"Like making dandelion wine, like buying these new tennis shoes, like shooting off the first firecracker of the year, like making lemonade, like getting slivers in our feet, like picking wild fox grapes. The first root beer pop of the year. The first time running barefoot in the grass for the year. First time almost drowning in the lake of the year. First watermelon. First mosquito. First harvest of dandelions. Those are the things we do over and over and over and never think.

Every year the same things, same way, no change, do difference!" (-RB, Dandelion Wine)

Getting a garden ready for a new summer's planting. There is nothing like a piece of land, fresh plowed, dark and moist, all evenly turned, and waiting to be seeded in a few days. Especially memorable becomes the effort when it is the end of the day, one is comfortably tired from the work, and the late spring sun is low in the sky.

My dad taught me these secrets. I shared "some" of them with my boys last weekend!

This message has been edited. Last edited by: fjp451,

quote:

Originally posted by fjp451:
Getting a garden ready for a new summer's planting. There is nothing like a piece of land, fresh plowed, dark and moist, all evenly turned, and waiting to be seeded in a few days. Especially memorable becomes the effort when it is the end of the day, one is comfortably tired from the work, and the late spring sun is low in the sky.


My dad taught me these secrets. I shared "some" of them with my boys last weekend!

This is nice to know that fathers keep passing secrects of landcare to the sons

It's a good thing you decided to set this topic, as I also agree that Bradbury has much to speak about traditions. This is what attracted me somehow when I was reading the Dandelion wine...
I guess I truely understood the boys' emotions as I myself grew up going to forest and picking berries, for example...I now live in the suburb area of Yakutsk and like to see how birds return evey spring (skylurks, for example).
I am a Sakha (Yakut), and our nation is very close to nature, we depend on such subsistence things as gathering, planting some vegetables, our men go hunting and fishing.
Mayby my origin played role in that, agree?
I think if I grew in the big city, I'd not feel those episodes really deep.
But of course we should count the master's unique style and language!

Katerina, I have thought many times of many years ago before the first settlers came to what is known today as "America." With only the "Native Americans" here, there were no buildings, highways, parking lots, refuse dumps, pollution, deforestation, cell phones, corruption, etc., etc., etc. The natives hunted, fished, grew their own vegetables much as your people do today.

And look at America today, much of it paved over, polluted, over crowded, etc., etc. But where did all of these materials come from? It's hard to realize it in a way, but the vast majority of it came from the ground and below.

When my Mom passed away a few years ago it really devastated me. We had such a tremendous relationship and it really bothered me that this would be forever altered, that it would never be the same. Then I found myself doing the same things with my children that my Mom had done with me and realized that my Mom was still here with me. Now I drive the point of this wonderful concept of continuance and remembrace home to my children every chance I get...

Thanks Mom

Still to this day...a bit of wine in a fine glass, especially late at night, with all quiet, and clocks allowed to tick unheeded.

...Growing up, there was always a bottle of grandfather's handpressed, sparkling, pink wine on the table for Sunday dinners. We would get just enough in a glass of ginger ale to add some color.

Then as I got older, with three generations sharing the vintage, came deeper meaninged exchanges. Wisdom across the table! Often, all it took was fresh Italian bread, cheese and olives, and, ah!, the wine - with hours of talk on things that, now many years later, hold pure meaning!

(Nice.. Parish!)

Thanks, I loved this "and clocks allowed to tick unheeded" as well...

What is lost in flesh can never be lost in heart and mind. I miss my mother terribly but I can honestly say that our relationship remains the same through my interaction with my children...

This message has been edited. Last edited by: Parish,

quote:

Originally posted by fjp451:
Still to this day...a bit of wine in a fine glass, especially late at night, with all quiet, and clocks allowed to tick unheeded.

...Growing up, there was always a bottle of grandfather's handpressed, sparkling, pink wine on the table for Sunday dinners. We would get just enough in a glass of ginger ale to add some color.

Then as I got older, with three generations sharing the vintage, came deeper meaninged exchanges. Wisdom across the table! Often, all it took was fresh Italian bread, cheese and olives, and, ah!, the wine - with hours of talk on things that, now many years later, hold pure meaning!

(Nice.. Parish!)

Hey, fjp 451:

so you really make the dandelion wine? I've always thought people don't do it anymore...

Maybe I am repeating somebody's quiry, but could you give the recepy?

Not Dandelion Wine, though I have had it a few times. My grandfather had grape arbors. He would use his homegrown fruit each autumn but would also buy boxes of grapes (red and some purple). They were shipped in the wooden fruit boxes that had the great pictures on the end boards:
http://www.fruitfromwashington.com/Varieties/art/label_art.htm

When we got to be about 14yrs. old, my cousin and I always "volunteered" to help him carry things up from the basement when we were gathered for a family meal. He was a proud, classic immigrant from the old country. A sparkling ounce of his wine for each of us, served up in a thick shot glass, was our best kept secret. He religiously checked on his oak barrels and their contents whenever he ventured into that old storage cellar, and we were willing assistants in the ceremony.

As a matter of fact, I have his (cast iron and wood slat) wine press out in the the garage. When time allows, I hope to give it a try myself.

This, the color his wine always was: http://www.delmarrestaurant.co.uk/images/menu%20photos/rosewine.jpg

Kat ~ As for DW, many recipes on line. Here is one:
http://www.texascooking.com/recipes/dandelionwine.htm

This message has been edited. Last edited by: fjp451,

to fjp451:
thanks a lot!
now wating for the blooming time of the dandelions!

"Knowing" when Autumn has arrived. Getting out the box of vintage Hallowe'en decorations and putting them up in the same places you have done for more years than you can remember. Going out to a farmer's market to choose the sacrificial pumpkin out of the huge boxes of same (pumpkin patches are hard to find around here). Carving the face on it and putting in the candle and tucking the Jo'L into the corner of the stoop. Going out early the next morning and viewing the leftovers of the wild revelry of The Night before--

Pushing our dad-powered lawn mower yesterday (think DW), I had to duck my head to get under a few low hanging branches of a white oak tree that grows beautifully in front of our home. The tree was transplanted as a foot high sapling about ten years ago. Now, it reaches up close to twenty feet, with leaves that seem to dance about when the wind blows lightly.

Anyhow...I was grumbling a bit about having to get scratched and poked by the strong, gnarly limbs, when I couldn't help but notice hidden among the leaves and twisted branches were numerous short lengths of white strings with just the slightest remnants of pumpkin stems still attached. The oak serves as our family's Halloween Tree come frost and autumn-time! (Mixed metaphor?)

A most moving tribute Ray:
A family of true Catholic believers, whom I have known and watched grow from at first only the two parents, merged by their respective Catholic priests from across a wide world of many miles by marriage, and into then a family of tiny tots, now to near pubescent teens, visited with me this past Saturday. I have known these folk for many a year and have participated from afar in their Christenings and many prayers have been exchanged for me in their Rosaries and by me, in my spirituality, for their well being and successful journey through the difficilut years of early life toward adulthood. While not a Catholic, and surely a doubter, a non-believer in the magic of this Religion, I have greatly and strongly encouraged these folk to embrace their religion and take full notice of the need for helping others to feel their passion for the God of their choice. This said, I love these people as my own family and would do anything to aid them in any way required.

The eldest of the three children, a girl of now thirteen, intellegent and worldly beyond her years, open to the world and all it presents to such a one as she, I offered a tour of my library, and showed her my extensive collection of Ray Bradury works, most now signed first editions, up from the originally purchased paperbacks acquired at $0.25 each in my youth. This dark skinned princess, for she is of Sri Lankan ancestry, then let me know that she was a fan of Ray's works and had read several of his more well known works, such The Martian Chronicles. Instictively, without thinking, my hand reached into my book case and withdraw one of two copies of From The Dust Returned, signed first editions, both. I handed this copy to her and tried to explain the origin of the novel, and the long wait for it to finally be published with the cover by Chas Addams, now gone to his own Homecoming. I felt a feeling of pride in having done a good deed, thinking such a knowledgible fan of Ray's works would surely appreciate the gift.

They left and the feeling was a glow in my heart for most of the day.

Then, I began to have second thoughts as to the appropriateness of this particular Bradbury title, to fall into the hands of a truly Religious young person, and how the subject matter of All Hallow's Eve and the Family, so different than we living humans, might affect her young mind. So, I went to the bookscase and took out the remaining copy and began to re-read it for my own peace of mind. As I read through the chapters again, for the third or forth time now, since its publication, I became aware of the true nature of this book. It is a love story, or a book of love stories, clothed in the trappings of October People and things that would normally go bump in the night. Only Ray, the master of October stories, could build such a beautiful tribute to the emotions of love and respect from the vantage point of the dark rhythms of the night people. I no longer have any doubts that a reading of this book might alter the direction of a truly Religious young mind away from her truth. Quite the opposite, it will leave her with such feelings of love for others, even if they be of strange races and backgrounds, living in the night and afraid of the Sun. I find that I am once again renewed with awe and respect for what Ray has done, and how he does it with such grace and affection for the Humanity of his readers.

I await further contact with this family and its young princess who reads Bradbury, and I am sure that all is well in the world and readers of Ray's works are better off for the readings.

There are two traditions that I created years ago in my family. When we go to see fireworks we 'give them away.' We give them to the living and also to those no longer with us, as in "This next one is for Grammy Mabel!" They sparkle and light up dark places, just as do those we love.

The other one is the celebration of 'half-birthdays.' Once a year is not often enough, in my opinion, to commemorate those we love and for whom we care.

The half-birthday has other benefits, as well. For example, on August 22 when Mr. Bradbury turns 88, he can marvel at his incredible vitality and productivity, especially when he considers that he is 176 half-years old! On the other hand, on August 26 when I turn 50, I can imagine myself to be far wiser than I am. After all, a fellow 100 half-years old simply must have garnered at least a modicum of those 'pearls of wisdom' we hear tell of.

And in late February when there is little to celebrate? Well, there you go! Happy 177th, Mr. B! A jolly 101st to you, Mr. P!

One final note, to Katerina: Isn't it a wonder and a marvel, that you and I can live thousands of miles away, and yet find ourselves right here, together in the same 'neighborhood?'

For all its troubles, this ol' world still is a wonderful and wonder-filled place.

Mark

Like coming up for air after a hibernation in the chrysalis of life...
Like discarding the old, to breathe life into the new summers dew.
Sending a whisper of a thought like the wisp of dust from a mummies tomb...
Summer, again born bright and clear, crisp and new.
It seems so long, as yet cracking a pages edge
as once again I read words anew...
Forever has a flavor only Ray can construe.! !