Brookfield Down Through the Years

 Memories are funny things. You can go along for years without thinking about something and then, out of nowhere, someone or something triggers a memory from the past. Those of us who have lived here most of our lives know how much Brookfield has grown and changed through the years.

After a stop at the Brookfield Market recently, I found myself thinking about how it has changed since I was a child. One of the things I most remember is that the entrance was located on the very front of the building near the bridge over the Still River, not on the side as it is now. It was one of the few places in town where you could buy groceries.

Times were simpler years ago. There were many farms here–today, houses sit in meadows where cows once grazed and crops grew. Some of the farms had large tracts of land, many of which were swallowed up by the building boom of the 1960s and ’70s. I grew up on the Gurski Farm, which is now town-owned open space. My mother and I would often go to the Mudry farm up the road from us on Obtuse Hill Road (Route 133) to pick blackberries. I remember one of those experiences very well, because it was there that I was frightened by a blacksnake that was bent on keeping us company in the berry patch. The Mudry farm is gone, and so too are the blackberries as well as the other farms that existed at that time.

Our pleasures seemed simpler back then despite living in the shadow of the cold war. I remember drills in school where we would get under our desks or go to the basement. How those actions would have helped us survive a nuclear attack still makes me wonder. Talk about exercises in futility.

I don’t remember many organized activities when I was a child. We pretty much had to make our own fun. There were some events, however, that were entertaining. How many remember Melody Fair that offered musicals under a tent on a large field later occupied by Caldor, and now Kohl’s?  My mom took me a couple of times—my first experience with musical theater.

Remember soda fountains? A pharmacy at the Four Corners had a soda fountain that had as one of its offerings the best fresh orange ice cream soda that I have ever tasted. I have never found another like it and have failed miserably trying to duplicate it at home with orange soda (for the fizz) and ice cream. It was a special combination of fresh orange juice, seltzer water, and rich, rich vanilla ice cream. The pharmacy, in addition to prescriptions and the soda fountain, also offered gift items. During my high school years and after, my best friend and I spent quite a lot of money there. You could always find the perfect gift for someone there as well as cards, wrapping paper, and bows. Unlike the Walgreen’s and other drugstores today, there was no food for sale except at the soda fountain.

Federal Road has changed a great deal since I was a child. There were no traffic lights. There was no I-84 or Super 7 bringing lots of traffic to town. There were a few small stores but no big box stores. There were tourist cabins behind two houses where Brookfield Commons is now. The bakery that recently opened was once Lavelle’s Wagon Wheel, a great place to eat that had the best prime rib you could find. My family often went there for dinner or for a snack in the evening following shopping in Danbury.

There were few places to shop in Brookfield, thus the need to go to Danbury for clothing and other needs.

One thing was certain: There were not many places for teenagers to work in Brookfield. I never had a job until I was a senior in high school, and that was at an insurance company in Danbury. I started working there after school, then worked full time after graduation. I remember being excited because I had to have my first car. I would drive to school, then to work, and then home. I considered that the best part of my senior year. It gave me my first real taste of freedom.

The center of Brookfield has changed from what I remember. The Brookfield Museum and Historical Society was the town hall when I was a small child; then it became the Joyce Memorial Library. Since the Consolidated School (now Center School) was just down the street from it, my classmates and I would walk up School Street to borrow books or do research assignments. The house on the corner next to St. Joseph’s Church later became a convent for nuns who taught at St. Joseph’s School

The Village Store was one place that teenagers could work. I had two friends who worked there over our teen years. They would wait on customers and, if needed, deliver groceries to local residents.

The house on the left side of St. Paul’s Church was the Congregational Church rectory; St. Paul’s rectory was a Victorian house located on Longmeadow Hill Road almost opposite St. Joseph’s rectory. The Congregational Church and St. Paul’s were the only churches in the center when I was a child. St. Joseph’s was located then on Pocono Road.

Highway names sometimes changed. Candlewood Lake Road was once White Turkey Road, named for the inn that sat on the corner of Federal Road. Passenger trains then stopped at the station near the Brookfield Market, now part of the Craft Center complex. My elementary class once took the train to Danbury to see the sights in the “city,” such as the big firehouse and City Hall, both no longer located where they were then. Our firehouse at the time was just south of the center on Route 25. The building, which had other uses before it was a firehouse, has been an apartment building for many years. I once went there to interview a fireman for a school project. I often remember that as I pass it on the way to errands or appointments.

There are so many more memories from my youth here, but one thing I have learned as a a resident is to adapt to the changes I have seen happening all around me. I could not expect Brookfield not to change through the years. It is no longer the rural farm town I remember. Years from now there no doubt will be additional changes, as plans become reality for the northern Four Corners.

Despite the changes, even negative ones, such as increased traffic, Brookfield is as great a place to live today as it was when it had one-quarter of its current population. It just takes a little more time to get around than it once did, especially now with municipal projects moving forward on Federal Road. You just have to know what roads to take to avoid delays in getting where you want to go.

The Girl Scouting Experience

 

One hundred years ago, Juliette Gordon Low of Savannah, Ga., was so impressed with the new Boy Scouts organization that she decided to begin one focused on girls. Today, more than 3.2 million girls and adults in 90 countries are members, and nearly 60 million women in the United States are Girl Scout alumnae. I am one of the alumnae.

I didn’t start out in Girl Scouting as a small child as my granddaughter, Jenna, has done. I wasn’t a Daisy. In fact, it wasn’t until I was in high school that I joined Senior Girl Scout Troop 6 in Brookfield.

We met once a week at the home of our leader, Barbara Walker, the wife of Congregational Church pastor Edward Walker. Their house, located to the left of St. Paul’s Episcopal Church, became one of my favorite places during my four years of high school.

That house, after falling into disrepair over the years, has been replaced by a new one, but my memories of the good times we had in the Walker home have not changed.

We learned so many things in those weekly sessions, earning badges for our endeavors. But that is not all we learned there. We learned to have confidence in ourselves and to have the courage to try new things and accept new ideas. Most of all Scouting helped build our characters; it helped us become the people we are today. It taught us to work as a team for a common goal as well as take on individual projects of our own.

We learned to set goals. One of the things we most wanted to do was to visit Washington, D.C. To make it possible financially for everyone in the troop to go, we held bake sales and enlisted the local Explorer Boy Scouts to join us in a variety show. I sang in the chorus and played two piano solos while other members of the two troops played other musical instruments or acted out skits. It was fun, and it helped raise funds for our trip.

We later gave a thank you party at St. Paul’s parish hall for the Explorers for helping out and taking part in the show. We played games and had refreshments, and even our leaders, Mrs. Walker and Cole Bradley, seemed to have a good time.

We also helped with community service projects, such as serving refreshments at Red Cross bloodmobiles and other local activities. It was an early look for us to see the many ways individuals can volunteer to help their town. I like to think that my involvement with Girl Scouts led to my later service on boards and commissions in Brookfield and 10 years as a 4-H leader.

The trip to Washington, D.C., in 1955 was a dream come true for me. I have always been interested in government and politics, and I was thrilled to see the Capitol building, where we had our photograph taken on the steps with one of our Connecticut senators. We stayed at a Girl Scout facility in Virginia and went into Washington every day and at night to see all the buildings lighted. We visited the White House, Supreme Court, Library of Congress, Washington Cathedral, Jefferson and Lincoln memorials and the Smithsonian and climbed the Washington Monument. My favorite was the Lincoln Memorial, and I think I have read almost every book written about President Lincoln.

The cathedral was lovely, but it was still under some construction in 1955. It is now undergoing repairs following last year’s earthquake that caused damage to it. It is expected that its repairs could take several years.

We even got lost around the Pentagon. No matter what street we drove down, it seemed like we ended up by it. Finally, Mrs. Walker stopped the car and asked a man in an Army uniform, apparently an officer, for directions. Those of us in the three cars looked on as he pointed out the correct route for us to finally get away from the building.

Another day we visited Arlington National Cemetery and saw the changing of the guard at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. My uncle had been killed in the Pacific in World War II. I could not remember him, but I do remember how sad I felt as I stood in front of the Lee Mansion and looked out at a sea of white headstones for those lost to war. We also visited the Marine Corps’ Iwo Jima Memorial located near Arlington.

We visited Mount Vernon and saw the burial place of George and Martha Washington. Though the rooms in the house were interesting, what I remember the most was the gardens. They were so beautiful and well cared for. Everything was so authentic that you almost felt that you could turn a corner and see President Washington.

That trip was the highlight of my Girl Scout years, but there was much more fun ahead of us. One summer we had a campout at Mt. Tom. We spent a weekend sleeping in sleeping bags or tents, cooking over an open fire, and swimming in the lake. We hiked to the top of the mountain, where we admired the scenery from the observation tower. We also had sleepovers at the Walkers’ home.

Looking back, I am amazed that they had all of us overnight and wonder if they got any sleep at all. I know most of us didn’t.

We did several hikes around Brookfield, down Route 133 near the railroad overpass or through the Iron Works, where we checked out a tunnel that ran under Route 25 to the river and the railroad station that was still in operation at that time. Today that building is part of the Brookfield Craft Center.

Another fun trip took place in 1956, when we stayed at a Girl Scout camp outside of Boston. During the evenings we would play games and cards. In the daytime, we saw the city from the top of the John Hancock building, spent time near the ocean, where we saw old ships, and visited Boston Common, the Capitol building, Paul Revere’s home, Old North Church, and many other interesting places.

After Boston, we stopped in Lexington and Concord, where we saw the minuteman statues, and in Salem we toured the Witch House and House of Seven Gables.

I remember only good times during my four years as a Senior Girl Scout. We learned a lot about ourselves, our country, and about citizenship, and we had a wonderful time doing it while having a wonderful time.

I’ll never forget Mrs. Walker and the Girl Scouts in my troop.

Congratulations, Girl Scouts, on your 100^th year. Keep up the good work.

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Oldest at the Table

With the recent Thanksgiving feast behind us, the holiday season has begun with all the shopping, decorating, baking, parties, and family get-togethers we either look forward to with longing or with dread.

I hate the shopping, don’t mind the decorating and baking, and look forward always to having my family around me during the holidays. This year, unfortunately, my oldest daughter and her family in North Carolina did not come for Thanksgiving and will not be with us for Christmas. That makes me sad because I miss them, but she loves living in North Carolina so I’m glad she is happy.

Last year everyone was here for Christmas, and we spent the day at my daughter and son-in-law’s home in Danbury. Their daughter is now my youngest grandchild. It was great fun having my four grandsons visiting because I don’t get to see them very often, especially the oldest, who is now working in Baltimore.

I always get very sentimental at this time of year, remembering all the family parties my family shared through the years and the members of the family that made those holidays so special. Sadly, most of those people from past gatherings have passed away, and five years ago, with the death of my dad, I became something I had never been before.

I am now the oldest at the table during holiday dinners, and my granddaughter, at 6, is the youngest. As I said to my daughter, her mother, on Thanksgiving, there is no one in my immediate maternal family that remembers me as a child because I grew up in a family of adults.

Because we lived so close to my dad’s family on the Gurski farm and saw them so often, we spent most of the holidays with my mother’s family. My maternal grandmother had three children, but neither of my mother’s brothers had children, and I was an only child. Also, neither of my grandmother’s sisters had children and her brother only had one daughter, who married but never had children.

Oh, my mother had plenty of cousins on her father’s side, but they were mostly of her age. Her father had been one of nine children. While some of her cousins had children, they lived out of state, and we only saw them during family reunions or perhaps at weddings or funerals. Even at those gatherings, I was often the youngest there.

I don’t think I ever minded being the only child with all those adults, no matter where I was. I always felt loved, and there was always a willing adult to play croquet or badminton at picnics or to play board games or cards on Thanksgiving, Christmas or Easter. One great-uncle in particular always took the time to teach me a new card or board game. He also was a great storyteller and would entertain me with tales about what it was like when he was young. He is probably one of the reasons I was always interested in family history.

One of our family traditions on Thanksgiving at my great-aunt’s on Candlewood Lake was to take a long walk after the noon meal. We would walk out Old Turnpike Road to Candlewood Lake Road and back. Then we would play cards or some board game until it was time to get ready for a light supper. I know I was never bored despite the fact that there were no other children present.

So I never regretted being an only child with all those adults. It wasn’t until my first child was born that I ceased being the youngest at the table during holiday dinners and other festivities. But even then I was far from the oldest.

My two great-aunts lived to be 93, outliving their husbands who had lived into their eighties, so there was a long period of time when I was still one of the youngest at the table.

I have to admit I didn’t think about being the oldest until the first holiday after my dad’s passing. As a family friend said at the time, I was now the matriarch of the family, a role I had once bestowed secretly on one of the great-aunts who was then the oldest in my immediate family. Having that word used to describe me gave me pause.

A dictionary defines matriarch as a woman who rules a family, clan, or group. It doesn’t quite fit how I see myself in the scheme of things in my family relationships. As I ponder the word “matriarch,” I wonder how my children and grandchildren would describe me. Certainly not, I believe, as a woman who rules her family but as their mother and grandmother.

Hanging Out

The need for places for young people to meet their friends, to hang out, is ageless. Brookfield teens today have more activities available to them than those of my generation, but I remember very clearly the need to be with my friends when I was growing up in Brookfield.

There may have been some organized activities, but most of all I remember having to think up fun things to do on my own, especially in the summer.

Our “hang out” place was often the Village Store on Route 25 in the center. We often dropped in there for lack of another place to go. Some of my friends even worked there at times, behind the counter and delivering grocery orders. It was a great place to stop on the walk home from a Girl Scout meeting or after a bike ride around town. We would prop our bikes against the porch before going in to buy ice cream, soda, or candy. Then we would sit on the porch steps and chat.

The pharmacy at the Four Corners was another place you might run into friends. It had a soda fountain, and they made the best orange ice cream sodas with fresh orange juice, seltzer water, and rich vanilla ice cream. Through the years I have tried to duplicate that ice cream soda, but somehow it never is as good.

The town beach on Candlewood Lake was another gathering place. I remember beach parties there, but the beach was very different from today. It was primarily the sandy beach, a float to swim to, a guard shack, a snack bar, and rest rooms.

In the summer or on weekends during the school year, we would shoot hoops on the outside basketball court at the Consolidated School (now Center School) or play softball in the field next to the school. All we needed was for someone to bring a basketball and a bat and ball and we could while away several hours with our friends.

Bike riding was, of course, a favorite activity. There was so little traffic in Brookfield back then that we could ride all over town without any problems. One time some of us rode all the way to Lover’s Leap in New Milford.

Square dancing was also an activity some of us enjoyed. We would make up a set, go to Medlicott’s on Route 109 in New Milford or a dance in another town and have a really great time. There would be refreshments and even some slow dancing and rock ‘n roll.

There was a little cabin that some of us girls tried to fix up as a place to hang out. It was cold there in the winter and a trek through a field was required to get to it, but it was a great place for girl talk.

In the summer Melody Fair set up its tent in the vacant field on the corner of Federal Road and Candlewood Lake Road (now the site of Kohl’s). I’m sure some of my friends attended musicals there with their parents, just as I did with my mother. Kids also played baseball there.

My cousin Helen and I were lucky to grow up on the Gurski farm (now town-owned open space). We spent a lot of time exploring and playing in its fields. We played house in a rocky area on her parents’ property across from the farm. The space between two trees would become a door, and rocks would outline rooms. On hot days we would take off our shoes and wade in Merwin Brook.

There were some scheduled activities we enjoyed. St. Joseph’s CYO (Catholic Youth Organization) offered basketball games one night a week during the winter. We would all arrive to watch the game, and then Frank Thomas or John Kolinchak would drive us home. We all tried to be the last one off so we could stay out just a little longer.

We also had clubs, such as Girl Scouts, Boy Scouts, and 4-H.  A weekly Senior Girl Scout meeting highlighted our high school years. Barbara Walker, the wife of Rev. Edward Walker, then the minister of the Congregational Church, was our leader, but much greater than that, she was an example. She made learning fun and fun activities even more fun. I remember hobo hikes around town, sleepovers at her home next to St. Paul’s Church, a campout at Mt. Tom, and trips to Boston and Washington, D.C.

She also knew the importance and the sense of accomplishment felt from earning what is to be enjoyed later. We held many bake sales and fund-raisers to raise money for those trips.

We may not have had many organized activities, such as what are provided now by the Parks and Recreation Department, local clubs, such as Scouts, and the schools, but we had fun, nevertheless. The need to think up things to do helped our ability to be creative and, as with Girl Scouts, to learn new things and also to be aware of how good it feels to work hard to accomplish something you want to do in the future.

Animals I Have Known

I have always been an animal lover. It doesn’t matter what animal, really, so I have seldom turned away a stray or an offer to adopt an unwanted pet.

The first pet I remember having was a white rabbit that some unthinking adult thought was a suitable Easter gift for a 3-year-old. I remember playing with it for a day before the poor thing was saved from my over-zealous overtures.

My first real pet at the age of 4 was a black, curly-haired cocker spaniel aptly named Curly. I loved her, and she put up with a great deal because of that love. I would dress her up like a baby and push her around in my doll carriage. She was very good about it, but after a while she would jump out—doll clothes, blanket and all—and would eventually be found and relieved of her unseemly attire.

The kitchen stove had legs that allowed just enough room for a small dog to take refuge. One time when I tried to pull her out, she promptly planted a tooth in my thumb. It didn’t bleed, but I learned to let sleeping dogs lie.

When my mother married Stanley Gurski and we moved to the farm in Brookfield, I left Curly behind, but I saw her often when I visited my grandmother.

The farm exposed me to many types of animals, some of which I liked and some not so much. We had chickens, pigs, cows, and horses, as well as numerous barn cats.

 We also had two dogs. Goldie helped with the cows, herding them into the barn and out into the pasture following milking. In between milkings, Goldie kept my father company as he did other farm chores.

Daisy was the other dog. I adopted her early. I guess she was meant to be a guard dog, but she hardly met the requirements. A very sweet dog, she was often my companion as I wandered the woods and fields.

My favorite farm animals were two work horses. Prince could be snappish, but Chubby had a very sweet disposition. I sometimes sat in the feed box in his stall, petting him and feeding him sugar cubes and apple slices. One time when Uncle Frank gave my cousin Helen and me a ride on him, we went down to Merwin Brook, where Chubby attempted to follow Uncle Frank over the plank walkway. I guess he didn’t want to get his feet wet.

 Though I loved the baby chicks, the adults were quite another story. On those times when I had to feed them, I threw the grain as far away from me as I could to avoid all those pecking beaks running toward me. Chickens could also be cranky when you tried to collect their eggs. I learned to collect from the empty nests first and hope the others would be minus the chickens when I returned.

Baby pigs were cute, but not so much when they grew up. They never did anything interesting but just ate and slept in their pen. Needless to say, they received very little attention from me.

All the cows had names. I liked the calves  best. They were cute and enjoyed being petted.  Though I never thought cows were very smart (sometimes one would get lost in the pasture, and we would have to go find her), I did learn the hard way they were easily agitated. You would think that I would learn not to run in a cow barn after being kicked once, but I was a child always going at high speed so it took a second time and a stern lecture from my dad to show me the error of my ways. I gained a greater respect for cows after that.

When I grew up, married, and had children, we had all types and sizes of pets, from tiny white mice, hermit crabs, parakeets, fish, gerbils, hamsters, rabbits, and several cats and dogs to a 1,500 pound horse named Sunshine that once tried to follow my children into my kitchen because someone left the back door open.

 My first dog as a married person was a reddish-colored mutt our first daughter named Dinah because that was the name of my father’s dog. As a pup, Dinah had an overwhelming appetite for Pam’s stuffed animals. You could put Pam and the pup together but all stuffed toys had to be picked up first. Who would ever have believed that Dinah would become a hero.

We had lived in an apartment in Brookfield for a while, but it had become too small for us. So we purchased a small home in Newtown that had more bedrooms, plus a nice yard for Pam and the pup. One thing we had not counted on when we moved was that Dinah seemed to regress after being totally house trained. After several times, it finally occurred to me she was just checking out the new territory, much like small children always want to see the bathroom in a new place.

If I made her wait, no accidents occurred, but she would whine for a while until she realized I was on to her. One morning after breakfast, I was hanging clothes in the bedroom closet, and Pam was playing in her crib. Dinah was by the baby gate by the stairs had been whining and crying for a while, and didn’t stop like she usually did. Finally I decided I’d better let her go out.

When I opened the gate, Dinah started down the stairs, then froze halfway down, looking back at me instead of running for the back door. I went down to stand by her and looked into the downstairs. The dining room was on fire. Terrified, I ran up, grabbed Pam, told Dinah to go and I followed her through the living room and kitchen and out the back door. I called the fire department and my husband and father from a nearby doctor’s office, then left Pam and the pup there while I waited for the firemen.

If I live to be 100, I will never forget that day. Had I not realized that Dinah was being overly upset that morning, Pam and I might not be here today or might have been badly injuried. I owed our lives to that dog.

We owned several dogs after Dinah, but she is the one that comes to mind whenever I read about some animal that through its efforts saved someone from harm.

After three children and the numerous pets we have had through the years, my house seems very quiet. My cat, a Maine Coon named Periwinkle Blue (Peri for short), is totally convinced he is the boss of the house. And you know what? He may be right. It is said that dogs have masters and cats have staff.

The Never-Ending Story

I have always loved history, so it should not come as a surprise to anyone that I eventually became interested in a different type of history than that taught in school. It is the history of my family.

Someone once said that only a genealogist regards a step back as progress. It seems as though I was always interested in knowing more about my family. I always wanted to know the “who and the why” of family dynamics. Mostly, I wanted to know about my birth father, who had left my mother and me when I was only 2 years old.

Despite a great-aunt who could not understand why I wanted to know about “all these dead people,” I found out later that genealogy isn’t only about learning about deceased family members. It can also help you locate some that are very much alive.

In the early 1980s, I was part of a small genealogical group that met at The Brookfield Library. It was composed of newcomers to the hobby, such as myself, and others who had been researching their families for many years. I knew quite a bit about my mother’s family line, but I needed help in taking that first step back to finding my birth father and those who came before him.

I didn’t realize it then that I was beginning a never-ending story.

I did not have a clue about how to go about finding my birth father. The last we knew of him was that he was married again and living in Chicago. But how was I to find him all those years later?

Someone in our group suggested that I write to Social Security about my quest, enclosing a letter to my father, asking that it be forwarded if there was a current address for him. I knew I would not be given the address, but I was hopeful someone would help me by sending on my letter and that he would then respond.

It was a slim chance, but worth trying. I had no idea where he was or even if he was still alive. I also knew that people who work for Social Security have more to do than answer requests from people looking for family members.

I wrote the letters and sent them on their way. I did not have to wait long for an answer, however, and the news was not good.  My birth father had died in 1973 in Michigan, according to a copy of the death certificate sent to me.

I was saddened. I had spent years thinking about what I would do or say if I was ever to meet him. In earlier years, I was angry. How could my father just walk away from me and never look back. It was as if  I was erased from his life. However, as I grew older I lost the anger and exchanged it for curiosity. What was he like? My mother often said I took after him with my dark hair and eyes, so different from all the blue-eyed blondes in her family. She said I was smart, just like him.

But that didn’t answer my initial question. What was he like? As I looked at the death certificate, I noticed the name of the funeral home that took care of the final arrangements. I wrote them, hoping  they could give me additional information. What a thrill when they sent me a copy of the obituary notice for my father that appeared in their local newspaper.

But the best was yet to come. As I read the obituary, I realized that my father had left a widow and four children, two girls, and two boys. I remember clearly how I felt as I read those names. These were my half-sisters and brothers. I had always known about a little girl born to my father and his second wife in 1945, but I had never been able to locate her. I still haven’t.

I wasn’t sure what I should do with this new information, knowing they probably didn’t  know anything about me. My father had not told his second wife about my mother and me, until somehow she found a letter one of my mother’s aunts had written to my father years before and wrote to her, telling her about their marriage and their daughter.

I knew I could not just drop into their lives. As I re-read the obituary notice, I realized the gathering after the funeral took place at the home of the widow’s brother. I again wrote the funeral home, asking if he still resided in the area and, if so, could they send me his address. Just a few days later, I received a reply.

I now had the address of my father’s brother-in-law. If he replied to my letter, I would know how my father’s family would react to hearing from me. Of course, I wasn’t sure how I would react to a negative reply.

As it turned out, I didn’t have to worry about it. As luck would have it, he was in the hospital, and his wife, upon reading my letter, took it to his sister. At 11 o’clock at night my telephone rang. It was my father’s widow.

I had been correct in thinking she would not know anything about me. My father had turned his back on his life in Connecticut just as he had turned away from me. When I asked how she felt her children would react to a half-sibling appearing into their lives, she said they could make their own decisions. Only one, the oldest, born the year I graduated from high school, decided to contact me. The others were more the ages of my children. I have never heard from them.

My sister not only made the connection but came to Connecticut to meet me in person. Since then I have learned so much from her about our father. She had him for 16 years and had memories of him she could pass on to me. I learned about my father as I never could have without her.

My never-ending story continues. I have learned that I am the oldest of what we think are seven children, though my sister pointed out several years ago there are several years when we don’t know where our father was. There could be more of us out there or maybe not.

 

Though I will probably never know my other half-siblings, I have been blessed with a sister. Though separated by many miles, we talk on the phone, send e-mails, and support each other as best we can. We didn’t grow up knowing each other. It is not a typical sister relationship, but as I grew up an only child, I’m so thankful for it.

I continue to pursue my never-ending story. It’s a difficult hobby to stop. A new name automatically leads to two others and so on, a never-ending line of people that stretches back through history.

Has spring finally arrived?

The calendar says it’s spring…despite cool temperatures in the mornings and the recent snow showers that my dad would have termed the “poor man’s fertilizer.” A farmer for most of his life, he always looked upon those spring snows as nutrients for the soil and harbingers of the greening of the land.

I love spring. It’s my favorite season, despite the rain, despite the cool temperatures. I love the newness of it, the renewal of what has lain dormant through the winter. The signs are here already.

As for me, spring really starts the day I pull my wheelbarrow out of its winter resting place in the garage and lean it against a tree in the yard. This doesn’t necessarily mean that I will start yard cleanup that very day. It’s my promise to myself that I will get to it soon. In the meantime, before that happens, I am content to watch for the many signs of spring and rejoice.

 I find myself looking out my kitchen window toward my weeping cherry tree. It started its full bloom for Easter, but its cycle is so short that I never want to miss a moment of it. I think I’ve taken a photograph of it every year since I’ve had it. My uncle bought it for me all those years ago, and it’s now taller than the house.

In regard to other types of trees, I especially love that early shade of green when they first begin to leaf out. I once had my living room painted a color that was named April Green. It was so much like that first green before the leaves darken.

Despite my great desire to get my hands in the dirt, it is too early to plant most annuals, though pansies thrive despite the cooler temperatures. My dad always said not to plant any other annuals until Mother’s Day, and then only those that can sustain a late spring frost. Geraniums and other annuals, according to dad, were to be planted around Memorial Day.

Since I have a great deal of yard cleanup to do, it will have to do until planting time comes in May.  Meanwhile, though, the rhododendron in my front yard is blossoming, and the azaleas are beginning to bud. The forsythia is simply beautiful in its golden glory. Snowdrops and crocuses are gone now, but they were springing up everywhere just a few weeks ago, along both sides of the stonewall that borders the road. They also pop up in the lawn in places where I never planted them.

Most of my daffodils are in bloom, but others are budded and ready to bloom. They are one of my favorite spring flowers. When I see their buds in the spring, I’m always sorry I didn’t plant more of them in the fall. Deer don’t like them so they survive to bloom, and they multiply without any help from me. Unfortunately, deer have already eaten the early shoots of some tulips I was looking forward to seeing.

I know it was a hard winter for deer, as far as food goes, but why do they always have to go after the tulips, even ones that I have surrounded by daffodils? Nothing seems to protect the tulips from their inevitable fate. I once had a border of beautiful pink tulips in one of my flower gardens. They had actually made it all the way to flowering. One day they were there; the next day they were gone, each pink flower only a memory. A line of green stems remained. I never planted tulips there again as it seemed to be a deer route through my yard.

However, to give the deer the benefit of the doubt, I have never known them to eat the stems and leaves of tulips, so the most recent tulip massacre may not have been caused by deer at all. There are several rabbits that have their habitat in tall grass behind my house and under trees, and, while I usually see them in my yard munching on clover, I have seen them fairly close to my flower gardens. I’m not sure the deer repellant works with rabbits, so I’m concerned that some of my other early bulbs that are already sending up green shoots may fall victim to the cute little bunnies.

 The bunnies are cute, but they can be as destructive as deer. One of them ran out in front of the car when I returned home from dinner recently. It had no doubt been inspecting the greenery in my front flower garden, though I saw no damage the next morning. It may be just a matter of time.

Since I have deer repellant on hand, a trip up to Shakespeare’s Garden here in Brookfield may give me some ideas on what I can do to combat the bunny onslaught. Yes, they are cute and fun to watch….as long as they (and the deer) stay out of my gardens.