Squirrel's Ear Day

Like Second Breakfast gives a hobbit's morning a boost,
Squirrel's Ear Day is a boost to the Shaffner spring.
Squirrel's Ear Day is a moveable holiday,
falling on a slightly different day each spring,
somewhat similar to Easter
which is the first Sunday
after the first full moon
after the equinox.
Usually Squirrel's Ear Day,
the day when the oak leaves are as big as a squirrel's ear,
falls in single digit May,
but not this year.
Botanical spring is late on the mountain.

Spring comes sooner in the valleys.
DuBois was built around a beaver meadow wetland
and the streams that feed the wetland have lowland wildflowers.
I made my traditional spring drive to Van Tassel Road on Thursday
to see bloodroot,
dogtooth violets,
spring beauties,
and red and white trilliums.
In our college years,
white trilliums bloomed the week that Houghton's semester was over.
As we drove 219 south through the Allegany Forest,
the hemlocks would have a blanket of white at their feet.
"Trillions of trilliums," Den used to say.

My grandpa Bernie
used to make a yearly spring tonic from sassafras root scrapings
and serve it in chilled aluminum glasses.
One major boost to Den's standing in the Rensel family
was using his dad's tractor to pull sassafras roots out of the ground.
Bernie did not have to use a shovel.
We had his vote from that day on.
A friend gave Den a jar of sassafras tea this week
and the scent alone made me feel like an eight year old again.
I had mine without aluminum this time.

Dandelions and violets began blooming this week in the valley.
I sat my first graders down
on the edge of the playground
for an informal science lesson.
"Dente means tooth in French.
So dente de lion,
dandelion,
means tooth of the lion,"
and we picked dandelion leaves
and held them up to our jaws
and growled ferociously.
I then showed them a violet
and pointed out the pouch-like nectary
where the sweet nectar is stored.
We nibbled the nectaries,
then ate the violets.
They taste a bit like cucumbers.
Two girls spent much of the remainder of recess
prowling around
snacking on violets.
(The next day,
A informed me that he wasn't allowed to eat purple flowers.
Do his parents know what is in school lunches?)

Spring here on the mountain is a bit sparser--
no forsythia blooms this year due to frigid temperatures.
I've walked to the arbutus patch twice so far,
but no blooms.
What we lack in flowers this year, though,
has been made up in birds.
Besides the traditional chickadees,
doves,
finches,
blue jays,
cardinals,
and the misguided redwing
that lurks recent years in the silky dogwood,
this year we have a catbird that yells everything he knows,
a pair of rose-breasted grosbeaks,
and three northern orioles.
Orioles!
Yay!
The boys were babies the last time we had orioles.

And Squirrel's Ear Day?
Today was the first day I noticed a swelling in the oak buds.
Squirrel's Ear Day is coming,
probably some day this week.
We suggest celebrating Squirrel's Ear Day with a second breakfast.

Broken

New birdfeeder

Slowly, spring is coming to the mountain.
When I returned home from school a few days ago,
Den was quite animated.
"You just missed it!
A three hundred pound black bear
just climbed the huge oak tree by the back porch!
He didn't stay there long--
must be hard to keep that much weight up a tree."
When we walked around the house,
the just-purchased-last-week birdfeeder was broken
and the flowering crab that had held the birdfeeder
had another broken branch.
Bears can be a mixed blessing.

Flowering crabapple with newest broken branch

I've been thinking about the word "broken."
When we visited Tanzania,
we heard the story
of how in the 1960s,
the Australian government
wanted to help the people of Tanzania
by giving them horses.
When the horses arrived,
they were hard to control
and many escaped
and disappeared into the bush
where they soon died from tsetse fly bites.
Both governments were disappointed.
The Australians had sent the horses,
unbroken as requested.
The Tanzanians replied,
"Why would we have wanted broken horses?"

Broken.
Our government is broken.
Last week, I was reminded
that I have no right to complain
unless I have been praying for the people who govern me.
Guilty.
Now I find myself praying
"Father God, give the people in government wisdom
and help them to do what is right...
but I am cynical.
Lord, I believe.
Help my unbelief."

I am also broken.
Probably you are, too.
We agree with Paul's letter to the Romans,
"I want to do what is right, but I don't do it.
Instead, I do what I hate."


Who would want a broken horse?
Ah! Who would want a tamed horse?
I think of Saint-Exupery's masterpiece
The Little Prince,
the story of a small boy
who visits Earth to understand it better. 
The Fox wants to be tamed by the Little Prince
because "one only understands the things that one tames,"
and so the fox allows himself to be tamed,
to be broken. 

In this delayed spring, post-Easter world,
my brokenness can be understood
by the Visitor who created me
and gives me grace.
I am broken,
forgiven,
loved.

Fence Day

Saturday was Fence Day at Paul's house in State College.
Paul
and Den
and the two Matts
were busy all day
digging holes,
mixing Sacrete,
installing stringers,
and making a lovely fence of Amish lumber.
The yard is now quieter and safer.

View from the back deck

Anna
and Lucy
and their friend Lily
were busy all day
digging holes,
making signs,
peddling trimmed forsythia branches--
A British woman drove up 
and was Anna's first customer. 
Nicky had been admiring the "for-SIGH-thia" at Spring Creek Park, 
but had resisted the urge to pick 
what she called "the essence of a Pennsylvania spring." 
We all agreed her stop was pre-ordained.
...riding bikes,
balance-beaming up boards to the trailer,
eating violets--
you can nibble the nectaries out 
for a tiny sweet treat 
or eat the whole flower. 
They taste somewhat like cucumbers.
...playing catch,
finding bunny poop-- 
If you look very carefully, 
you can see what the bunny ate.
...tying a string to a stuffed seal on the sidewalk
and then hiding like a spy under the forsythia bushes
until an unsuspecting pedestrian walked by--
Lucy had no interest in Anna's antics. 
Her stuffed friend Foxy 
has jumped from two vehicles in the last nine days 
and neither liked the brief separations.
...building a stage out of scrap wood
for performances of "Jesus Loves Me"
and "Let It Go,"
avoiding wind-blown sawdust,
washing Bop's trailer,
and decorating the house
for a belated surprise birthday celebration-- 
Anna planned it by herself.  
She ordered blackberries 
and oranges 
and Grammy's round flower tray 
and crepe paper 
and ribbons.
Surprise!

Lucy has balancing skills

As Calvin

Lucy eating violets

(the tiger boy,
not the Presbyterian)
would say,
"The days are just packed."

  

Anna gives Nicky a bouquet of clippings

Anna and the moving seal trick

Already But Not Yet

It's 1:35 on Easter Sunday
and I am sitting on the front steps,
waiting.
Den and I are all ready for Easter
but Paul's family
and the Toms
and Shelby and her sister and friends
are not yet here.

The pysanky eggs
from childhoods past are on display.
Den has hidden the eggs for the girls' egg hunt.

The table is set with Grandma Maud's silver
and decorated with daffodils,
rabbits,
frog candlesticks,
Grandma's singing children,
and "Alleluia" written in Scrabble tiles.

I think of Maud every Easter
when I decorate the table,
when I serve sweet potatoes and beets,
when I sing a loud alto in church.
I am not the woman she was, however.
She would have ironed the tablecloth,
polished the silver,
waited for the rolls to rise before she baked them,
made homemade stuffing
and gravy from scratch.
She would have dug dandelion greens
to serve with hot bacon dressing.
She would have stuffed the celery
with three kinds of cheese.
I am more like Maud's older sister, Thelma.
Thelma served culinary disasters
and said, "That's the way I wanted it."
Thelma would have understood my hard-as-a-bullet rolls
and why I decided to leave the celery unstuffed
and unserved.
I don't call it lazy.
I call it enjoying the day.

For years,
Den and his dad went to sunrise services together
so Den misses Walt on Easter Sundays.
This morning
for the first time
we visited Mount Joy Methodist
because Walt is buried there
with four generations of Shaffners.
As we sang "He Lives"
we could look out the left side windows
and see the rising sun hitting the hillside
and we could look out the right side windows
and see Den's dad's gravestone
...and our own.
We may meet the Lord in the air at that very spot.
Death has been defeated!
Alleluia!

Now it is 10:30.
The third load is in the dishwasher.
It has been a great day
full of family
and old and new friends
and no one needed a bandaid.
We hunted for eggs
and ate outside
(new dish: black olives stuffed with m&ms)

then ate inside
(new dish: Paula Deen's pineapple cheddar casserole)
then played outside in the warm sunshine.
The girls rode Anna's razor tricycle,
then washed the driveway
and my car
while the grownups rode Anna's razor tricycle.

While some people took a walk
Anna wanted to have another egg hunt
and she volunteered to hide the eggs.
I refilled each 
with the traditional one m&m
and gave them to her.
Several minutes later
I accompanied two year old Lily Toms
on her search for eggs
and noticed that quite a few were now empty.
"Anna," I said,
"Why are some of the eggs empty?"
She got a little chocolaty grin on her face
and said,
"I wanted to remind Lily about the empty tomb.
It IS Easter, you know...."

Yes, it is.
We live in the "already, but not yet."
Death has already been defeated
and so we celebrate Easter,
but we have not yet experienced the final celebration.
We had better be prepared to be unprepared.

Thoughts on Runaway Bunnies

 

The kids sit boy-girl-boy-girl
in a semicircle on the floor for reading.

I introduce the book:
The Runaway Bunny by Margaret Wise Brown.

M begins.
Once there was a little bunny who wanted to run away.

So he said to his mother,
"I am running away."

"If you run away,"
said his mother,
"I will run after you.
For you are my little bunny."

S reads next.
"If you run after me," said the little bunny,

"I will become a fish in a trout stream
and I will swim away from you."

"If you become a fish in a trout stream,"
said his mother,
"I will become a fisherman
and I will fish for you."
"Awww, Mrs. Shaffner, this is a such a nice story."

Reading Margaret Wise Brown is such a soothing experience.

Goodnight Moon.

The Friendly Book.

Even her name is soothing.
Say it:
Margaret Wise Brown.

Even the word "bunny" is soothing. 

Curious George played with bunnies.
Snoopy loves bunnies, too,

and even gave up his beloved
because she ate bunnies.

 B continues.

"If you become a fisherman,"
said the little bunny,
"I will become a rock
on the mountain high above you."

"If you become a rock
on the mountain high above me,"
said his mother,
"I will be a mountain climber
and I will climb to where you are."

 It enters my mind
that The Runaway Bunny is a retelling
of Jesus's parable of the Lost Lamb.

It's A's turn.
"If you become a mountain climber,"
said the little bunny,
"I will be a crocus in a hidden garden."

"If you become a crocus in a hidden garden,"
said his mother,
"I will be a gardener. And I will find you."

The idea held up throughout the rest of the book,
and at the end,
the little bunny decided
that living with his mother
was a good choice.
She then gave him a carrot.

As we begin Holy Week,
The Runaway Bunny
will be my mental children's sermon.
We are loved.
We are pursued.
We have been given the directions home
where there is a warm hug waiting.
And maybe carrots.

Let's go home.

Spring Science: Goodbye, Mouse and Mole

On these warming spring days
I justify stretching recess time a bit
by also calling it science class.
Today my kids learned about puffball fungi.
They squatted on the volleyball court
poking the small brown spheres 
and spore clouds filled the air.
"Hey, this one won't puff--
oh, wait,
it doesn't have a hole."
We were on the volleyball court today
because yesterday
the science discovery was
that side hills get quite muddy
(read that "slippery")
when the frost goes out.
"Mrs. Shaffner! I'm all muddy!"
I grin. 
"Your mom knows all about washers."

The day before yesterday
on that same side hill
my kids discovered moss.
"This looks like a green bump!"
             It's Leucobryum-- pincushion moss.
"This kind is soft."
             It's called Polytrichum.
"This kind is big!"
             It's Sphagnum.
             The Indians used it for diapers
             because it's like a sponge.
             Squeeze it
             and watch the water drip out.
"This looks like feathers!"
             It's Thuidium-- delicate cedar moss.
As the kids were dislodging sections of Thuidium from the hillside
they also learned
that moss is Great Fun to throw at friends
and you don't get in trouble
because it is so soft.
(Fear not, nature lovers.
There was LOADS of moss,
and it will regrow.)

Last week
when there was still snow on that hillside,
S carried a dead mouse
and mole
from the woods
and told me that mole was harder to get
because he had been frozen to the ground.
I held the small furry bodies
while the kids looked closely.
"Ew! Gross!"
soon turned to "Ooooh, look at his nose!"
"He doesn't have arms,
just hands!"
"What a tiny tail!"
"How did they die?"
"I bet they had a fight!"
We decided to bring them in
to our classroom for further study.

The kids used their science eyes to draw details,
then used their pictures to write a report.
As the afternoon progressed,
we noticed a certain smell
and learned the word "de-comp-o-si-tion" 
so I moved our silent friends to a lidded jar. 

The next day we reviewed what we had learned,
used rocks from our rock collection to make headstones,
and at the start of recess
we had a funeral for Mouse and Mole.
"Does anyone have anything nice to say about our friends?"

"Mole was a good digger."
"Mouse had nice yellow teeth for chewing."
"Goodbye, Mouse and Mole."
"I liked them."
"I am sorry for their loss."
We sang Home in the Woods
(think Home on the Range),
had a moment of silence
and put flowers on the two tiny graves--
the baby's breath
and heather
from Den's ancient Valentine bouquet
were crunchy
but perfect.

As the frosty ice crystals
turn to mud,
may you find time to appreciate tiny details
and be thankful
that your teeth
are still good for chewing.

Birthday Weekend

This weekend I turned 57.
I think I will remember how old I am this year
without the usual subtraction
because I was also born in '57.
I usually celebrate with ice cream
and a wade in a local creek,
but his year 
we celebrated by going south.
Not the balmy breezes south,
just far enough south to see daffodil buds
and hear spring peepers.
While Den visited friends
and looked at campers
and bought a book about early exploration in Pennsylvania,
I attended a SCBWI conference
(Society of Children's Book Writers and Illustrators)
near Frederick, MD.
Did you know that you can get free books
if you will write reviews of them?
And that leprosy is now totally curable?
True.
I had lunch with a woman who worked for the Washington Post
and NPR
who is writing a children's book about leprosy.
I had supper with Den.
Crab linguine.
Travel rule number 16:
Always have crab when in Maryland.

We came home through Gettysburg.
On the Culp's Hill drive,
I spied a creek near Spangler's Spring
that was perfect for wading,
or as perfect as it gets at 37 degrees and raining.

My feet warmed
in Ronn Palm's Museum of Civil War Images
where Abe Lincoln's bronze life mask and hands
hung above the door.
I was moved by his hands.
Abe's right hand
held a piece of broomstick
to make his fingers curl;
he had been unable to make a fist
as shaking hands with hundreds of people
had swollen his right hand. 
We then went down the block
to Lord Nelson's Gallery
and came out with a Bev Doolittle print.
Den had thought it was impossible for a picture
to show the majesty of the Great Plains,
but found he was wrong.
Rolling landscape.
Blowing prairie grass.
Amazing skies.
Indians on horseback.
Bison herds.

Lucy and four of the five black olives

I felt the dry breeze in my hair
and heard the rumble of thunder.

A State College stop where family and friends
big and small,
on and off key,
restrained and enthusiastic,
sang "Happy birrrrrrrthday dear Graaaaaaaaaammy"
while three candles burned
on an ice cream cake,
followed by a supper that had,
joy of joys,
black olives.
It was as perfect
as a rainy cold spring weekend can be.
And the fun is not over.
Tomorrow is Ugly Sweater Day!