Consolation found in simple rhythms
We have retreated, Mister and I, to a land far away. We float for hours in water that looks like green glass. Looking down, I can see my feet.
I raise my eyes toward the horizon. That clear, bottle green shades to aquamarine, blurring into a turquoise, then another blue and yet another shade of deeper blue. White clouds scud across the azure sky. God’s hand is all over this spot on the spinning globe.
On a powdery beach, I watch the little boy running up and down, up and down, up and down. Brown as a little nut in the summer sun, this tiny French nugget is simply captivating. He is on holiday with what appears to be his grandparents.
All day long, they play, the three. They throw balls back and forth. Then they begin what looks like pickle ball, beach style.
They collect treasures–a necklace, pretty shells. Coins long since abandoned in the sand, crusted over with barnacles. Flotsam and jetsam, the kind that four other little boys used to stuff into their pockets. Grinning, they draw back the lid on the treasure box and show us what they’ve found.
A kind gentleman down the beach gives him a kerchief. Someone (his grandmother, I suspect) has tied it on his head in pirate style. From that moment on, he is a seafaring, adventuring pirate. It will take a passel of peg-legged ruffians to wrest it from him. He wears it in his sleep, I am sure.
I could eat him with a spoon, that small, brown, running pirate boy. The picture of childhood innocence, he, and a happy recipient of familial love.
Before leaving for the airport, we gather for breakfast at our favorite outdoor cafe. We are here to break bread with our friends before saying goodbye. Glancing up, I see the pirate’s grandmother, walking in the morning sun. She’s by herself.
I motion to her, holding up my hand at small-boy height. Where is he?
She puts her hands together by her face, the universal sign for sleeping. Then she pumps two fists in the air. “Yea!” We both laugh, and she disappears.
Now home from sunny climes, I can’t stop thinking about that lovely trio. For days, that small child was the focus of his grandparents’ time, attention, and love. For days, they bonded. For days, they filled the treasure box of his heart with jewels that will last…precious memories.
When the sand is brushed off and the tan starts to fade. When the kerchief is folded and put away at last, that love will endure. When hard times come, as they surely will, he will know that he is loved, and it will see him through.
What they have deposited in him, they’ll receive back in full, for love’s investment cannot fail to bring rewards. Oh, to know such childhood joy and familial love. The thought still warms my heart.
Meanwhile, the warp and woof of daily life continue. After two years of being too busy to preserve any food, I have recklessly ordered three bushels of Transparent apples from the local orchard. Earlier this summer, a friend had given me a golden nugget. As she stood, perusing my shelves, she said, “I use a juicer to cook the apples. That way, I don’t have to worry about them scorching. Then I simply add the juice it collects back into the sauce.”
Well. As Mr. Schrock’s philosophy seems to be, “Go big or go home. We don’t have time to mess around,” two more juicers show up on the doorstep (thank you, Amazon), bringing my count up to three. Which brings me to canning day.
The evening before, I collect jars, lids and seals, my beloved All-American pressure canner, the juicers, and the Victorio strainer. Rows and rows of quart jars are lined up on the counter. Everything’s ready to go.
All day long, I cut apples, cook them, run them through the strainer, and fill the jars. The range is getting a workout with all three steamers and the canner burbling happily away.
The Cub wanders by. Post wisdom tooth extraction, he’s been hard to feed. I hand him a bowl of warm, golden ecstasy.
“This is good, Mom,” he says. In the foreign language known as Young Male, this is a rave review. I accept it eagerly.
“It’s good for you,” I say, “to know how much work this takes.” This, as I crank the strainer and scrape out the peelings.
Mr. Schrock comes home just in time to help me finish. He, too, feels the happiness in our apple-scented home.
In challenging times, the quiet, simple rhythms of my ancestors ground me. As technology advances faster than I can keep up, I find consolation in the elemental themes of family life. Let’s eat together!