Puffballs

Puffballs.

They pop up around here every Fall, mostly in the underbrush. The first time we saw one, we thought one of the boys next door had left a soccer ball out. The soccer ball never moved, just got bigger. Then, we discovered more puffballs nearby.

For some odd reason, I like to find them. They are yet another sign of the changing season here on the Cutoff and they are, as well, a wonderment to me. First, they are the size of a tennis ball, then, next time I look, a softball, and on and on until a volleyball has grown into the leaves and brush and hidden spots all over.

Gotta run now. I think I see a fairy ring underneath the oak tree.

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Legends of the Fall, part 2

I don’t know what came over me. A fifth or sixth grader, I was surely old enough to know better. The other kids were doing it. It didn’t look dangerous. If I went slowly, surely I, too, could walk the six and one half blocks home from school – backwards.

The “backwards” incident came to mind as I was waiting at a stop sign. My timing for running errands – the post office, library, grocers route – coincided with school letting out. I realized my error just as I approached the stop and saw a sea of bright faces with backpacks, their feet  shuffling along and crunching away on the leafy sidewalks. The sound of Autumn leaves underfoot still brings back the first months of the school year to me. It’s like smelling a new box of crayons.

I was old enough to not have to walk in the patrol line. Patrol lines consisted of a patrol boy in front and another in back of a long line of children, two abreast, the youngest holding hands, who were led to school and back each day. Girls were not considered as patrol line leaders. A topic for another time. Graduates of the patrol line, my schoolmates and I were chatting and giggling and the world seemed so young then with the sun shining through the trees, barren of leaves, the excitement of a new school year ahead.

I was also thinking about my walking doll, which I told you about here. The doll only rolled forward, and that was enough of a challenge for me. Why would I try going backwards remains a childhood mystery to me.

We were less than a block from school, walking and talking as schoolgirls do, giggling when, whack! There I was. Flat on my back, my books scattered about the leaves, my skirt bunched up over my knees, my Tonette perm in chaos. I still remember looking up from the pavement and what seemed like the entire school population gazing down at me.

“Quick”, someone yelled, “get the patrol boys to help”, and someone did. The older boys came running and I’m sure, very sure, that I displayed my first maiden blush. I couldn’t move, my back ached and there they were. The big guys on campus. Still my heart, Lord, I prayed. I remember feeling safe as two of them made a seat with their hands and gently lifted me up, my arms around each of their necks, my heart in a swoon, so much for maidenly prayers, as they carried me back to the principal’s office.

My mother was telephoned, the party line cleared for an emergency. My aunt commandeered with her car. Panic, I’m sure, at such news at home.

I was put promptly to bed. The doctor called. Bayer aspirin was administered with orders to take it easy and no gym or recess for a week. Since I excelled at neither, this was good news for me. I would read a book instead, my embarrassment hidden in its pages. Toast squares and tea came in on a tray – just as the soreness crept in. Oh, how I remember that soreness.

They were my heroes, these two boys, whose names escape me, but, whose chivalry lives on. One of them winked at me in a happily ever after sort of way when he saw me in the hallway a few days later. I grinned a Cheshire sort of grin, I’m sure, and considered myself lucky when I didn’t trip over my saddle shoes as he was going by.

It’s funny the memories that flood back while sitting at a stop sign as school lets out. I wonder if children stop and help each other today with such organization. If boys and girls know to make a seat by joining their hands. I wonder if my long ago friends and my two knights in armor ever think of the awkward girl with the bright red sweater and curly Tonette all amok in a pile of books atop leaves.

I sure hope not.

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I’ll Fly Away

Isn’t she cute? Those are button for eyes, held it by stick pins. The straw hat is just what was needed to top it off.  This was one  of many decorations at the bulb sale in the Oak Park Conservatory, my first stop on Saturday morning.

I want to add more Allium to the late spring garden. The have such a long display time, from their big blooms in late spring, to mid-summer, as the blossoms fade. I was able to pick up quite a few bulbs for a reasonable price, and get some fall decorating ideas to boot.

Like this scarecrow, who had taken up his post in the conservatory. Click on for a better view of the face, which is a bag of leaves.

I love the colors of hay and of gourds. They just naturally lend themselves to decorating for fall, don’t you agree?

Then, it was a short jaunt to the center of Oak Park and their renowned Farmers’ Market, which I wrote about last year.

The market is full of all thing fresh, winter squash, apples, potatoes, honey, and lots of flowers and plants on Saturday. I resisted the donuts, but, did stop for a spell to listen to pick-up band. The group strumming and singing, mostly bluegrass with a few gospel songs mixed in. It was toe-tapping and humming along for the crowd gathered round. My favorite was I’ll Fly Away, led by this wonderful singer.

You can hear I’ll Fly Away by clicking here or, here, both sung by Allison Krauss.

I just love the spontaneity of this group, their ability to work so well together, taking turns leading and collaborating on songs. Today,  a young boy  around 12, joined in with his fiddle. I recognized a few from last year, especially one gent who played several instruments. Can you find him in the pictures?

Gosh, but it was a glorious day!

I hope yours was as well.

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Stacks

The colors of Autumn have been swept off the trees by the winds that have kicked up in these parts. The leaves cover the lawn in a carpet of rust and yellow and red. It’s time to start raking them into piles for mulching and piles to haul to the street where rows upon rows line the way, like haystacks. It is time to ready the beds for winter, to clean out the pots and cut back perennials. It won’t all happen today, or tomorrow, or even next week, but, here on the Cutoff, it is time to begin.

First, however, I’m off to see about Allium bulbs, then, to pick what produce is left of the last weeks of farmers’ markets.

What’s on your docket today?

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Ma and Pa on the Prairie

As we left Morris on Saturday, we took a spin around its quaint streets with well-tended turn of the century homes and an old stone church, sitting quietly on a corner. How interesting that it is now divided into condos. We passed a long footbridge we saw earlier while at  the 3 Hens Market, then pointed the buckboard, aka mocha VW, to the road out of town.

Off we went, Ma and Pa, taking in the colorful display of Autumn kissed trees blushing in the sunshine. It was such a splendid day and we were so enjoying the scenery  that we just meandered along, like the slow moving I & M Canal we were leaving, and neared the confluence of the Kankakee and Des Plaines rivers.

We’ve been lucky of late. We seem to be finding the loveliest of places as we’ve wandered  on those roads less travelled. Such was the case on Saturday as we found ourselves coming upon the Goose Lake Prairie State Natural Area. Tom stopped the car, we rolled down the windows, and sat for spell, listening to the ancient peace of the Illinois prairie.

As I looked out at the more than 2,500 acres of reclaimed prairie, “the largest remnant of prairie left in Illinois”, I felt just a glimpse of what early pioneers must have felt and seen as they traveled westward in covered wagons, seeking a better life and some land of their own. I could smell the scents of the tall grasses, some over ten feet in height, and I could  hear the music of the wind in the prairie cord grass. The rusts and golds and bronzes were glorious with the goldenrod and asters peeking through. It was a panoramic vista and we were one of only a dozen or so pilgrims on the prairie.

The day was starting to cast its shadows, so, we took the shorter Tall Grass Nature Trail, which led us to a small marsh and replica of one of the first log cabins in the area.

There is no lake on the Goose Lake Prairie. Settlers drained the 1,000 acre lake for farmland in 1890, which proved to be a folly, for the land remained too wet to farm. The clay, so prevalent in Illinois, was used for pottery, the land mined for coal, and later, strip-mined. In 1968, the first 240 acres were purchased by the State of Illinois, with more land being reclaimed through the following years, giving us all the 2,500 prairie today. Thank goodness for the foresight and determination of those early environmental pioneers who saw the vision of returning the prairie.

We walked along, finch flitting about in their search for seeds, some butterflies looking for nourishment, and a chorus of crickets and frogs.

The reconstructed Cragg Cabin, was, according to the preserves’ brochure, “A predecessor to a truck stop. The Cragg cabin served as a stop on the old Chicago-Bloomington Teamster Trail.”  The Cragg family lived there and often put up twenty or more teamsters a night.

Well, dear reader, Ma and Pa’s pioneer adventure is over for now. The 21st century has crept back in as I hit the “publish” space.

Snip, snap, snout – this tale’s told out.

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Ma and Pa Go to Market

Once we got the iPhone extracted from the sunroof Saturday morning, we continued on to Morris, Illinois and the 3 French Hens Market.  My friend Roz mentioned it to me earlier in the week. On Saturday, I hemmed and hawed until Tom convinced me to go, even volunteering to come along.

Getting out of the car was enough of a thrill as we spotted this stately house.

We walked the few blocks to the crowded market where there was produce, bakery, cheeses, and such. There were also booths with all kinds of wares: tools and Depression glass, dolls and carriages, repurposed objects and objects to be repurposed.

It’s fun to dream of all life’s possibilities, isn’t it?

From the park, we walked a few blocks to the main business district, and had some lunch in a cute little diner, Weits Cafe, where we were greeted by the most pleasant of waitresses, who acted like we were two of the regulars. Small town diners are our kind of place. This one didn’t disappoint.

After our lunch, we wandered around a bit and went into an antique store. Who should round the corner shortly after we arrived? My friend Roz and her cousin, whose name, I’m ashamed to say, has already escaped me. Her friendly manner and poise have not, and it was a pleasure to meet her and to see Roz!

Thanks, Roz, for telling me about 3 French Hens.

Next stop, Ma and Pa on the prairie.

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Ma and Pa Take a Ride

Saturday’s road trip had the pioneering feel of the Little House on the Prairie books. Maybe it was the aura of visiting the Burr Oak/Laura Ingalls Wilder site earlier this month.  There we were, Ma and Pa, off to market in the buckboard. Okay, it wasn’t a buckboard. It was our 21st century mocha colored VW with a latte interior. We were loaded down with provisions. Well, not really provisions. A cooler with soda and granola bars and apples. Does the bottled water count as provisions? The sun was our guide as we headed southwest. I know, it was really the GPS system/mapquest/google earth that we navigated by. We didn’t want to get lost.

The rattling started as we merged onto Route 66. Well, not really Route 66. The interstate that replaced it. Interstate 55. The rattle was real. As we accelerated, we heard a thumping sound that seemed to come from the rear. Pa pulled over to check those things Pas check when it sounds like the wheels of the buggy are coming off. The wheels, er, tires, were just fine, and off we went again, only to hear the rattling again at about 55 mph. Pa suspected a loose belt, while Ma fretted that her own belt was too tight. A little more horsepower, and the rattling abated.

I didn’t hear the honking horn, nor did I see the driver motioning to Pa and pointing to the roof of our mocha machine. I was surprised when Pa pulled over, emergency lights flashing. “Well, Ma,” says Pa, “that driver was pointing and had his fingers up to his ears like he was trying to tell me something”. Was it a seatbelt hanging out? A walnut hidden for the hard winter by a squirrel? A branch, perhaps, from the grass where we have been parking the car while the tar dries? What in tarnation was it?

Pa poked his head in and said “open the sunroof”. Huh? “Just open the sunroof, Ma”. So, open it I did. A bit of a sound, then Pa’s handsome but sheepish face peaking in.

The rubberized cover of Pa’s iPhone, which had inadvertently been left on the roof of the mochamobile while Pa was loading provisions, had, just barely, gotten stuck in the trim of the sunroof, where it rattled away at the posted speed limit, hanging on for dear life. Did you know that was an iPhone application? *** UPDATE BELOW

Enough excitement for one post. I’ll tell you about our  arrival at the 3 French Hens Market and then to the prairie later. In-the-meantime, make sure when you are loading up your buggy for a ride that you leave nothing to chance – not even your iPhone.

*** It was the entire iPhone that was on the roof. The edge of the cover was what saved the phone from oblivion.

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Gratitude

Whether you are enjoying your morning coffee and the newspaper, on your laptop while riding the commuter train to work, or in your jammies late at night on the other side of the world, thank you for visiting me here on the Cutoff these past two years. Each of you makes this little adventure I’m on fun and rewarding. I’ve enjoyed old friendships and making new ones across this vast new territory we call the blogosphere.

Thank you, Janet, my “bestest” friend and a kindred spirit if ever there was one, for reminding me of my second anniversary. Now, how did that happen so fast? It seems like just yesterday when I started my blog, and here we are, two years and 643 posts later. Life is grand!

You have been here with me through snowstorms and thunderstorms, laughter and tears. You watched our precious granddaughter grow from baby to toddler, and you’ve laughed with me as I’ve stumbled along. You’ve consoled me in the sad times, cheered me on in my adventures, recommended wonderful books and movies, and put up with my endless pictures of spider webs and butterflies, gardens and museums.

I am blessed.

Thank you for reading and riding along with me and my life on the Cutoff!

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Second City

The fire raged for two days, the city’s buildings brittle and dry from the lack of the rain. Tinder, all,  just waiting to be lit. Fires, in fact, had been burning throughout the city for days, taxing the fire brigades, until the one spark that spread and could not be contained as the super dry air lifted flaming pieces of wood, dropping them for miles around the city, creating what became known as The Great Chicago Fire.

The fire ended in the early hours of October 10, 1881. A path, more than four miles long and a mile wide completely destroyed everything. More than three hundred people burned to death. Thousands were left homeless. No one was spared for economic class or position. Mansions toppled as quickly as shanties. The City of Chicago was in ruins.

Its citizens vowed Chicago would be built, anew. It would rise from the ashes and be better than before, and it did. Even as the fires were subsiding, ashes were being gathered by children to help in the making of bricks. Bricks that would support a growing metropolis and be stronger than the wooden structures that had hugged Lake Michigan. The people said they would make a “second city” – and they did.

One hundred and forty years later, Chicago stands tall with its skyscrapers and parks, its restaurants and museums, and its people, some ordinary, some powerful, many renowned for deeds good and bad, all part of the proud mixture that makes Chicago what it is.

I was thinking about the fire, rummaging in a drawer, when a pencil fell out. A white, number 2, with Illinois State Young Authors Conference stamped on it. How had I saved it so long? It was Katy’s. A souvenir she brought home when she was in grade school. She had been selected to attend the Young Authors program at Illinois State University. Children from all over the state of Illinois were chosen for writing workshops and to meet and talk with Illinois authors of children’s literature.

Katy’s author was a remarkable woman. Harriette Gillem Robinet; a scientist and scholar, an author, and the granddaughter of a former slave of Robert E. Lee. Ms. Robinet, an Oak Park resident, has written many children’s books, most historically based, and she gave her young authors a signed copy of her book, Children of the Fire. I found it sitting on a shelf, waiting for another read, reminded of its residence here by the pencil.

The story follows a young girl, Hallelujah, who was born a slave and is adopted by a Chicago family who live at State and 12th Street. Those of you familiar with Chicago know the location. 12th Street is now called Roosevelt Road. The story is about Hallelujah and her friend, whose Irish immigrant family lives nearby. They follow the fire, its destruction and horror. People flocking to the lake to get relief. Citizens, wheeling their possessions on carts or in baby carriages, trying to save what they can. Even a man, saving the money at a burning bank, for folks will need money to rebuild.

While the characters in  Children of the Fire are fictional, the events, including the bank scene, are based on fact. It is a wonderful children’s book, for old and young alike, and you might want to pick up a copy and have a quick read some day.

A city, a second city, was born out of the ashes of October, 1881. Second City.

Chicago.

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. . . go into the forest

“. . . In these beautiful days which are now passing, go into the forest & the leaves hang silent & sympathetic, unobtrusive & related, like the thoughts which they so hospitably enshrine. Could they tell their sense, they would become the thoughts we have; could our thoughts take form they would hang as sunny leaves.”     

“A Year With Emerson”, selected & edited by Richard Grossman, October 9.

We went into the forest on a warm and sunny October afternoon, just a few miles and minutes from our home. We gathered the beauty around us as we admired the sunny leaves. What a joy it was to find this wooded treasure so close to our house – and what a joy it is to have Emerson’s words in this lovely volume.

We wandered around the edge of Maple Lake, where plants were dying back, their seed pods bursting forth with all the promises of another spring. There really is a beauty in the grasses and prairie plants come October. They bring about a restfulness in their hues of brown and yellow. They also give nature’s most amazing backdrop to the fall asters and the butterflies who are still seeking nourishment.

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