Seeing Things

It was the mid-1990s, Granddaddy and I were in the back seat of Aunt Marilyn's car. I don't know where we were going or who else was there, but I remember looking out my window at Rockhold Creek. I saw a kingfisher and excitedly pointed it out to the rest of the car.

Granddaddy was excited too. I've never known anyone who could get so much joy out of small things. He took my hand and squeezed it.

"I'm so glad you SEE things. Not everybody does," he said with a proud smile.

I was in my early twenties, but I was Granddaddy's girl. It made me warm and giddy to think I'd pleased him. Proud too, that this "seeing things" was something we shared. Something I inherited from him.

My boys see things too.

Gabe is the champion of things no one else notices. The bit of trash shaped like an elephant. The microscopic manufacturer's star on the back window of our old mini-van. The chicken pox scar on my forehead.

But Matt sees things the way Granddaddy did.

Gabe has piano lessons on Thursday night and between school and work and commute times, I stoop (and they cheer) to fast food. The boys take turns choosing a restaurant. Gabe's favorite is Subway. Matt's is Sonic.

A few weeks ago, we sat devouring our burgers and tots, when Matt leaned toward the windshield to stare into the sky.

"Is that a bald eagle?"

I followed his gaze. White head, white tail, HUGE bird.

"I think it is!"

It turned out to be the first of two eagles we saw that week. Both were very special, but made all the more so by the thought of Granddaddy doing his heavenly happy dance over our ability to see things.

Chinquapin

Several years ago, in one of my very first posts (my third to be exact), I told how my granddaddy brought paw paws and chinquapins from the woods for my Gran to eat.

I remember the paw paws from my own childhood, but until last weekend, I had only the Internet to show me what a chinquapin looked like.

I was hiking with a friend in the American Chestnut Land Trust in Calvert County, Maryland. I may or may not have been showing off my nature knowledge when my friend pointed to a prickly sphere on the ground.

"What's that?" he asked.

"I've no idea." I gingerly picked up the object and swore. The spines were very sharp.

"I think it might be a chinquapin!" I said, getting excited.
(I get excited over such things and not just because it gives me blog material. I've been told on numerous occasions that I'm a big geek.)

A little Internet research indicates I'm probably right, but I'll confirm with Gran tonight.

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Suggested reading:

"How to Manage and Identify Chinkapin," About.com Forestry
http://forestry.about.com/od/silviculture/p/chinkapin.htm

Photo Friday: Blueberry Hill

Blueberries growing in my grandparent's garden

As much I love to eat these, I also love taking their picture.  They're just so beautiful.

Florida Sandwiches

When Buddy got out of the Navy in 1960, he wanted to visit friends he'd made while stationed in Jacksonville.  He told his friend and mentor, my granddaddy, about his plans.

"Let's all go!"  Granddaddy said with his trademark bounce. Granny, in her own trademark move, expressed concern regarding the logistics, mainly their lack of money.

Granddaddy convinced her to take a week's salary ($100) and go.  The six of them--Buddy, my grandparents, my pre-teen mother and aunt, and a four-year old Uncle Jess--piled into my grandparents old Dodge station wagon and headed south on 301.

Granny packed a cooler, but six people confined to a car on an old Interstate made short work of it. In those days, 301 wasn't very populated.  There were few stores and they hadn't much money for those stores they did pass.

When they got to Florida, they were hungry.

Granddaddy stopped at a gas station and went into the general store attached to it.  He came back with a loaf of fresh bread and a pound of bologna.  Granny put a slice of bologna on a slice of plain bread and folded it in half. To six hungry bellies, the soft bread and bologna were heaven.

They were dubbed Florida Sandwiches and 50 years later are still a family road trip staple.
 

When You Pick A Pawpaw

I have a vague memory of being in the woods behind my granddaddy's shed. Under the canopy of poplars and oaks, Granddaddy and Mom were picking pawpaws. Granddaddy used his pocket knife to peel the oblong fruit and pass it to the curious. We tentatively tasted the creamy fruit and found it sugary sweet like a banana, but with the consistency of a very ripe pear. We ate every bite.

As part of my Granddaddy nature lore, I remember what a Pawpaw tree looks like. I see them now and then in lush native forests like the one behind Granddaddy's house. They're spindly things, ranging in height from six to 30 feet. The leaves are the kind I used to draw as a child: elongated ovals, longer than an adult's hand.

About a month ago, the boys and I were hiking in Elk Neck State Park and the underbrush was made of pawpaw trees. I'd never seen so many. Glancing up at the underside, I saw the beginnings of fruit and I wondered if there were still pawpaws in Granddaddy's woods.

Last Thursday, Granny and I were talking about Granddaddy and his love for the natural world. She told me he'd learned from his father and would bring her not just pawpaws, but wild blackberries and a nut-type fruit called chinquapins. Neither of us had any idea what a chinquapin was and lamented the lost knowledge.

After dinner, determined to pass on my meager knowledge, the boys and went into the woods behind the shed.

Lo' and behold. . .


Pawpaws with a little baby fruit.

They should be ripe September/October. Who's game?

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For more information:

Kentucky State Pawpaw Program
http://www.pawpaw.kysu.edu/

"The Pawpaw Patch," Watersheds.org
http://www.watersheds.org/nature/pawpaw.htm

Legacies

It seems only appropriate that I write about this today. Today would have been my Granddaddy's 86th birthday (and 66th wedding anniversary).

I've been thinking a lot about legacies. My family has never been materially wealthy, but the legacy I've received has been rich.

Every weekend (save one) since May the boys and I have ventured off on a day trip. Each time as I studied the maps, packed the car, got behind the wheel, and started singing our first song, I thought of Mom. I could feel her with me. I could feel her smile. And I could feel the joy of my children. It was like deja vu, except I was sitting in a different seat.

Our destinations have involved a lot of hiking and learning about the natural world. I can't walk through the woods without thinking of Granddaddy. I showed the boys a Jack in the Pulpit in Seneca Creek State Park and could clearly picture Granddaddy bending over to show me the same plant when I was small. He was my personal walking field guide.

So many people have commented on the boys and my travels. They talk about the great memories we're making. They can't believe we don't bring a DVD player or video game on a two hour drive. Some of them think I'm a little crazy. But to me this way you do it. This is what family trips are supposed to be.

This knowledge, this joy, this enthusiasm is the legacy I've inherited.