Bloom Where Planted Archives - Lisa Duchene, Writer

A thin, older man dressed in black, with sparse hair and a grey beard walks by our house a few times a week. He walks steadily and with purpose.
If I’m outside and ask how he’s doing, he always says: Blessed and grateful.
His response initially surprised me. Now, when I spot him I hear those words and remember what’s most important.
For me, February brings Thanksgiving, and is all about remembering to be grateful for life’s blessings.

Deep Sleep
For two weeks in November, 2009, my dad slept deeply in a darkened, intensive care room in Akron, Ohio, while the melodies of George Gershwin and George Winston softly played over the quiet whooshing of the ventilator breathing for him.
He fought a life-threatening infection in his lungs and belly. My family and I had made the room as quiet and soothing as possible, so he could devote every ounce of his energy to surviving.
My dad’s longtime girlfriend and my younger sister and I — then 39 and his eldest daughter — took shifts sitting beside him, encouraging him to fight and live. Every day, his hand warmed in mine as I told him stories of good, shared memories.
By Thanksgiving, he had kicked the infection, was breathing on his own and awake — but quite loopy from the medicine and facing a long recovery ahead. He told us how he repeatedly dreamed he had been in a car accident and of a transfer station near the hospital. He spent his favorite holiday there, so we promised him a full turkey dinner a few months later, when he was better.

Memorable Gathering
That turkey dinner in the middle of February was a wonderful evening for our family. The crystal and china sparkled around the antique table in the old, renovated barn my dad shared with his longtime girlfriend. Like most families, ours has been, you could say, somewhat dysfunctional and includes several ex-spouses and steps. My charming Dad was not so easy to be married to.
But we had all put old arguments aside during his illness to help him and each other. Our family had actually functioned and that evening genuine joy and gratitude for his life flowed around the dining table.
So we made it an annual tradition. For the next two years, we gathered in February for a Thanksgiving dinner with all the trimmings.

Loss and a New Home
By February 2013, I was dragging myself through each day. My dad died that January, almost exactly six months after a diagnosis of pancreatic cancer. I was devastated and exhausted by grief and his illness.
And — gratefully so — I also had a new family to care for. I’d just moved in with my now-husband and stepsons, transplanting myself to a small farm town where I knew almost no one but my new family.
My first marriage had failed. It brought no children, but had brought me here to central Pennsylvania, closer to my parents in Cleveland and to a place where I met and fell in love with an amazing, good, handsome man and his sons.
Mike and I traveled to Cleveland that February for Thanksgiving, when he met my dad before the cancer came. That August, when dad was very sick after a chemo treatment, he traveled here to meet our boys because he knew it would mean the world to me.
To Mike and I, family is paramount. But there would be no big family turkey dinner that February, my first winter in Big Valley. Too much. Too soon. Too tired.

A New Tradition
My husband, as is his gift, followed through the next year. Now, every year he reserves the hunting camp he belongs to in Rothrock State Forest, with the six-burner stove and two ovens, huge tables and a bunk room upstairs. He and his father and uncle are members. Our boys love going to camp. They are all hunters and use it during the season.
In the off-season, which includes February, camp is perfect for family get-aways and hosting a big turkey dinner.
So when the calendar turns to February, the preparations are in full-swing. I finalize the menu, gather the assorted recipes and make the big shopping list. Always turkey and potatoes, pies made from scratch and fresh cranberry-orange-ginger relish — with a chocolate dessert. It is February, after all.
We invite family and friends to stay for a weekend of visiting, playing games, long walks in the woods — and a big turkey dinner.
This year, we hosted 26 people for Thanksgiving dinner Saturday afternoon. Dad’s longtime girlfriend made the long drive. Everyone pitches in for a beautiful meal. Our family played board games deep into Friday and Saturday nights.
Outside was so warm and bright Saturday, that people settled into the chaise lounges and porch swings to chat and laugh — just like a summertime reunion.

Reaching for Grace
In February, as I walk the goofy beagle around town, I am more preoccupied and reflective than usual — making mental lists before the big dinner, then afterward reliving all its moments.
On the morning of Feb. 1, fresh white patches covered the rooftops, ridges and fields, shining in the bright sun and blue sky. Remnants of dried cornstalks poked up through the previous day’s snowfall — about five inches, just enough for a snow day. Snow outlined the sheets of grey bark and deep green up on the ridges.
By February, I am relieved and grateful to have muddled through the January dates of my dad’s birthday and anniversary of his death. Around those days, grief can rise from the shadows and block the sun.
Then it passes. February brings relief, lots to do to prepare for a big family dinner and weekend, and a special reminder to be grateful.
How my dad would love our Thanksgiving in February weekends. He would love our boys. He would love all the food, the joking and teasing, the cheering for them at baseball and football games, our plans as we remake this old house — all of it.
To live is to know loss. It hurts like hell. In time, the sharpness of its bite dulls — though never entirely disappears.
Some believe healing from grief means that gratitude for the gift of that person fills the hole. Perhaps that’s what it means to turn grief to grace.
I get that. I’ve felt that. Sometimes it is fleeting. Other times it sticks around. I’m grateful for all my dad taught me, how he loved me and all of our good memories.
And I still miss him.

Blessed and Grateful
I wish I floated through all of February’s days, on the wisdom that seems to propel our neighbor. Now, as the month wanes, I find myself getting bogged down in the grind of household tasks. Dishes. Laundry. Rinse and repeat. Over and over. Probably just tired and ready for spring.
Yet, at any moment I may look out the window over the kitchen sink and spot the man who is always blessed and grateful — an extra, year-round reminder.
And I remember just how blessed I am by this beautiful family, that our boys and my husband are healthy and happy. That my mom and stepdad are healthy.
That we live in a gorgeous valley. That there is much good work to do, exciting new ideas, things to learn and great stories to discover.
February overflows with blessings: stunning snowy fields, enduring love, a favorite story, a delicious meal, all the laughter and conversation around the big tables that weekend, good memories — and that something so good and wonderful sprouted out of such loss.
Yes, quite grateful.

Country Pleasures: Patience and Peaches

Three horse-drawn buggies. Two pickup trucks. Three cars. I eyed the gathering in the gravel lot in front of the big white weathered barn at the Amish orchard on Back Mountain Road, and parked carefully.

In the cool morning, we all quietly looked each other over, wondering how long we may have to wait for fresh-picked peaches — or if we would get any at all.

At just after 7, I’d hardly expected to be first. When they say “early” in Big Valley that means around 4 a.m., maybe sooner. By then, our farm town is wide awake. Traffic zips along the main road, slicing through the cornfields that blanket the valley bottom and stretch to the base of the mountain ridges.

Yesterday, the woman at the butcher shop had directed me to another orchard and said she’d heard from a woman who’d arrived before 5 (5 a.m.!) and was sixth in line.

People are crazy for peaches here in the valley this time of year.

Rightly so. Summer’s sweet essence lives in the juicy, delicate flesh of a ripe peach.

So eighth wasn’t so bad.

There were no paper slips with printed numbers and not many words spoken at first. Yet we all knew who among us was already there when we arrived and who had come later.

A chestnut horse pulling an open black wagon emerged from the trees and trotted into view, stopping in front of the barn. At the reins, standing on the buckboard, were two Amish boys, not quite teenagers, one wearing a bachelor’s button blue shirt and the other a pale blue one, and both in black trousers, with straw hats.

Reddish-orange peaches filled 18, wheat-colored half-bushel baskets in the wagon bed.

Hallelujah! A beautiful abundance.

I’d be back by 7:30, and on with the rest of the morning — or so I thought.

Then the next person in line asked for five bushels, 10 baskets. Six more people ahead of me.

Oh. OK. It’s going to be awhile.

The boys unloaded baskets, gently placing them on the gravel drive near the buyer’s buggy or truck, then moved on to the next person — often asking to determine who was next, as we’d parked in a formation more like a sprinkle than a line.

When they’d finished, and the horse had rested a bit and they’d briefly ducked into the house for whatnot, one boy stood before the horse, pushing on his chest to nudge him to step backward and turn back toward the trees. Each boy placed a foot in a broken-in, familiar spot and climbed back to driving position.

The horse’s metal shoes and the steel wheel clattered on the pounded dirt lane as the wagon climbed slightly and disappeared again into the orchard.

As they picked the next wagon-load, a few of us helped the woman with five bushels transfer her treasures from the baskets to boxes.

Peaches cannot be dumped. Each one must be gently moved by hand to avoid bruising.

We waited and chatted about our peachy plans. One woman intended to can them in the next few days and make a first cobbler today.

Dreaming of peaches

I fantasized about opening a glistening crystal-clear jar full of packed, sweet peach slices on a February evening.

Back in real life, I shuddered at what I remembered of canning peaches: a huge, hot mess when the peach pits clung to the flesh and had to be cut away. Their juice ended up washed off my arms and counters and floors, and down the drain.

Ever since, I’ve been careful to come home with a freestone variety, so that the pit releases with just a bit of pressure, and wait for them to ripen, set out in a warm spot of the house.

Mine will be grilled at our annual summer party on Saturday. Our local family and friends, plus a few carloads of out-of-town guests gather at a state park pavilion to celebrate the best of summertime: roasted corn, fresh tomatoes, grilled peaches, a swim in the lake, catching up with each other.

The peach ladies and I chatted about our vegetable gardens and the dry weather as the sun rose higher and the morning warmed.

We chatted with the mother of the Amish family who owns the orchard. She explained that the drought had cut the peach harvest in half, and made them sweeter. The apples would be down, too, she said, but they were thankful for the harvest, whatever the amount.

The wagon came and went two more times. Five more, then 10 more cars snaked down the lane. People milled and watched. Some napped in their cars.

We waited. So did the dirty breakfast dishes in my sink, the e-mails, the preparations for the party and the guests arriving tomorrow.

No matter. By then I was invested and enjoying the community, cool air and gorgeous scenery. I learned canning and gardening tips and met some of my Amish neighbors.

This year, our party peaches would be from the valley. And extra-sweet.

Peach nectar on the tongue belongs to all that is wonderful about summertime

Finally, I gently emptied two half-bushel baskets — one of Redhaven and another of John Boy — into cardboard boxes and into the car. The are ripening, spread out on brown paper in a warm room. The nicked and bruised handful are set aside for a cobbler — or maybe a pie.

That first bite was a delicious rush of nectar on my tongue. It belongs to all that is wonderful about summertime. A splash of cold water on a hot, humid afternoon. Floating on a river. Mountain pies over the campfire. Fireflies dancing above the cornfield. Cool, soft sheets on tired feet at the end of the day. The crack of a homerun off a wooden bat.

This is August, and we must make time to savor these summertime pleasures — for they are both fleeting and the salve to all of our worries, aches and ordeals, the swift passage of time, the kids growing up too fast. All of it at bay for now. In the fall, my youngest stepson turns 18. November will bring a watershed election, one way or another, and bitter wind will scour the valley.

But for now, we have sweet, fresh peaches from Big Valley to enjoy.

Bloom Where Planted

For me, February means Thanksgiving

Fresh, Big Valley Peaches

Bloom Where Planted

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