Happy Father's Day!

Yup.  My Dad!  circa 1975?  It's not from our home at all...and so the location stumps me.  But that's my dad in all his glory.  Cheers!

Dutch Sour Cream Apple Pie--To Die For!

Dutch Sour Cream Apple Pie  

[The "Dutch" in this title may very well have been an affectation of my grandmother, who always claimed we were Dutch in our Ancestry, but we have No Dutch heritage at least back to the mid-1400's that I've ever been able to discover.]

Ingredients:

1 9" pie shell

Filling:

3/4 Cup organic pure Cane Sugar

2 Tbsp all-purpose unbleached Flour

1/8 tsp Kosher Salt

8 oz. (1 Cup) Sour Cream

1/2 Tsp Vanilla extract

3-4 (I used 3 1/2 and ate the other 1/2) Granny Smith, Braeburn or other tart Apple.  I actually prefer McIntosh, but they are seasonal and regional when and where you can get them and they are smaller so you might need all 4 or a little more.

Topping:

1/3 Cup organic pure Cane Sugar

1/3 Cup all-purpose unbleached Flour

1 tsp ground Cinnamon

1/2 Cup chopped Walnuts

1/2 stick (4 Tbsp) Butter

It had been a few years since I made this pie and so I consulted some online sources and then decided to follow the one at Allrecipies.com for the baking part.  I'd never done it this way before, but it worked beautifully, if a bit more complicatedly.

1) Preheat the oven to 425 degrees F (220 degrees C). Press the piecrust into and up the sides of a 9 inch pie plate.

2) In a medium bowl, stir together 3/4 cup sugar, 2 tablespoons of flour, and salt. Mix in the sour cream, egg and vanilla until smooth. Add apples, and stir to coat. Scrape the mixture into the pie shell.

3) Bake for 15 minutes in the preheated oven, then reduce heat to 350 degrees F (175 degrees C), and continue baking for 30 minutes more.

4) After the 30 minute bake time has passed, cover the top of the pie with the crumb topping, and continue to bake for 15 minutes, or until topping is lightly browned and apples are tender. Allow the pie to cool, then refrigerate until chilled before serving.  I didn't end up chilling it first, but this a good idea to let the "custard" really set.  But you can see from the picture that it was solid enough to remove without chilling.  And the flavor is amazing.

Holiday Traditions

[From my Facebook page--but a good message in any event!}

I've shared this story before, but it feels like something I ought to share again in memory of my dear mother. I had great parents--not perfect parents, but real parents who in spite of their human flaws and limitations never gave me a single reason to doubt their love.

My mother was born a year before women got the right to vote in these United States in a small town in far western Oklahoma. She was the second child of nine. Her mother was a homemaker who taught her how to make the most amazing meringue topped pies on the planet. Her father was a stone mason who supervised the building of the foundation of the courthouse in Hobart, Oklahoma among a life time of other civic and private works. And just like me, my mother loved her family and her friends.

Every year at Christmas time, she would set up her prized sewing table and instead of removing the trap door in which to insert her Singer sewing machine (perhaps you've seen one of the these mid-twentieth century wonders), or spread out a jigsaw puzzle for us to work on during the long cold winter months and rare Michigan school snow days, or even for the occasional, random Canasta marathons with my sisters and I; she would lay out her Christmas cards along with the sheets of holiday stamps and address book and blank note pad and cup with a dozen ink pens--and go to work. Starting in early November and continuing until the year's events were completely retold and sent, she would sit at that table and write out her love to dozens of family members and friends. Remember this was before the days of the ubiquitous Holiday "Letter"--that one-pager, mimeographed, then xeroxed, then printed and/or now just emailed generic description of the events of one's life from the previous year. I often wonder what my mom would think of this evolution from a labor of love to a convenience of technology!

By now, you've come to realize that I am but a shadow of her greatness in this respect. And yet, I want you to know that in my feeble attempt in sending out Holiday cards, I am among other things honoring her memory first and foremost. It is her example of a Diaspora "community" that I cherish and am such a benefactor of with the love and grace I know with each and every one of you.

So you see--there is so much more happening behind the fact that you might get a little card from me each Christmas. Here are the places that I sent cards to this year--perhaps yours is among them.  Each goes to a friend or relative with the same sincere appreciation and desire for community that my mother first taught me to cherish.

From a Box of Old Photos...

I have inherited boxes of old photos.  Pictures of people I don't know and for whom anyone that I and they might have known is no longer alive to identify them.  It's a charming and odd legacy to hold.

My Dad's WW II Photos

Or a few of them, anyways.

My dad standing under the engine looking at the camera.

 My dad was a flight engineer on a Bomber.  We was stationed in Libya after it's liberation from Rommel.  In the summer of 1943, he participated in the bombing of Sicily prior to the surrender of Mussolini.

 Unidentified airman painting a plane.  Below two more examples of his artistry.

 My dad (left) with unidentified airman in Libya desert, 1943.

 My dad (left) with unidentified airman displaying bottle of something.

 My dad hugging unidentified airman.

The rest of the pictures are from Italy after it's liberation.  circa October/November 1943.

 My dad seated in a boat on his way to visit the Grottos.

 Approaching the cliffs where the Grotto caves are located.

 My dad with an unidentified miss...I could have been half Italian!

My dad with his flight crew in Italy, autumn 1943.

Remembering My Dad on His Birthday

Had he lived, my dad would have turned 95 today. When he was born, Calvin Coolidge was president and there were no radios, televisions, or computers. Phones were a luxury, electricity still a novelty, commercial air flight someone's dream. He was the older brother to his sibling, Robert Lee Ash. Together they went to Europe to fight in World War II, and only one of them returned. I never knew my uncle, Bobby.

He met my mom while at basic training in Hays, Kansas--she was from northern Oklahoma. They married when he returned home after his brother's death. She was a beautician. He sold insurance for a time in the panhandle of Maryland and then moved to Michigan where two of his mother's brothers had relocated. Briefly he worked with one of his uncles in a steel mill, but then found work in a new automobile engine manufacturing factor. There he worked for 30 years; first building the engines and then eventually supervising others with a secretary and all. He died less than three months after retiring at the age of 65. Massive heart attack, declining health prior to that--emphysema--the result of a lifetime of smoking.

My dad found his place in the heart of the 20th century. He was a funny guy, loved the joke. Kept way too many of his demons inside of himself--outside of laughter, not into the emotional stuff. Taught me to love and know the woods. He had a way with animals that I have seemed to inherit, too. I know he wasn't perfect, but given all the rest of what I know about life--I wouldn't trade him out for anybody else.

Harry Roscoe Ash (1897 - 1969)

Putzing around now that school is in session and taking care of my to do list created over the lean summer months, I can scratch another item off.  Getting a new frame for an old photo of my grandfather taken on his first birthday in 1898.  Dapper little cus, wasn't he?

Memorial Day

Remembering my father and all who served in defense of our nation.

Dad is on the left.

My Bestest Valentine of the Day!

My bestest Valentine arrived in the mail today from my "nephew" James along with the gift of music.

It is good to be loved.

Today's Sermon #46

Today's Sermon #29

My dad holding me upon my homecoming from the hospital. I was about a week old when this photo was taken.

Father to Son

A father sees a son nearing manhood.
What shall he tell that son?
‘Life is hard; be steel; be a rock.’
And this might stand him for the storms
and serve him for humdrum and monotony
and guide him amid sudden betrayals
and tighten him for slack moments.
‘Life is a soft loam; be gentle; go easy.’
And this too might serve him.
Brutes have been gentled where lashes failed.
The growth of a frail flower in a path up
has sometimes shattered and split a rock.
A tough will counts. So does desire.
So does a rich soft wanting.
Without rich wanting nothing arrives.
Tell him too much money has killed men
And left them dead years before burial:
The quest of lucre beyond a few easy needs
Has twisted good enough men
Sometimes into dry thwarted worms.
Tell him time as a stuff can be wasted.
Tell him to be a fool every so often
and to have no shame over having been a fool
yet learning something out of every folly
hoping to repeat none of the cheap follies
thus arriving at intimate understanding
of a world numbering many fools.
Tell him to be alone often and get at himself
and above all tell himself no lies about himself
whatever the white lies and protective fronts
he may use amongst other people.
Tell him solitude is creative if he is strong
and the final decisions are made in silent rooms.
Tell him to be different from other people
if it comes natural and easy being different.
Let him have lazy days seeking his deeper motives.
Let him seek deep for where he is a born natural.
Then he may understand Shakespeare
and the Wright brothers, Pasteur, Pavlov,
Michael Faraday and free imaginations
Bringing changes into a world resenting change.
He will be lonely enough
to have time for the work
he knows as his own.

~ Carl Sandburg, 1878 - 1967

Today's Sermon #27

In my most recent bought of introspection and synthetic thinking, I wrote a poem. It was as miraculous as the chance that I found this image.



EDIT MY PROFILE

My mother loved
the Peace Rose above
all of the other plants
in her garden.

My father taught me how
to discover the Morel
Mushroom in the woods
of northern Michigan.

In spite of
their flaws,
I'm a happy
man.

Where Is Thy Sting?

dad
Originally uploaded by Randuwa

I got a letter today, inside a belated Christmas card, from my longtime friend, B. B. grew up in my hometown. She and her family attended the church that I stumbled into in High School. A church that I, independent of my family, became of a member of -- and then it had a major influence on the college I attended as an undergraduate. It was a college at which B. was the assistant to the financial aide director and then the F. A. D. before retiring.

My need introduced me to her. My hometown ensured that we would become friends. Her spirit of joy transformed mere friendship into something truer.

The letter in her card told of the death of her sister, C. When she retired (a decade ago now) she returned to our hometown and moved in with C. and her husband. Like dresses cut from the same bolt of clothe, B. & C. were so much each other’s mirror images -- i.e. best friends; and C.'s husband E. is one of the most tender and generous men you're ever likely to meet. I'm sure they made a wonderful household for one another (and now, I have learned: a gracious hospice for C.'s final days.....)

Which brings me to this remembrance of B.

In August of 1986, I was preparing to begin my second year of teaching. I had been hired to teach 6th grade at an elementary school the previous year with the clear understanding that the county was moving to the "middle school" concept, and the local Junior High was to become a Middle School. Therefore, my colleagues, and I would find ourselves in a "new" building and a new configuration, as all 6th grades in the county were being smoushed into the new middle school.

On the Saturday, before the first Monday of school for me, I received a phone call from my sister informing me that my father had died suddenly in his sleep. Without any expectation, and he was only 65 having retired just 6 weeks prior....the news hit me like the proverbial "ton of bricks". I hardly knew what to do. Somehow, I found the where-with-all to call B. and ask her to contact local friends for me to share the news. She gladly accepted the role and then just before I hung up, made me promise to stop be her place before I left town. Numbly I agreed.

When I arrived she presented me with a bologna sandwich, an apple, some crackers, and a mason jar of water. Knowing that I was about to drive the 6 hours between our town in Kentucky and our hometown in Michigan, she made me promise to "eat something" acknowledging that I would not either think of that pedestrian activity or likely want to stop long enough to take care of this need.

In my entire life, I really can't imagine a nicer act of grace. And I've had my share of tender surprises in moments of distress.

May Light Perpetual shine upon C.!

Poetry Is Electric

lightening
Originally uploaded by Randuwa

Ever read something that simply jolts you? Takes your breath away. Knocks the wind out of you with it's profundity?

The experience can be addicting. And this pretty much explains the heart and soul of my love affair with poetry.

Here's a kick-ass poem that looks at life and declares, 'I ain't seen nothing yet!'

WHEN DEATH COMES

When death comes
like the hungry bear in autumn;
when death comes and takes all the bright coins from his purse

to buy me, and snaps the purse shut;
when death comes
like the measle-pox;

when death comes
like an iceberg between the shoulder blades,

I want to step through the door full of curiosity, wondering:
what is it going to be like, that cottage of darkness?

And therefore I look upon everything
as a brotherhood and a sisterhood,
and I look upon time as no more than an idea,
and I consider eternity as another possibility,

and I think of each life as a flower, as common
as a field daisy, and a singular,

and each name a comfortable music in the mouth,
tending, as all music does, toward silence,

and each body a lion of courage, and something
precious to the earth.

When it’s over, I want to say: all my life
I was a bride married to amazement.
I was a bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.

When it’s over, I don’t want to wonder
if I have made of my life something particular, and real.
I don’t want to find myself sighing and frightened,
and full of argument.

I don’t want to end up simply having visited this world.

~ Mary Oliver
1935 -


Go forth and buy her books. Poets need to eat, too!

Friday Funny

bananaboy
Originally uploaded by Randuwa

Is that a banana..... Oh, no -- wait, this isn't my joke. It's one sent to me by my Colorado cousin, who also just sent me some hard personal news. And then he sends a joke? Go figure. Hope I always respond to fate as generously.

From J.H. in Denver:

Many times when I am troubled or confused, I find comfort in sitting in my backyard and having a beer along with a quiet conversation with Jesus.

This happened to me again after a particularly difficult day. I said, "Jesus, why do I work so hard?"

And I heard the reply: "Men find many ways to demonstrate the love they have for their family. You work hard to have a peaceful, beautiful place for your friends and family to gather."

I said: "I thought that money was the root of all evil."

And the reply was: "No, the LOVE of money is the root of all evil. Money is a tool; it can be used for good or bad."

I was starting to feel better, but I still had that one burning question, so I asked it. "Jesus", I said, "What is the meaning of life? Why am I here?"

He replied: "That is a question many men ask. The answer is in your heart and is different for everyone. I would love to chat with you some more, Señor, but for now, I have to go finish your lawn."

Family Artifact #1

mexicanfeatherart
Originally uploaded by Randuwa.

I have this feathercraft image of a Quetzal bird made of feathers and perched on a painted branch with stippled foliage and flowers. It's in a hand carved frame. My parents bought it while on a western trip back in the early 1950's. My father had been home from World War II for nearly a decade and he and my mother decided to take his parents, who lived in Flintstone, Maryland on a road trip west to visit her parents, who lived in Hobart, Oklahoma. (They met during the war when my father was in basic training in Hays, Kansas. My mother was in beautician school and she and her girlfriends would drive up from Woodward, Oklahoma to the base to "dance" with the soldiers on Saturday nights.)

The trip took a couple of days and they stayed long enough to make a side trip to Mexico--some border town, nothing extravagant or complicated. And while there they acquired this feathercraft image.

Both of my parents have passed into ancestry now, and I have grown to cherish this little picture. Partly because I cannot honestly imagine either of my parents traveling outside of the United States...and with both sets of grandparents, no less! And though I was years away from entering into the family, I imagine that this was a happy adventure for them. It was the only time that Harry and Zola met George and Hazel (my grandparents); and it is reported that George's good humor enchanted my father's parents.

The little objet d'art hung on a wall in my parent's bedroom throughout my life, and while my sister (and only sibling) thought it tacky, I thought it gracious of her to let me claim it in the division of the estate.

The back of it contains a little history in 5 paragraphs entitled: "The Story Of Mexican Feathercraft". To Quite from it: "Even before the Spaniards conquered Mexico in 1521, feathercraft was already an ancient art." And in an enlightened, environmentally responsible assertion "Although feathers of wild fowl are no longer used, the selection of the various qualities, the slow process of dressing a simple paper pattern with very small feathers at the head, gradually increasing in size as the figure is completed, let you hear the haunting songs of birds in ancient forests of mysterious beauty."

The image hangs on my bedroom wall now. And though there's not much that’s "haunting" about the songs of the birds of Takoma Park, they are fond of singing! And I hear their songs every morning as I awake and prepare for work, and as I return home and often relax on my deck. The ancients could scarcely have been serenaded any better.

God, I miss snow!

snowcock, originally uploaded by Randuwa.

But somebody's excited about it!

Olly Olly Ox-in-free, Come Out, Come Out, Wherever You Are!

HowManyOfMe.com

There are: 32 people with my name in the U.S.A. How many have your name?

So there are 32 other people in the United States with my first and last name? Well, I know that there are 5 listings for someone with my first, last, AND middle name in West Virginia! One hopes that the same guy is just moving around a lot.

As to my last name, Howmanyofme.com indicates that there are 26,997 Americans with my sirname, making it the 1298th most common last name in a tie with 156 others. I only wish it would tell me some of the others. Anyway, check this site, it's fun.

Introducing......

September2015
Originally uploaded by Randuwa.

My "nephew". James Sebastian S. Born on November 8, 2005.

When the news of the world makes me sad, his smile restores my joy. As a gay man, I will never father a child of my own. As a teacher of 22 years, I have been a serrogate dad to hundreds of children from Kentucky to Maryland, from China to Costa Rica! And many's the parent who's thanked me over the years for my influence, guidance, and caring for their children. Many of my students have expressed similar feelings. But no one else has said to me, if we die, we trust you to raise our son.

You know, he's getting extra raisins in his fruit cake!

...with Liberty and Justice for ALL.

unclebobbycollage
Originally uploaded by Randuwa.

This is a phrase from our pledge of allegiance to our flag. It's something I have recited a little over 6,000 times in my life. Researchers tell us that it takes about 15 repetitions of something to commit it to memory. So 400 times that would seem to commit it to the soul. It is something that I profoundly believe in. It is something profoundly lacking in the current leadership of our nation. So much has been written about this moral abyss, that I don't plan to add anything new or insightful to it. It just saddens me deeply.

Yet being a citizen of this amazing nation does not sadden me in the least. It is an unwarranted fact, based upon the accident of my birth, that I give thanks for every single day. Because though the clouds of jingoism and neo-fascism cast their shadows upon the shining principles that founded this nation, they will not endure the test of time. We are a greater people than our current leadership realizes.

But enough of this...the founding of our nation is a day to remember and celebrate. On the cusp of July 4th, (as nearly 1,800 Americans have given their lives in a dubious conflict that only lies would justify -- okay, one last jab!), I want to remember my uncle Bobby -- Robert Lee by birth. He joined the army while the ink on his high school diploma was still drying, against the will of his mother (my grandmother), so compelling was the cause: to stop the spread of Fascism and the Nazi juggernaut. He trained in Mississippi and was sent to England. On December 24, his ship left the port of Dover on its way to the conflict in Europe. But it never arrived. The USS Leopoldville was torpedoed by a Nazi submarine shortly before 6 PM on Christmas Eve. In letters from the men who survived that horrific experience, his friends testify to Bobby's sacrificial actions. A Staff Sergeant, Bobby removed his life jacket and gave it to another man, and eventually dove into the icy waters of the English Channel in hopes of a miracle...but it was to be his grave.

So, I never knew my uncle Bobby. He died almost 17 years to the day before I was born. Growing up, I heard many stories about his happy-go-lucky personality, his generous nature, his impish side, (something my family has deeply embedded in our genes!) I have a copy of a report he wrote back in 1942 as a Junior in high school. It's titled, “Me, Myself, and I”. It's written in his own hand, and is the only record of his life in the first person that exists. You can imagine how I cherish it. When my grandmother succumbed to the dementia of Alzheimer's she began to refer to me as Bobby, whenever I would visit her in the nursing home. And while this drove my father crazy, I was really happy to be “Bobby” for her. Like Lazarus from the grave, she saw me, and the dead was resurrected. She would tell me things about Bobby in these moments simply by interrogating me as if I was him. He must have been a good man.

So I remember this good man I never knew on this Independence Day. And I trust that his sacrifice, like all of the sacrifice made in the name of this nation, was made in the full hope and faith that the United States would exemplified the credo: “One nation, with liberty and justice for all.”