faces of trusted news anchors  - Judy Woodruff, Amy Walter, Mark Shields and CBS old timers Charlie Rose and Bob Schieffer. They were charged with telling the country that Donald Trump would be inaugurated as the 45th President come the new year.

So in the still-dark hours, we faced the daunting task of packing the car and closing things up for a four-month sojourn with an aching and sense of dread. How could it be that Donald Trump was going to be the 45th President of the United States of America?

Spotting Trump signs around nearly every corner acted like salt on a wound. All across the country, we read Make America Great Again on fading billboards; spotted Trump/Pence signs stuck cockeyed in the middle of fields; Drain The Swamp nailed to barns that had seen better days, and flaccid Trump flags.

Snowflakes?  I suppose so. Crying liberals? Yes, guilty as charged.

It was in the sanctuary of  the First Congregational United Church of Christ in Colville where we listened to the stirring words of Martin Luther King preached from the pulpit that hope began to rise. And how could you not be moved by these words of  the Black National Anthem:

Lift every voice and sing

Till earth and heaven ring

Ring with the harmonies of Liberty;

Let our rejoicing rise,

High as the list'ning skies, let it resound loud as the rolling sea

Sing a song full of faith that the dark past has taught us,

Sing a song full of the hope that the present has brought us;

Facing the rising sun of our new day begun,

Let us march on till victory is won.

We joined the Women's March, held across the country on the day after the Inauguration, joining thousands of marchers in downtown in Spokane Washington.

Pussy hats in all shades of pink

Many were marching for the next generation

 

Crowd spilling out of the Convention Center
ready to march

Our Stevens County contingent

The marches across the country sent millions into the streets to send a bold message to the new administration and the world that women's rights are human rights. These protests, judged to be the largest single-day demonstration in U.S. history, gave those of us marching some small measure of hope. After all, a majority of the electorate had voted against the man duly installed in office. Certainly our voices wouldn't be ignored. He couldn't possibly be as bad as we had imagined and he would likely choose good people to advise him.

But, we have endured as it became clear that he was every bit as bad as we had imagined and even worse. Still, we the people worked four years to elect a replacement for this failed president. And resoundingly, Trump was beaten in the 2020 election. He will be gone. Tomorrow.

But today the short leash I have been using to tether my emotions frayed and broke as I sat in my car and shouted "bullshit" into the phone to a person who was spouting political rhetoric to me. 

At that moment, I realized just how sick and tired and fearful and anxious I have been since Donald Trump was elected President of the United States. And I realized at that moment that I am soon to be free. In the words of Donald Trump: No More Bullshit! In the words of Jane: Hallelujah!

The 'Smoking Gun'

In his own words, Charlatan Dutch Sheets shares this in his plea for year-end contributions to his "ministry." 

"I have made seven trips to Washington D.C. this year. Ninety percent of those trips were made just to pray for our nation, on-site – boots on the ground. On one of those trips, I had a divine appointment where I met with some people connected to our government.

They made an appeal for me to join the natural to the spirit since what we do in the spirit directly affects what happens in the natural, basically marrying civil and spiritual government.* They suggested I go to each of the seven election-contested states, and call the ekklesia of the Lord to come together, joining us to pray for America from each state.  . . . I felt this was an assignment from the Lord, and what an assignment it was! I called some of my prophetic and apostolic ministry friends/leaders and asked them to pray about joining me.

We took a team to Georgia, Michigan, Arizona, New Mexico, Wisconsin, Nevada, and Pennsylvania.

In his year-end appeal, he brags about packing the Gospel Tabernacle on that November evening just before our Covid-19 cases and deaths began climbing, now threatening to overwhelm our health system. What he doesn't mention is that he brought Covid-19 along with his prayer team to Pennsylvania -and likely to the other places they attempted to fill in the "election-contested states".

I am not able to turn away from the daily Dutch Sheets spectacle on his website, sometimes postponing listening to his folksy, aw-shucks drawl until afternoon but more often listening with my morning coffee. Nine times out of ten he relates a "prophetic" dream, and describes what all the symbolism means to real believers. (These folks must not sleep much!) Then he issues decrees and always encourages the faithful that they need to keep going to purge the evil in Washington and work to reveal and restore what he calculates is the true winner of the election.

I am praying that God purges the evil in Washington too - it's just that Dutch and I have very different interpretations of where that evil resides. What Dutch never mentions is all the pain and sorrow in our nation from the effects of the worldwide pandemic and racial injustice and the terrible poverty that stems from corporate greed as the rich get richer and the poor poorer. Never does he mention the mandate from Jesus that love, justice and compassion are at the very heart of Christian faith.

It's most telling that he admits he's on his mission with the direct involvement of "people connected with our government." If it all weren't so sinister and so calculated, I could almost appreciate being a fly on the wall just before Dutch is ushered into the room.

"Okay, folks, do you remember what you need to say?" says connected government person one.

"I'll use words like ekklesia and spiritual warfare and prayer," replies connected government person two.

"I'll ask that we all pray together as soon as he comes in the room," says connected government person three, "That always gets them."

They all laugh before they straighten the little cross pins on their lapels and open the door to Mr. Sheets. 

*Being not well-versed in this kind of dogma, I couldn't stifle my giggles at this particular use of the English language.

Christmas

 

I visited on the telephone with my mother this Christmas morning. We made plans to connect later in the day when we stop to deliver her Christmas dinner in exchange for the figgy pudding with lemon sauce and hard sauce she put together using Wanda Metzger's recipe. Wanda would be pleased to know that the Christmas pudding she so lovingly shared on the family table over the years is still part of the Christmas feast.

Do we all remember childhood Christmases in a blur with all the years running as a highlight reel? With the perspective of age, nearly all my memories focus on the thoughtful and loving ways gifts appeared under the tree each Christmas morning - not just for me but for my brothers and for Mom and Dad too.

My Daddy built me this doll house for Christmas one year. I believe the plans may have come from a magazine and were in the style I recognize today as mid-century modern. It slid together to form a sprawling one-story doll house with a garage. My childhood chum Susan Frederick (pictured with barrette in her hair above) loved my dollhouse and always wanted to play with it when she came over.

The dollhouse survived my childhood and was pulled down from the attic in the garage for my nieces and nephews to play with from time to time. I believe my daughter and her grandmother must have used wrapping paper to update the wallpaper back in 1980s.

My Mommy was the one who spent endless hours outfitting all my dolls in beautiful handmade wardrobes - from the matching red polka dot flannel bathrobes that Mom, me and my baby doll had to the sophisticated garb for my beautiful tall black-haired ballerina doll.

That ballerina doll had black taffeta lounging pajamas with bright magenta piping. Her green winter coat with furry collar and cuffs had a matching hat and muff. She had a wide-skirted summer dress with a bright summery print and colorful rick-rack trim. There was even a filmy pink nightgown.

Those clothes were much easier to sew than the ones she made for Betsy McCall. Betsy was a diminutive six inches and making those clothes was truly an act of love. I remember a reversible jacket with a black and white print on one side and black with white stitching on the other side.  Her little dresses also had little rick rack trimmings.

One year I was given a record player - a Silvertone from the Sears catalog and it was blue. That was the year I spoiled my own surprise by snooping around to find my Christmas presents and discovered a record album - the soundtrack to Bye Bye Birdie. I've never had the urge to snoop again.

I Just Can't

I just can't do it anymore.

I just can't look the other way when someone strolls by me at the store without a mask.

I just can't drive by the service station on South Main Street festooned with all manner of Trump paraphernalia more than one month (the pink Women For Trump signs really annoy me - I mean really?) after the election was over and that guy lost by more than 7 million votes.

I just can't listen to the strident 'pro-life' rhetoric spouted by people who choose to ignore the staggering death toll of the pandemic (314,000 and growing in numbers we just couldn't imagine when this all began in March and we were told it would 'just go away'.)  I just can't.

I just can't take seriously the arguments put forth by the Republicans in the Pennsylvania House about 'voting irregularities.' I voted by mail in the 2020 election. The reason I chose to vote by mail this year was simple - I did not want to subject myself to the tiny, overheated room where I could have cast my ballot in Hebron Township. The reason: Covid-19. The other reason: I suspected that since I had seen many of the people who traditionally worked the polls without face masks in social media posts, I would have no assurance that they would care to protect my health by masking up. So I cast my vote by "absentee" ballot and dropped it off at the Gunzburger building after donning my mask, sanitizing my hands and standing in front of the temperature sensor provided there.

It is insulting to all of us for Republicans such as our State Representative Martin Causer to suggest that such precautions were not a necessity.

And may I remind everyone that the numbers of confirmed Covid-19 infections in Potter County began to rise soon after Election Day. And then there's that Monday not two weeks later when a charlatan who goes by the name of Prophet Dutch Sheets felt it was necessary to hold a superspreader "prayer meeting" at the Gospel Tabernacle that attracted hundreds of followers. The sole purpose of the event was to pray for the election results to be overturned to hand the victory to the one they have deemed to be God's chosen one, Donald Trump.

But what about me and the myriad others who identify as Christians, who prayed for a different kind of chosen one. We're the Christians who believe that God's will was for Donald Trump to be voted out of office and take with him hate, lies, racism, bigotry,  incompetence and Melania and Jared and Ivanka and Eric and Lara and Junior too. Oh yes, God decided that we would be done with Mike Pence and his newly-de-matronized wife who's known as "Mother."

I just can't understand how others can go swimming into the same deep pools of information I'm diving into and come up with any other conclusion than this: We've been had. All of us. And particularly swindled and mistreated are the Christians who really believe in their hearts that this man who knew exactly which coded language to use to woo them, was the annointed one to make the country a "Christian" nation.

As a former Republican strategist wrote: "It's just astonishing that this man is president of the United States. The man, the con man, from New York City. Many bankruptcies, failed businesses, a reality show that branded him as something he never was - a successful businessman.Well, he's the President of the United States now, and the man who said he would make the country great again. And he's brought death, suffering, and economic collapse on truly an epic scale. And let's be clear. This isn't happening in every country around the world. This place. Our place. Our home. Our country. The United states. We are the epicenter. We are the place where you're the most likely to die from this disease. We're the ones with the most shattered economy. And we are because of the fool that sits in the oval office behind the Resolute Desk."

I just can't see why others just can't see. 

Boys Will Be Boys

My three older brothers and their friends always seemed to be involved in exciting adventures in the neighborhood. They built "forts" on Niles Hill in a mysterious place known only as the Big Rock. They had a cabin in the back yard and once even began digging a deep hole until my mother discovered that there was iminent danger of collapse and put an end to it. Then there were the wars with the kids who lived across the river on Woodlawn Avenue.

As the pesky kid sister, I wasn't included in their adventures but I took advantage of one of their abandoned tree platforms, spending many a summer afternoon there with fictional girl sleuth Judy Bolton. I did not endear myself to them when I snuck into the cabin one afternoon while they were off fighting their wars and tattled about the contraband cigarettes I found there.

So when I was introduced to my friend Jeffrey's "Cousin Artie," I heard tales of their childhood adventures on the family farm ....cap guns, caps being exploded with rocks and carbide cannons. 

carbide cannon fun on Crandall Hill
Jeffrey and Arthur demonstrate to a young Tommy Gilliland

A carbide cannon is still known to be among the safest noise makers. The carbide reacts with water to form acetylene gas and when mixed with oxygen inside the cannon's chamber, it creates a small explosion. Google showed me examples of pre-made carbide cannons for fun and for chasing pesky birds 

 Arthur tells me that coffee cans worked the best back when coffee cans were really cans with a lid that you removed using a key to twist off the seal. What worked even better were glass jars and that process involved knowing exactly when to throw them against a tree. He scanned his palm to find the scar from the time he held on to the jar a little too long.

That little can of carbide is still around here somewhere ...

Keeping Track

 

I wait until after Christmas to buy my new appointment book, waiting for the half-price sale. Some years, the shelves, either at the Barnes and Noble or the shelves of the virtual kind, are still well-stocked. Other years, I have to settle for a book that's either too small to receive all my scrawled notes or too big to fit on the old dry sink that holds my old fashioned telephone with the wires that disappear into the wall.

Like the telephone, the appointment book is old fashioned. I could choose to download an app on my cell phone or use one of the many suggestions that pop up every time I log into Zoom. But I don't. I instead choose to continue my old fashioned ways.

I record many things in these books - certainly appointments if I happen to be near enough the book when the appointment is made. But then again, most appointments come complete with either telephone or text or email reminders these days. When it's relevant to remembering, the temperature gets recorded - mostly in the spring when I'm in the early stages of growing things, or to track the string of hot summer days that have become more common these days. Other weather, like the 14+ inches of snow we woke up to yesterday morning also finds a place on the calendar.

It also serves as a recordkeeping space for the farm. I once spent a great deal of time entering all the farm records into a beautiful web-based farm management application, only to revert back to my appointment book when it seemed impossible to find the time to log it all into the program. 

A look back at 2020 is different. There among records of the first lettuce harvest, the first ripe tomato, the 23-degree night that took out the tomatoes in the high tunnel are these kinds of notes "Jane to town: post office, grocery store (for Mom too)" "Arthur to Close's" "A & J to Wegman's in Corning" "S.D. visit with Aucotts on deck"

"You know there's an app you can set on your phone to track everywhere you go," I can hear a much-younger person tell me. But, the app couldn't tell me that I arrived on back Crandall Hill on a warm sunny March 18 after a drive across the country, just as pandemic was becoming a common word.

Giving Thanks

Brothers & Cousins

Because extended family and both sets of grandparents all lived in the same town, we'd spent Thanksgiving with the Heimels one year and with the Fish family the next year. When Christmas came, it was the opposite - if we'd dined with Danny and Grandaddy for Thanksgiving, we'd gather around Grandma Heimel's big table in the apartment over Heimel's Market for Christmas.

At both Thanksgiving tables, there were some traditional dishes I'd pass politely on to the next person without taking a helping - oyster stuffing, gravy with giblets, creamed onions, squash, mincemeat pie.

But I loved my mother's molded cranberry salad. She brought the old heavy Enterprise food grinder out of the pantry and clamped it to the enameled  countertop she'd pull out of the kitchen cupboard. Sometimes I'd help to grind the cranberries, walnuts, oranges and to add to the jello, dumping the mixture into the ring mold to chill. Probably there was a mayonnaise dressing in a custard cup in the middle when it was turned out on a platter lined with iceberg lettuce leaves.

I looked forward to the relish tray with its assortment of pickles from sweet gherkins to the green tomato pickles that Grandaddy so loved, celery sticks and pimento-stuffed green olives. That was a fixture at the Fish table, always set with the blue and white Spode china, with matching serving dishes, and gleaming polished silverware. It seemed the kitchen was always steamy, and someone would open the back door for cool fresh air. There were always the pre-dinner cocktails – Manhattans, probably. I think I can remember the year they all had a little bit too much Thanksgiving cheer, leading to a very late dinner but perhaps it's only because it became family legend.

The Heimels always did things differently. There were no pre-dinner cocktails there and the china was from Limoges. Dad Dad and Grandma took their places at the head and foot of the table with Grandma closest to the kitchen. We listen to Uncle Roy share the blessing and then Dad Dad got to work on carving the turkey to order. Sometimes there were shrimp cocktails (but perhaps that was Christmas) and sometimes my father had his oysters raw in a little dish in addition to the oyster stuffing that was scooped from the front of the bird.

This year, there will be no gathering around Grandma Heimel's big table that fills Paul & Lugene's dining room today. We won't have a "Friendsgiving" celebration with our Washington family and won't share a wild turkey feast with our son's inlaws. Instead, I'm going to attempt Ina Garten's turkey roulade from a recipe I read in the New York Times and we'll harvest the Brussels Sprouts I've been keeping watch over all year in the high tunnel. My mom's making an apple pie from our Northern Spy apples and will furnish the cranberries but the molded cranberry salad will have to wait for another year!