Those Greens Won’t Hang Themselves by Donna Cronk

 

There are not four but five seasons in my year. Nestled between the crisp Hoosier October and the icy winter chill of January is the holiday season.

     We’ve entered that annual period that is distinct from the other four. From Thanksgiving preparations on, there’s much to be done from parties to Christmas luncheons and gift exchanges with friends, relatives, and organizations we’re involved with.

     There are menus to plan, treats to make, Christmas plays and performances to watch live and on TV. There’s so much more besides.

     But first, at my house anyway, comes the whirlwind transition to Christmas décor.

     For a day or two, pumpkins and angels awkwardly share space as everything orange, yellow, and brown are put away, and the green swags come out, along with tabletop baubles, and at our house, two artificial Christmas trees. By the way, who started the rumor that artificial trees don’t shed?

     There are also wreaths for the front door, outdoor windows, and a pasture full of at least a hundred lambs—the decorative kind that go onto the dining room tree.

     Just a few weeks ago, I told myself that maybe this is the year I’ll stop getting myself swept away in this frenzy of activity. Maybe I will give up the nine-foot-tall artificial tree that takes a full day to assemble and trim. Or I’d skip the lamb tree for a season. No one would care, correct?

     Well, I would. Yet each year it feels a little harder to brace myself for the work involved.

     A nice pre-decorating snowfall is a wonderful attitude adjuster. Of course, I’ll dig out the decorations and put it all up. Naturally, I’ll go through every tub of décor and find places for most of it. I’ll think about how there’s just too much, and then I’ll buy more at one bazaar or three of them.

     I look into the future and envision the day when I’ll place a beautiful wreath on the front door and call it a day. But not yet.

     Turns out I’m not ready to give up anything about the special glow of swags draped around the entryway and staircase, and I can’t put the lambs out to permanent pasture.

     Since I’ve got all those wreaths for the outdoor windows, yes, I’ll just go ahead and put them up yet again.

     I don’t know why I feel compelled to quickly usher all the fall doodads into storage and get the Christmas things out, but I do. The decorating police won’t show up to make sure everything is in place.

     Still, I attack the whole of it as though it’s a military operation and I’m the general.

     Mom didn’t decorate my childhood home every year until around Dec. 10.  I used to nag her about when we were going to get out the colorful porch lights, tree ornaments, and tinsel swags.

     She felt as certain about waiting until we were well into December as I do about getting it all up and plugged in before the calendar flips to the twelfth month.

     It helps because I don’t go out to shop on Black Friday. I ignore that cultural phenomenon and spend the day working at home. And on Small Business Saturday, I’m all about the busyness of evenly distributing multiple strands of lights on the larger of our trees.

     After all, those greens aren’t going to hang themselves.

     For this weekend, I’m not thinking about gift-buying or menus, it’s all about making things pretty. The shopping and wrapping will all come in due time.

     The decorating process is not pretty. My house will look like, as my mother would have described, “a cyclone hit it.”

     I’ll gather all the tree ornaments from our parents and from 45 years of Brian's and my marriage. They’ll go onto the tree and the rest distributed throughout the house. And I’ll promise myself that I need to downsize this operation.

     But, of course come next year, there will be a day when a few snowflakes fall, and I’ll start dreaming of doing it all again.

     Pendleton resident Donna Cronk spent almost four decades on newspaper payrolls. In retirement she writes a column for three newspapers that deals with aging, family, and life. Her most recent book is her memoir, There’s A Clydesdale in the Attic: Reflections on Keeping and Letting Go, available on Amazon. Connect with Donna at newsgirl.1958@gmail.com.

Off Our Rockers by Donna Cronk

For the last two decades we’ve kept a pair of plastic Adirondack-styled chairs on our front porch, centered under the picture window.

The chairs are the beige hue of our house trim, which match nicely, but their seats are too low for older knees, making them more for show than for sitting. And truly, what’s to show about cheap lawn furniture, matching or otherwise?

In the winter, the western wind blows the chairs around the porch as though a ghost is scooting them. Sometimes a stronger wind sends them tumbling into the landscaping. Since we’re short on garage space, our fix is to stack them unattractively into a porch corner. The weight adds stability against the elements until the chairs resume their warm-weather placement.

Last spring, I decided this is ridiculous. We’re in our sixties! If we’re not worthy of proper porch furnishings now, then when? What we need, I decided, is a pair of functional chairs. Black ones, to match our outdoor house sconces. Sturdy ones, to survive hail or high water. Rocking ones, which will keep their upright stance.

I had my eye on such a pair but needed to run it by the house appropriations committee. The committee chair said to get them. No quiz, no commentary, no asking the price, even. My kind of yes.

Upon closer inspection, the chairs are even better than I had remembered. They’re made here in Indiana of composite all-weather material, and each comes with a twenty-year guarantee.

“They’ll last longer than I will,” Brian deadpanned, after a tough winter of his own, and by noting that he would be eighty-seven when the warranty expires. I saved the printed guarantee in a folder alongside other household papers.

How surprised the store clerk would be if a chair breaks at, say age nineteen, and I show up with my flimsy receipt and warranty.

The minute they were lifted from son Sam’s truck-cargo bed and onto the porch, they looked ideal, as though created for that exact spot. I dreamt of the years ahead, sitting in one chair, with Brian in the other as we rock and wave to neighbors and their dogs while they stroll up and down our street during peaceful evenings.

I’ve always loved a good rocking chair, and these seats fit my backside with space to spare. The armrests are likewise substantial, able to balance a glass of iced tea or cup of hot coffee with ease as I rock. Our knees have no issues here, either.

Brian didn’t rush to try the chairs, but I kept prodding until he joined me for a trial rock. I awaited his compliments. He didn’t offer any. Later he told me that they didn’t fit him all that well. I felt disappointed.

As spring gave way to summer, I rocked on the porch every time I got the chance, at least once a day. I added cushions to soften the seats; maybe Brian would like them more.

A friend who lives forty-five minutes away emailed, “I’d like to come sit on your porch and rock awhile.”

I loved her comment. I would drive a distance to rock and talk with a friend. It’s such a simple, pleasing activity. To know that someone else would do the same brought delight.

And I wonder: why don’t we all do that sort of thing? I would imagine we think that others are too busy, that it’s a silly request, or an invasion of privacy. Sometimes, though, spontaneous, informal connection is something many of us not only welcome but crave.

As summer continued in the months following Brian’s cancer ordeal of that winter and spring, he continued to regain his strength. I rejoiced when he felt able to walk first half a mile, then a full mile around our neighborhood in the cool of the evening at the start of golden dusk. When I spotted him entering my line of vision from down the street, life felt complete, as did I; a moment to freeze frame in the memory bank.

Then, it happened. One day I sat on the porch rocking while Brian lapped our neighborhood, something he does six of seven days a week whether he feels like it or not. When he finished, instead of going into the house, he sat down in the other rocker, and we talked for a bit. The next night it happened again, then again.

Before long, as July gave way to August, he would say, “I’m going to walk.” I took it as my cue to turn off the TV or close the laptop computer and go sit on the porch, anticipating his return.

I might even sweep the porch or water the plants, pull a weed or two, all the while keeping watch for his familiar outline to approach from down the street before assuming a rocking posture.

For about fifteen minutes during these evenings, we rocked and chatted about plans, news of the moment, the kids, whatever we had to offer.

One evening Brian walked but I didn’t make it to the porch. When he returned to the house he said, with a measure of disappointment, “You didn’t come out and wait for me.”

Touched that he cared, I’ve been sure to be there since.

I came to notice that like clockwork, at dusk a flock of geese from a nearby pond takes flight in perfect formation over our house, heading west. I would love to know where these birds go, surely headed to their nesting ground for a night’s rest. Maybe they wonder why we sit on the porch, a formation of two humans, never once leaving the ground.

When you go through a loved one’s illness, you treasure simple moments like these in a new way. I’m grateful to the good Lord for daily life, a precious gift to unwrap. I can’t possibly get everything in that I would like to pack into twenty-four hours. Much is still to be done in this life.

Lately Brian hasn’t mentioned the chairs being uncomfortable. Maybe it’s the cushions. Or maybe it’s the company.

Now that it’s fall, the Midwestern evenings are increasingly cool and crisp. Comfortable rocking sessions will gradually become fewer. Soon I’ll remove the cushions and for a few months, the chairs will stay put. But these chairs are built to last and aren’t likely to drift into the landscaping when winter winds whip.

Soon, it will be time to come off our rockers. We’ll dream of spring.

Until then, the chairs will save our seats.

Donna Cronk is a Pendleton author and retired newspaper reporter. Her latest book is a memoir inspired by cleaning out her attic, called, There’s a Clydesdale in the Attic: Reflections on Keeping and Letting Go. She enjoys providing fun and humorous programs to women’s groups regarding heirlooms and how to enjoy them. Connect at: newsgirl.1958@gmail.com.

Visit Donna's Amazon page!

Down Memory "Lane" with Donna Cronk #WriterMonday

Forty-six years ago this spring, I graduated from Union County High School in east-central Indiana. Since then, a small cedar chest has gone with me everywhere I’ve lived. It remains a minor player on my heirloom roster, yet it hasn’t strayed far, and I’ve never considered ditching it.

Sometimes I keep it inside a nightstand where it rounds up odds and ends such as a packet of tissues; a pen and notepad, a tube of hotel hand cream. Other times it roosts on a closet shelf, sheltering back-up pairs of glasses.

Inside the hinged lid is a stamp:

Lane presented by
Trading Post & Guttman’s
Connersville, Indiana.

I don’t remember the moment I received it, or even how; only that it’s a high school graduation gift from the sponsors listed under the lid.

Until this spring, I’ve never mentioned the box to anyone. I wonder how many women have these keepsakes and if the topic brings back memories—especially during this season of high school graduations.

I floated the topic on social media and learned quickly it’s a subject that draws interest. And wooden-box envy, or at least some joking/not joking about it. A classmate posted said that I must be favored somehow because she never got one. Others chimed in that they didn’t receive the gifts, either, and wonder all these years later what’s up with that.

Someone in a class three years behind mine said she didn’t get one. She connected the dots between a classmate two years my senior who posted that she is a recipient. The non-recipient woman guessed that receiving one had to do with being in a particular organization. Good guess, but nope.

A little research shows that the box giveaways were part of a national advertising effort known as Lane Furniture’s Girl Graduate Plan. Boxes weren’t delivered to the schools and passed out with handshakes on a stage, nor was any merit involved. Graduating girls received certificates entitling them to the gifts by presenting the paperwork to the sponsoring retailer.

My guess is that graduates who didn’t think they got them in fact did get the certificates but those went unnoticed nor redeemed.

I have no memory of picking up the box. But I did land my first-ever full-time job in Connersville that summer. Maybe I dropped by a sponsoring store then and picked it up. More than likely, though, my mother got it for me.

New Castle, Indiana girls received their boxes, at least during one period in the 1970s, from Holthouse Furniture.

The promotion had a long run, from 1925 to 2004, with sponsoring businesses throughout the country. Girls and possibly their mothers would visit the stores, and while there, likely looked over the larger versions, the popular hope chests that were staples of the Lane Furniture Co.

The hope chests were meant as a place for a girl or young woman to deposit pretty linens, dishes, silverware, and on a more ethereal level, her hopes and dreams for finding Mr. Right and setting up a home.

What a brilliant advertising ploy: many of the girls would soon be homemakers and consumers. They would remember the furniture store that bequeathed them the gifts when the time came to furnish their homes.

When I mentioned the chests on social media, responses flooded in from women who came of age in different decades, Hoosiers, and non-Hoosiers alike, and almost all of them still have their miniature chests.

Commenting on the post were women I’ve been social media friends with for years but who never weigh in or publicly say anything on my posts. Somehow this topic hit home. Some even took the time to photograph their boxes and post them.

What’s kept inside the boxes? A bracelet collection; high school memorabilia; tea, pictures. Two said their husbands use them for storage.

What’s inside mine is rather dull to report: sample-size hotel hand lotions, lip balms, and a pair of socks for cold feet at bedtime.

The chests posted on my page appear identical to mine, only with different sponsors, depending on their locations. But an online look at a vintage miniature cedar chest reminds me of something I had long forgotten: Mom had one like it, a little bigger, with decorative hardware to resemble a pirate’s chest.

I don’t know what happened to it and that’s fine—I don’t long for it. Just curious.

If you’re a mother or grandmother with such a chest tucked away, it might be fun to gift it to a graduating daughter or granddaughter and tell her its story. Of course, a check or gift card tucked inside might be appreciated more in the short run.

But in the long run? The card will be long forgotten over time while that useful little chest may still be with them when they are grandmothers.

For more about these treasures, visit: lanecedarbox.com.

Donna Cronk lives at Pendleton, Indiana with her husband of 44 years. She's author of three books, including a memoir: There's a Clydesdale in the Attic: Reflections on Keeping and Letting Go.

She is also author of two inspirational novels: Sweetland of Liberty Bed & Breakfast and its sequel, That Sweet Place: At Home in the Heartland. All three books are available on Amazon.

A retired newspaper reporter and section editor, Donna spent 37 years working for Indiana newspapers. She now pens a column for several newspapers and enjoys providing programs about heirlooms and creative ways to keep and give them away. If interested, contact her at newsgirl.1958@gmail.com, see her author page at Author Donna Cronk or visit her website, donnacronk.com.