The Power of Flowers

Painting by James Brandess 

In the wintertime, my grandmother's house was filled with the pungent aroma of geraniums that filled her windowsills and the ever present smell of bread baking in her wood range. In the summertime hollyhocks grew at the edge of her garden. We picked the blossoms and fashioned them into little dolls.

The pleasure that flowers bring to me goes back to my early childhood. In kindergarten our class walked to a local woods near Piper Creek, which was a little hike from the school. We picked wild flowers and learned their names. When we returned to our classroom we put our bouquets into paper May baskets we had made. When I got home I put the basket on the door knob, rang the doorbell and ran to the side of the house to hide until my mother opened the door.

I wrote my first poem when I was around ten about the violets that grew under a bay window at our house. My mother entered it in a writing contest which I did not win.

When I was dating my husband to be in college, his gift of yellow roses on a winter day and daffodils in the springtime won my heart. A man who gives a woman flowers is most likely a keeper.

Flowers are nature's way of coloring our lives. They bring us the three senses of touch, sight and smell. My photos reflect my love of blooms wherever I find them. Naomi's garden on 72nd Avenue between Hart and Pentwater - the zinnias grown in a field by Cargill's Farm Market east of Hart - the beautiful small open space behind the Secret Garden, a shop in Pentwater, to countless flower scenes in many countries of Europe.

Naomi's Garden

Cargill's Farm Market

The Secret Garden

In the winter I try to have fresh flowers in our house. Last week the Fed-Ex man delivered a box full of flowers that were a gift from a sweet niece. When I opened the box I saw a bouquet of one of my favorite flowers, chrysanthemums. These beautiful little gems bring back so many memories of autumn days. To have a bouquet in January of various shades made an ordinary winter day turn into something special.

Thank you Peggy.

The power that flowers have over me can not be easily explained. Maybe it is that now flowers are memory triggers. But still the discovery of a single beautiful rose in Norway or bright pink flowers against a white stucco wall and in front of a green window frame always gives me a rush. I hope it always will.

Just living is not enough....one must have sunshine, freedom and a little flower.

- Hans Christian Anderson

The Walaker Hotell

Solvorn, Norway

Winter Poetry

Approaching Storm

The weatherman on TV
(You know the one)
Said he was ninety percent
Sure the blizzard
Would arrive
Before midnight

At the witching hour
I strained to
Hear what
I could not hear

To be sure there was
No wind, I opened
The window
To have true north
Hit me between the eyes

Immediately I knew
The icy sting of death,
The opposite of fire,
Was waiting in the dark
To prove that the weatherman
Was right

                           -Joan Ramseyer


Stronger Breed

In the North we
Are a stronger breed
Since we face the threat
Of being crushed between
Two semi's on any
Icy road

Long winters and
Gray days take a
Constitution of hope
For the next season

Our ancestors brought
In the harvest
And sealed the cellar
Doors against the
Cold to come

But we know the
Snow will melt
And the first above
Forty degree day
Will have our coats
Tossed in a corner

We duck our heads
Against the wind
And shovel the white stuff
One more time
Then we feed the birds
And glory in two
Sunny days out of ten

Our reward is
A beautiful afternoon
In July when we
Watch our children
Frolic by the lake shore
And see the sparkling droplets
Run off their
Innocent skin

                       -Joan Ramseyer

January Blues

 

Find me a flower

In January

That blooms

In the snow

 

Swoop blood red cardinals

To my window

Hovering

Like hummingbirds 

 

Tell me a tale

With a happy ending

To keep me warm

Inside and out

 

Send me a note

With an actual stamp

So I can know

You're real

 

Then throw another log

On the fire

To break the ice

Of a long long winter

 

 

                                  - Joan Ramseyer

                          

 

The lost art of letter writing

Over the years I have been drawn to stationery, postcards and note cards.  There was a time when I wrote many letters and I waited in anticipation for return mail.  I must have started writing letters at a young age as I recently came across a note written to me from my Aunt Marie.

                                                                                    Wednesday

Dear Joan,
     I hope you are over the mumps.  I guess I never had them.  Uncle Mack and I will be home the first week of April.  You write a nice letter.  We enjoy them very much.
                                                                  Love,
                                                                  Aunt Marie

The marvelous thing about words on paper sent over the miles was that the letters could be read and reread and then saved in a box.  In my attic I have such a box of letters saved by my father from my mother.  They are a glimpse back to the late 30's and early 40's when my mother was teaching in a one room school house and their young love was starting to blossom.

Saving letters must run in the family. I received a special letter from a former teacher when I was a senior in high school.  During my junior year I had worked with other students on the 1963 Tigerite, our high school yearbook.  We had a young teacher, Pat Austin, who for the first time decided the yearbook needed to be jazzed up and we added many new style elements.

She and her husband Alan, who was our band director, decided to move to Ann Arbor after my junior year so my senior year we were left to fend for ourselves with a new advisor who knew little about how to put a yearbook together.  Mrs. Austin had named me the editor for the 1964 Tigerite, but I couldn't have managed it all without my good friend Judi Campagna who was a go getter.

When the year was over we sent a copy of the book to Mrs. Austin and her letter to me was one I treasured and kept. 

May 12, 1964

Dear Joanie -

You have now something in common with Hercules!  Triumph over overwhelming odds!  Your Tigerite is superb - and I could do cartwheels. (If I could.)  It has grace and balance - and so many "sharp" features I just don't know where to begin telling you of my reactions.

Mrs. Austin's letter was six pages long and at the end of it she wrote that she and her husband were headed to Anchorage, Alaska where Mr. Austin had gotten a job.  I never heard from her again nor knew what happened to them in Alaska.  But I kept her letter in a scrapbook and it is a reminder of my high school years.

In college there were letters home to my parents.  My mailbox in the dorm often had a return letter from my mom or from high school friends.  It was always a good day when there was a special message from someone.

Letters like my parents wrote to each other were exchanged between my husband and me before we were married.  When he traveled to Europe for a few months or when we were separated by summer jobs, we each wrote at least once a week.

When we married, my husband's mother and father lived several hours away.  I got in the habit of writing a weekly letter, usually on Sunday to recap what we had been doing during the week and later to share the activities of our two children.  My mother-in-law also sent a weekly letter.  When my father-in-law retired, he joined into the letter writing business and his were always humorous, often at my mother-in-law's expense.

Tues. 3-10-81

"Hi" you all!  This is Grandpa starting to run off at the mouth.  I have been lazy for a week now.  I did write a letter to Dootz yesterday.  When I wrote the date on this letter it remind me of Lil Kemp's birthday her birthday was on the 10th  I wonder how old she would be, my Dad would have been 102 yrs old yesterday the 9th. 

So many nosy people wonder what I am doing.  I think that is my business if I want to chase mother around the house, we hit it off real good.  Mom is a pretty nice girl even if she is going to be seventy her next birthday.  I am bugging her eating so much........

.......Sometimes I wonder how my foreman is making out with tungsten grinders, he talked to me a couple months ago he dread the thought of me retiring the last day I was there he tried three men on it and nobody liked it.  Yesterday he was going to try a 18 yr old with a broken leg.  You got to be a little polish to like it, that is where I fit in O.K. but eyes let me down.  So will close with lots of love.

Mom & Dad

In one letter my father-in-law referred to hearing that our son, who was in kindergarten at the time, was being picked on by another little boy.  Grandpa told our son not to start anything, but if he got hit he should "hit the boy in the snot locker." 

After my mother-in-law died I was told that she had kept all my letters over the years, but in some one's zeal to clean out the house, they had been thrown out.  I thought it was endearing that Mom Ramseyer had kept them all those years, but I was a bit heartsick that the history of our little family was gone in the blink of an eye.

Letters did not always bring joy  Some have been hurtful and others expressed the pain in one's life.  Recently a friend gave me a letter she found that was written by my mother to her mother Myrtle during a particularly painful time for my mom.  In the late 60's my mother became depressed.  She was admitted to a psychiatric hospital in Plainwell where she tried to get well.  Despite where mom was, her letter sounded hopeful. 

                                                                                     Thursday 7:30 a.m.

Dear Myrtle,

     We have to get up at six o'clock in the morning and have breakfast at seven.   
     When I think about what put me here I think God meant me to quit that job and it helps a lot.  I must continue thinking the same thing.
     I worry about Jerry and how he is getting along.  I think he's coming to see me today.
     There are so many people here that it is overcrowded.  Some of them go home today so it will help a little.
     It was cold yesterday and is cold again today. 
     There are so many people with such terrible problems that I'm lucky compared to them.  I've met some wonderful people too.  The nurses are all wonderful.
     Thanks for all the help you gave me while I was at home.  I hope to be back soon for good!  How's everything in Shelby?

                                                                     Love,
                                                                     Ellen

The letter my mother wrote to Myrtle was written in October of 1967.  In March of 1970 my mother's dear friend Myrtle found my mother after mom had decided she could not live anymore the way she felt.  I was glad to read this letter after so many years have passed because it shows that my mother wanted to get well.  However the hope did not last for her or our family.

Despite the content of a letter, there is something about the feel of the paper, the texture, and the written word.  Those who treasure letters are those who treasure the human spirit and the ability to communicate feelings.

Instant messaging has taken away the special feeling of going to the mailbox and finding a letter.  In desk drawers and wooden boxes I have more stationery than I can ever use, but when I travel I still look for unique writing paper to add to my collection.

I write notes and letters to my two granddaughters, Adrianna and Bella, who do not live near and sometimes to my three grandchildren, Jay, Avery and Carter who live just down the road.  My  granddaughter Adrianna has a pretty box where she keeps special things including the postcards and letters I have sent her over her eleven years.  It touches my heart to see her colorful box. However I feel that less and less personal writing will be done by hand and those special boxes filled with human emotion will be lost to future generations.  But meanwhile, sweet Adrianna is saving my words to her and that brings me great joy. 
 

Sights and Sounds of the Season

We were two little girls when my sister and I were coached by my mother to perform at her annual lodge Christmas potluck and program.  I had memorized a couple of lines to say and my sister got into a box wrapped as a present.  At the right word in my little poem, she jumped out of the box.  SURPRISE!

I'm not sure Christmas programs or concerts have changed much since the 50's.  It is the season to watch little children sing and bands and orchestras  play a variety of all the Christmas music that is out there.

In the last week we have attended five concerts.  It started out with our grandson Carter's first grade program.  All the children were dressed in their pajamas and they sang their hearts out.  The songs seemed complicated to me, but most of the children knew all the words.  Of course programs with young children can never go perfectly.  There was one little boy who was holding a stuffed animal and then he had the animal on his head.  When the music teacher saw that, she wandered over in front of him and gave him a word. 




Above: Hart first and second graders perform at their Christmas program.  Below: Close up of Carter (blond boy) and his classmates acting out their song in pajamas.   

Children's programs were a big part of my upbringing.  Christmas programs at church were very important events.  One year, when I was probably eight or nine, I was an angel and had a speaking part.  My mother made me a halo to wear.  She used some old tarnished tinsel that had been in the attic.  When we got to church the night of the program I noticed another angel also had a halo, only her halo was wrapped in bright new gold tinsel.  For a minute I felt jealous, but then remembered that I was the angel with the speaking part.

The holiday concerts we attended this season were put on by the West Michigan Symphony, the Hart Music Series and the Hart Bands.  We listened to our grandson Jay play his saxophone in the sixth grade band.  Both the high school band and the West Michigan Symphony played the yearly classic, Sleigh Ride. 


Sleigh Ride can be delightful if everyone is going at the same tempo. But if they are not....Katie bar the door.  The slapping of the reigns must be off rhythm and the neigh of the horse has to be right on cue.  I remember playing that song when I was in band and it never came off perfectly.  I imagine many band directors have their students play it just because it is a tradition.  For the audience it can be a source of amusement.  The Hart High School Band pulled it off although one of their drummers was trying to slow it down.  The symphony is expected to play it well, so no surprises there. 

Our last concert was a recital of young violin and cello players.  Our granddaughter Avery started cello lessons in the fall and the instructors who teach cello and violin put their students in front of an audience.  There were many violin solos and the youngest players performed as a group, as did the cello players.  The older violin students had memorized longer and more difficult pieces and only had a few blips.

Coming out of the church where the young string players performed was a time to look at the Christmas lights.  Since we are headed for a white Christmas, the decorations seem more intense this year and bring back memories of the Christmases of old when we always seemed to have snow.  The music adds to the beauty and children performing is the best thing of all. 

I am taking time to listen to the sounds of the season and enjoy the simple scenes. 


Scenes of the Season

 

 

Sounds of the Season

 

 

 

Music

 

Sleigh Ride - Boston Pops

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OATi34PKNPw

 

 

Carol of the Bells - Boston Pops

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VLFW1U-5uTE

 

Little Drummer Boy - Pentatonix

  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qJ_MGWio-vc

 

 

Photos 3, 5 & 12 taken by Hack Ramseyer

 

By the Flickering Firelight

After my mother died in 1970, I became pregnant with our first child.  It was a year of sadness and happiness and changes all around.  We moved from Lansing to Shelby to live a year with my father in order to help him through his grief. Even before my mother died we had plans to build a house of our own in the countryside outside of Hart.  Living for a time in my childhood home was a transition between the city teaching jobs we were leaving and the home and teaching jobs we would have in the beautiful area where I grew up. 

My husband was hired in Fremont to teach German and history and I was hoping to find a teaching job in the area after having a baby and taking a year off.  Even though we did not pay rent, it was a difficult year financially with only one teacher's salary.  In order to supplement our income I subbed at Shelby.

After having our daughter Aimee in December, I returned to subbing.  I was desperate to find someone to take care of our baby and when I called my Aunt Margie she came to my rescue.  I don't remember her ever turning me down.  Her husband, my Uncle Tom, was my mother's brother and he was a larger than life personality.  I loved both of them immensely.

The thing I remember most about taking Aimee to their home, often before the light of day, was the ambiance.  My Uncle Tom would be sitting in a comfortable chair by a roaring fire.  I loved the feeling of that fire and the warmth that always greeted me when I entered that house.  I can still visualize my Uncle Tom and his boisterous way of showing me that it was no problem to take care of our baby.

A fire in a fireplace has always been intriguing to me.  It is mesmerizing to watch the color of the flames and hear the crackle of the burning wood. Throughout my life fire has been a part of things I remember so fondly.

When I was in college I worked one summer at a resort, Lakeside Inn on White Lake outside of Whitehall.  My brother had gotten married that summer and he and his wife lived close by.  My sister-in-law had worked at Lakeside Inn during college and helped me get the job.  Some evenings a fire would be built close to the water and my brother would come and play his guitar for the guests.  Both he and I loved to sing and my brother, the folk music and the firelight are etched in my mind as a wonderful time in my life.

There were other fires on other beaches along Lake Michigan that bring back memories including fires we built to cook dinner on when we owned a lot on Lake Michigan.  I would wrap meat, potatoes and vegetables in tin foil and they would cook while we swam.  Our two children and often their cousins would frolic in the waves and be starving by the time everything was cooked.

There is a fire now on July 4th at my son's house where the grandchildren roast marshmallows and shove chocolate and their marshmallows into graham crackers.  S'mores have been around a long time and watching the grandchildren eat them with relish takes me back.

I gravitate to fire anywhere I am.  At Glacier National Park we stayed in a lodge next to Lake McDonald. It was a cool night and there was a fire in a huge stone fireplace in the lodge's great room that made me linger.  At Caberfae when the family goes skiing there is a stone fireplace that is a magnet for everyone coming in off the slopes.  I always try to get a chair right in front.

Last Christmas I received a gift that makes my love of fires so much easier.  I can still build a fire in our fireplace in our family room, but my husband installed a gas unit in our living room fireplace.  Now with a press of a button I can see the flames.  It isn't quite the same as wood crackling and the sweet smell of wood smoke, but it satisfies my need to feel both the warmth physically and mentally.

I'm not sure why I need fire in my life, but I believe eons ago, when humans discovered flames, there was an instant change in their lives.  The gloom of a tough life must have dissipated a little and a small joy probably glimmered in their eyes.  I wish the warmth and beauty of flickering flames could be a part of every one's life.  It is the season when firelight can do wonders to help us through the long dark nights. 

 

 

 

Mozart at Midnight

The handbill on the large wooden doors of St. Stephen's Cathedral in Vienna announced a concert of Mozart's Requiem for December 4 at midnight.  The year was 2007 and we were in Vienna for the Christmas markets.

"It might be too late at night for us," my husband said.

"I'm going," I remarked.  "If you don't want to go, I think I can get back down here by myself."

"Why is the concert starting so late?" my husband inquired at the ticket office inside the church.  We learned the Requiem was performed at midnight on December 4 in order to end at the approximate time Mozart died on December 5.  We were happy there were still tickets available as we both realized it would be a once in a lifetime concert.

The night of the concert was cold as we walked toward St. Stephen's.  There was a light show on the cathedral and the Christmas lights were spectacular hanging like giant chandeliers in an area called the Graben off St. Stephen's
Platz. There were also tiny lights that cascaded like waterfalls on the street, the Kohlmarkt. On another side street huge red lights in the form of globes hung in the middle of the street. There were also panels of red lights with a white design and strobe lights.

We stood in line in front of the cathedral as we couldn't get in until 11:30.  Once we took our seats close to the back of the church, we watched young people look for empty seats closer to the orchestra and singers and move up from the seats for which they had tickets.  We didn't feel like being so daring.

As scheduled, the concert began at midnight.  The Requiem is a powerful piece of music, both sad and beautiful.  I was very familiar with the music because I had showed the movie Amadeus to my senior English classes several years in a row. 

St. Stephen's is a huge cathedral and there were many lights above the center aisle.  Along the side of the church smaller lights glowed like candle light.  As the Requiem was played, at different intervals, one light after another above the center aisle was turned off until at the end one light remained.  With the last note, it too was extinguished.

In the silence, priests came in and rang little bells and then walked down the main aisle ringing them before they walked off to the side and were silent.  Death, the end, the sadness for those who are left behind and in Mozart's case, the music that would no longer be composed.  The stillness was deafening.  It was an experience like no other.

We came out into the cold night and because the public transportation was closed down, we walked the half hour back to our hotel at two in the morning.  I could see the stars.  I glanced up at a building and saw through a high window two chandeliers twinkling in a large room.  We walked through a Christmas market with the shutters closed on the many booths.  We walked up Maria Hilferstrasse, the main shopping street, until we got to the side street that led to our hotel. 

There are events in life that can stop one's breath for a second because of the beauty.  Mozart at midnight was such a moment.