Fall Sonnet

Oh Fall, your stay is much too short

But while you’re here you gladden my heart

Your fading colors will always be

Bright reds and oranges inside of me

The crisp tartness of each apple bite

Tingles my thirsting tongue’s delight

Each whirling dry leaf is there for me

To kick and crunch and just to see

Chrysanthemums and pumpkins bright

They shout to me, the time is right to

To soak up your colors and the sun

Before winter starts its interminable run.

Oh, Fall, I love your unpredictable ways

Of windy, hazy or sun-filled days.

AFTER THE LEAVES TURN

          The October wind began by playfully tugging at the crimson leaves just as they were celebrating their short golden season. A few leaves lost their weakened grip and silently cart wheeled toward the still emerald grass. Cutting in to their celebration, the fitful wind took a turn and began to hum its final farewell to summer. With a sigh, more leaves waved a sad goodbye and joined their colorful friends as they tumbled aimlessly. Suddenly the wind turned brutal, singing winter’s song, as it violently whipped branches, dislodging flashes of magnificent scarlet and gold.

The wind slowly calmed. A blinding sun came out to shine on nature’s flame-colored carpet, the curled gold and bronze chrysanthemums, half nude shrubs and still brilliant Virginia creepers. A low-hanging evening mist moved in as timid deer slowly graze amid fall’s decline, blissfully unaware that they’d soon be seeing men in blaze orange.

When the last warm rain of summer came, it gently pelted the tenacious leaves that were still hanging. before turning cold and pounding them relentlessly to the ground. The rain began to freeze. Ice covered, mute leaves seemed pitiful, cold. They once had clung thick and proud to their mother trees but now they are old, brown—corpses.

Tree skeleton time had come. The air carried the crisp aroma of October. The gorgeous tints, the chest squeezing beauty of autumn have shriveled and fade forever.

Rachel Nemitz, October 2009

Apples

What’s more Minnesotan than that fall trip to the apple orchard? There are baskets of apples, apple jelly, apple butter, caramel apples, candy apples, dried apples and even unbaked frozen apple pies for sale. Excited children run among the swirling leaves eager to choose the biggest and roundest pumpkins to take home and carve into jack-o-lanterns. Shocks of corn stalks and brightly flowering mums add to the fall scene but it’s really all about the apples.

The “forbidden fruit” redeemed itself centuries before the Americas were discovered. But it became the jewel, the crowning glory, of Sunday dinners all across the United States giving rise to the phrase, “as American as apple pie.” There is something very special about sliced apples topped with cinnamon and sugar, baked between two crisp crusts and served warm.

Apples are beautiful…that glowing red teacher’s gift and that shiny green Granny Smith. They’re not only beautiful but they taste good and they smell good and they’re good for us.

A few months ago while watching television I learned a couple of things about apples. The United States is the second largest producer but China produces five times the apples we do. Also, all the bottles of apple juice made from condensed apples on our grocery shelves come from China except for one brand, Martinelli’s.

The University of Minnesota is well known for being a leader in developing new apples and most of us feel a certain sense of pride when we hear that our Honeycrisp is the sweetest, juiciest apple of all.

Rachel Nemitz, September 2009

Apples

What’s more Minnesotan than that fall trip to the apple orchard? There are baskets of apples, apple jelly, apple butter, caramel apples, candy apples, dried apples and even unbaked frozen apple pies for sale. Excited children run among the swirling leaves eager to choose the biggest and roundest pumpkins to take home and carve into jack-o-lanterns. Shocks of corn stalks and brightly flowering mums add to the fall scene but it’s really all about the apples.

The “forbidden fruit” redeemed itself centuries before the Americas were discovered. But it became the jewel, the crowning glory, of Sunday dinners all across the United States giving rise to the phrase, “as American as apple pie.” There is something very special about sliced apples topped with cinnamon and sugar, baked between two crisp crusts and served warm.

Apples are beautiful…that glowing red teacher’s gift and that shiny green Granny Smith. They’re not only beautiful but they taste good and they smell good and they’re good for us.

A few months ago while watching television I learned a couple of things about apples. The United States is the second largest producer but China produces five times the apples we do. Also, all the bottles of apple juice made from condensed apples on our grocery shelves come from China except for one brand, Martinelli’s.

The University of Minnesota is well known for being a leader in developing new apples and most of us feel a certain sense of pride when we hear that our Honeycrisp is the sweetest, juiciest apple of all.

Rachel Nemitz, September 2009

A TRIP TO NOWHERE

Where was she? We were supposed to be catching the 8:40 train to Manhattan. Well, not exactly Manhattan but Pittsfield. Jeanette said Pittsfield was only a short drive from Manhattan. We’d rent a car and drive from there.

Jeanette didn’t shown but I got on the train anyway.

There seemed to be something wrong with my vision. I could only see seats on the right and they were all taken. I stopped the conductor and asked him if there were any vacant seats. He said, “Right there on your left. And it’s the last empty seat. Suddenly I could see the seats on the left.

Why was I on this train? Jeanette was the one who wanted to take this trip and she wasn’t here.

I took a walk through the cars and came upon a young couple I knew who were going to Manhattan. I suggested joining them. A look of horror crossed their faces. “Just kidding,” I said.

I asked a lady passenger how close Pittsfield was to Manhattan. Quite a ways she answered. Would I find a taxi there to take me to Manhattan? Probably not but if I started walking with my suitcase someone might stop and give me a ride. That didn’t sound very promising.

Going back to my seat I found it occupied. Why was I on this train?

The conductor announced Lynnville coming up. I decided to get off and buy a ticket home.

Carrying my suitcase I walked up the driveway toward our farm. The barn had been converted into a large picnic shelter with a cement floor. I wondered what had happened to all the old boards and what had been done with the cattle stalls. The weeds had been cleaned from the around the lake and water was gently lapping against the shore. Someone had hung a swing for two from the huge oak tree so people could swing out over the lake. A large cement frog sat near the tree. How could all these changes have taken place in a few hours?

I glanced up to see my son, Wally, walking out to meet me. I told him he’d done a great job. Just then the alarm clock started buzzing.

Where are Pittsfield and Lynnville anyway?

Rachel Nemitz, February 2011

A LEARNING EXPERIENCE

In Oklahoma our land was adjacent to a gravel pit. The pit was usually dry. However, I remember once, after an exceptionally heavy rainfall, even the deepest pit filled with water and our whole family went swimming. Most of us didn’t know how to swim but enjoyed playing in the water. We didn’t have swimsuits. The boys wore their underwear but we girls had to wear old dresses that were pinned with a safety pin between our legs.
 

Anyway, that was the only swimming experience I remember before I was eight years old.

In 1942, when we lived in Blackburn’s Camp in California Betty, the girl next door, was dating a soldier named Jim. They were going swimming in an irrigation canal and asked me to go along. I’ve since wondered why and think possibly Betty wasn’t all that comfortable with Jim and I was a kind of chaperone. 

 

Jim wore his swimsuit under his uniform and Betty had hers on under her dress. Me? I wore a dress pinned between my legs.

As soon as Jim stopped the car I bounded out of the back seat, went racing to the canal and jumped in. The canal was deep. I never touched bottom but came sputtering to the top. Thrashing, scared, panicked I went under again and came up again.

Jim took time only to shed his shoes before jumping in after me. That picture has remained frozen in my mind—Jim’s upraised foot and his hands pushing a still-tied shoe off just before I went under for the third time. I was embarrassed and ashamed that I had been so stupid. Jim is still my hero. I can’t remember, did I ever thank him properly?

Betty and Jim never again asked me to go anywhere with them and I‘ve never wondered why.

Rachel Nemitz, August 2010

BRAVERY

What is bravery?

Is it the courage to do what is right?

Or the resoluteness to complete a task?

Is it the boldness to say what needs to be said?

Or the audacity to follow a dream?

Is it defiance in the face of danger?

Or the confidence to excel?

Is it fortitude and grit?

Or a daring spirit?

It is a self-reliant attitude?

Or holding out against authority?

Is it grace, spunk and lots of heart?

Is it gallantry and valor?

Or contempt and rashness?

Is bravery manliness and hardihood?

Or prowess and heroism?

Is it confronting your fears?

Or being pugnacious?

All men aspire to be brave

And there is braveness

In all men

Rachel Nemitz, November 2012

MOTHER’S GARDEN

Mother’s flower garden brought  

Beauty into her drab, hard life 

As she lived through the depression 

Doing without many things 

Struggling to give her children food 

She lovingly tended her zinnias, phlox, 

Dahlias, four-o-clocks and moss roses 

She was proud of her peonies, camellias 

And Rose of Sharon bushes 

Sweet-smelling yellow honeysuckle vines 

Grew on trellises near every bedroom window 

The soothing, soft tints 

Created peace and calm 

The bold, deep, warm and cool colors 

Buzzing bees, bird songs and butterflies 

Even the sun splashed spider webs 

Holding dew drops 

Gave her joy 

Each fall she harvested the seeds 

Placed them in labeled envelopes 

And looked forward to spring 

When she could once again 

Began to grow her colorful garden  

Her garden of hope and beauty 

Rachel Nemitz, April 2013 

BEAR MOUNTAIN & PICKING COTTON

         There are fourteen mountain peaks in California called Bear Mountain—that’s B E A R.  The cotton fields where I worked were in the San Joaquin Valley at the foot of Bear Mountain, a summit of the Tehachapi Mountains.    Seven miles away to the southeast and just under seven thousand feet high, its dark, distinctive shape was always on the horizon.   There it stood—like a sentinel.  Everywhere I went I could look up and it was always there.  From that distance it never appeared to be green.  The green was there but so dark it became lost in the deep shadows.   And yet, on a bright winter day it seemed so close—like you could almost reach out and touch the snow.

          Picking cotton it was easy to forget about spring and the miles of beautiful cotton fields where the green leaves reminded me of maple leaves and the colorful pink and purple flowers bathed us all with their pleasant aroma.  Too soon the flowers were gone leaving behind boles which are similar to large, round rose hips.  As summer progressed into autumn the boles grew, hardened and opened as they dried each revealing five fluffy, seed-filled, white cotton balls cupped in five curved, sharply pointed wedges.

          Picking cotton so close to the omni present mountains I found myself wondering; with those mountains so near, how could the fields be so flat?  And why were the cotton rows so long?  The strap of the eight foot white canvas bag lay heavy over my left shoulder, chafing my neck.  When the plants were stubby, I crawled on my knees but if, as occasionally happened, the plants were three feet tall, I could stand.  It was nice to have a variety of short and tall plants but that seldom happened.  Either the knees hurt or the back ached.  Each time I stood and arched my back to relieve the soreness, there Bear Mountain was—looming in the distance. 

          Some of the workers were adept at picking with gloves on.  I never developed that ability and my hands were often pricked and bleeding.  It seemed to always be hot.  Rivulets of sweat ran down my dust covered face to sting my eyes and drip off my ear lobes.  How I hated picking cotton!  Not being squeamish, I paid little attention to the bugs and actually enjoyed seeing an occasional horned toad, but stayed on the alert for scorpions and black widow spiders.

When the cotton sack was full I struggled to throw it over my left shoulder and keep it balanced as I carried it to the scales.  The weight was recorded under my name.  Then, with the sack back on my shoulder I climbed a ladder and empted three hours of work, about sixty pounds of fluffy, white cotton, into a trailer.  I would stand there on the ladder, glance up at the horizon, at the mountain, and would think, “Some day, Mountain, I’m going to leave you and this damn cotton field behind.” 

          At the end of the day I was paid in cash--$5.00 for every 100 pounds.  A good cotton picker could pick 500 pounds a day.  I wasn’t a good cotton picker and struggled to pick two hundred pounds.  But the money I earned from picking cotton purchased my first badly needed eyeglasses and paid for their repair when they were broken.  The money paid for my dental work and my clothes and shoes.  That money, along with what I made packing grapes during my seventeenth summer, made it possible for me, the day after graduation, to climb on a Greyhound bus headed for Oakland.  Full of optimism, I looked back and happily watched Bear Mountain and the green fields of cotton fade into the distance.

Rachel Nemitz, May 2009

BALD EAGLES MADE FOR AN EXCITING SPRING

          Springtime.  One of my most anticipated days of the year was in the spring…the last weekend of April, to be exact.  That was the weekend our little seven member association opened our cabins on Norway Lake. Most of the cabins were quite small.  Mine was just 400 square feet with a deck half that size.  All the cabins had originally been owned by the railroad and were built in 1928 to house railroad workers.  Later the cabins became a resort and eventually each was sold individually. 

 Everyone showed up for the occasion.  They came from California, Florida, Arizona, Edina, Shakopee, Buffalo and Brainerd.

         A couple of the men began working to start the well pump.  The water was turned on one cabin at a time and that cabin was inspected for leaks—there always seemed to be leaks.  Sometimes the job was big enough to require a plumber.  The paddle boats, yard swings and lawn furniture were taken out of our communal building and placed near the beach and dock areas.  During the summer this building served as a workshop, storage area and laundry room.  The washer and dryer were hooked up.  On Monday Culligan would deliver the water softener.

         We walked the lakeshore picking up trash while chatting about what we had done over the winter.  We looked at the buds on the trees and wished they were leaves.  We checked to see which plants were peeking through and someone always called attention to the trillium among the weeds. 

         One spring was especially exciting.  A pair of bald eagles had built an aerie in the great white pine located just across the road from our mail boxes.  The nest was huge—at lease six feet in diameter.  Long, dry gnarly branches were stacked on and over each other in a seemingly random fashion.  Other branches were shoved in here and there giving the appearance of a nest ready to fall.  As the summer progressed we continued to observe the nest several times a day and were often rewarded by seeing an eagle sitting on the nest and another perched on a branch close by.  After the eggs hatched we could hear the two young ones begging for food and watched as they stuck their scrawny little necks out while they were being fed.  We would stop whatever we were doing to admire the eagles as they soared over the lake.

A friend and I were lucky enough to observe the eagles up close.  One day as we sat in my cabin looking out over the water, an eagle (I think it was the mother) swooped down to the lake and came up with a fairly large fish…about eighteen inches long.  She glided through the air toward us and then, with wings flapping for balance, she landed just a few feet away.  We dared not move but quietly watched as she systematically pecked around the neck, of the fish, until its head fell off.  Then, beginning near a fin, she had just started to eat in earnest when daddy suddenly joined her.  He swooped down, pushed her aside and for several minutes pecked away.  Suddenly a door slammed in the distance.  Fearful, gripping the fish with his talons, daddy led as they both flew away leaving the fish head and several eagle feathers behind. 

Rachel Nemitz, March  2010

BRAVERY

What is bravery 

Is it the courage to do what is right?

Or the resoluteness to complete a task?

Is it the boldness to say what needs to be said?

Or the audacity to follow a dream?

Is it defiance in the face of danger?

Or the confidence to excel?

Is it fortitude and grit?

Or a daring spirit?

It is a self-reliant attitude?

Or holding out against authority?

Is it grace, spunk and lots of heart?

Is it gallantry and valor?

Or contempt and rashness?

Is bravery manliness and hardihood?

Or prowess and heroism?

Is it confronting your fears?

Or being pugnacious?

All men aspire to be brave

And there is braveness

In all men

Rachel Nemitz, November 2012

FOURTH OF JULY

July 1954, Lake Merit, Oakland, California

            I don’t know why but I can’t remember ever seeing fireworks before July 4, 1954; just sparklers and firecrackers. Maybe there was no special reason for me to remember other fireworks.

            Two days earlier Richard had returned from Korea and this was our first ever holiday together.

            I remember, not so much the fireworks but walking hand-in-hand along the sidewalk, joining others on their way to the lake. I remember friendly, smiling people milling on the beach and the soft, balmy breeze. I remember my husband’s arms around me pulling me gently against him as we stood among the crowd, enjoying the riotous color. Watching the last explosive starbursts, hearing the final pop and sizzle, surrounded by darkness we slowly became aware of the now muted voices fading into the distance.

            Hand-in-hand we hurried home eager to make our own fireworks.

April 1986, Long Beach, California

            That day I had attended seminars aboard the Queen Mary. It was only 9:30 but my body was on Minnesota time and I was tired. From my bed at the Breakers Hotel I heard boom after boom after boom. I climbed out of bed and looked out the window but saw nothing unusual. The booms continued for about fifteen or twenty minutes.

            The second night at 9:30 the booms started again and looking outside left me wondering still. Just what was going on?

            The third night I attended a cocktail party on a small craft cruising the bay. At 9:30, as we sailed past the Queen Mary, the booms began—fireworks coming from what had once been the most luxurious ocean liner in the world. The grand finale was a spectacular canopy of exploding color above an amazing white waterfall flowing off the bow of the old Queen into the Pacific Ocean.

            The next day I flew home feeling fortunate to have seen the Queen Mary and the unforgettable fireworks.

By Rachel Nemitz

THE CARING TOUCH

Why did it happen?

How did it begin?

I once hated to be touched

By women or by men.

I felt as though every touch

Took some vital part of me

That I lost a part of being with

Each touch stolen from me.

How did it happen?

When did it begin?

I started to love touching

Wanting touching to never end.

It was a gift from my husband.

His loving, giving touch

Never made me feel diminished.

I now knew the power of touch.

I welcomed the gentle pressure

Of his warm, human hand

Saying, I love you, you’re precious

Do you understand?

It became easy to distinguish

The message of each subtle touch:

Encouragement, happiness,

I’ve missed you so much.

Now I’ve reached the golden years

And he’s no longer here

But I still cherish every touch

From those whom I hold dear.

By  Rachel Nemitz

ASK ME

Ask me if I mind growing old
 And I’ll tell you damn right!

It’s not so much the growing old

As the indignity of tearing eyes and runny nose

Bulging discs and arthritic fingers

Along with ugly growths and strange lumps.

I hate my brain’s temporary shutdowns

Before it remembers what I couldn’t recall.

These continuously progressing indignities

Show no mercy seemingly taking delight

In assaulting even the richest, brightest and most pious.

Damn right I mind growing old!

Rachel Nemitz, March 2009

Memory of Funny Days

An idea or opinion produced by thinking or awareness of past occurring in mind.

 

My friend Sue and I would sit on the sofa and visit. Many thoughts wen there our minds. We knew each other for fourteen years. Leader would find projects for us to do. Such as putting address labels on the newscaster.. Folding papers for events for upcoming events. Make coffee for classes that were being held at Senior Activity Center.

We did a lot of playing pools. We would play against the men. Two against one. Nine times out ten times we would win. Men would say we were lucky because we weren’t any good.

On Friday we played shuffle bored. We played with men. We were lucky again. Lucky ha ha they wouldn’t give us credit for winning.

I did exercises three days a week, for nine years.

 There was an originators the lounge. We had a friend called Elisabeth. She payed the organ quite well for a person who was bind. She would play old songs on the organ and Sue would sing. She had a lovely voice. She knew the words to any song you could think of. Remarkable memory. We had such good times with virtuous men.

We played cards with a man called Bob. He thought we were gonging up on him when he would lose.

Sue and I had a Japanese lady friend that would come in for exercise. She would tell us about her younger years  in camp in California . Her family was forced to live in a camp when she was little, during Second World-war (WWII). Than there is a man called Patric. He would give us some CD’s he had made we have quiet a collection of them. Some one of the radio programs. They are the sent us in the past, which bring back our childhood and adulthood.

The last two years we got slower and slower in our thoughts. I miss my funny friend sue, and those funny days   

By Mrs. G 

DAYS OF WINE & ROSES

They are not long

The days of youth and wonder

When innocence

And wonder abound.

They are not long

The days of wine and roses

How soon those care free

Days are gone.

They are not long

The days of growth and mating

When labor, home and

Family twine around.

They are not long

The days of grey-haired wisdom

One last quiet breath and

They are gone.

All our days

The love

The laughter, the sorrow

They are not long

 Rachel Nemitz, November 2010

Fort Ridgley

Ben and I are going to go back in time; we’re going to Fort Ridgley which is located between Fairfax and Sleepy Eye in South Central Minnesota. We went to the cemetery; there were so many head stones for little children, some dating back to 1800’s.

There’s a reenactment of the settlement, with tents and camp fires where they are cooking stew. Men in army caps and vests have old guns that work, called musket loaders. Ladies in long dresses, bonnets with their high top shoes, it makes you wonder how they survived in the heat of the summer with no flip flops or air conditioning.  

 

Farther down the Minnesota River you’ll see a store on a hill. It has everything in it that they had when it opened, flour, coffee, beans, spices and yard goods for the ladies to make a dress. Shovels, axes and candles for light, most of the time they didn’t have enough money for food, so eggs were brought in for trading.   

Children were always eager to go to the store; the clerk would give them a piece of candy if they had a big order.  Gardens were planted for fresh vegetables, venison and fish were their meat sources.

I could have lived there if the Indians weren't there; the Sioux Indians massacred all the settlers of Fort Ridgley.

By G. Brethorst

My Grandma’s Doctoring

It was a happy day, my Mama and Papa had come to visit. The grandchildren were excited; they knew their Grandma brought them something. Grandpa looked better then last time; his heart had been acting up.                                       

We have a project for Grandma, my son Mike had planter’s wart on his foot. She got out the biggest roosting pan out of the pantry, so he could soak his foot in warm water till it was soft, then she asked for my biggest darning needle. Her operation began; she proceeded to dig the wart out of his foot.                             

We spent a couple of hours in the flower beds and garden. I have always experience aspiring feelings of wonderment when I look at the garden flowers that come out every spring.

It makes you glad you’re alive and can enjoy it.

By G. Brethorst  

Papa’s Print Shop

Proof reading is evidence of the truth or correctness of something to establish a fact. When I was thirteen years of age I became aware of the word proof reading. I had to read original text and my Papa would make the corrections. When we printed grain ingredients it was something else, they all had to be listed on the tags of the grain sacks

The hardest ones to proof read were cook books. They had to be very accurate; we didn't want to be responsible for a failure of a Baked Alaska! Papa published at least a dozen different cook books.

Most were for the different Catholic churches, the recipes were quite simple. They called for a ten cent box of Jell-O or twenty-five cents worth of hamburger. Things were measured by money or by your hand, such as a closed hand for salt, things were so much simpler than.

We even had an order for merchandise catalogs from Nebraska; they sent us towels and mittens.

I still have a big monkey made so its arms and legs are moveable, a beehive big enough to put honey in with a bumblebee on top, really cute. They were talented and did a lot of craft work.

It was quite a production when we had to assemble the pages from all around the print shop. I would hold a shoebox cover in my hand, put in one sheet at a time from the piles and than once assembled they were sent to the book binders and shipped to our customers.

By G. Brethorst

Spaghetti Benefit

Pete’s Place is buzzing this morning, spring is here and our thoughts turn to soft ball. The big boys need new uniforms. We though we would sponsor a Spaghetti Dinner, four dollars and fifty cents for all you can eat. Salads, bread sticks, coffee, milk, and ice cream for dessert. Hopefully, it won’t rain; we have the patio set up as well as the bar and dining area.                                          

I can’t decide if we should make meat sauce or meat balls. Both of them sound good, we won't start serving until three o'clock. Mabel says, she will bake the meat balls. Carl can cook the spaghetti and I'll make the sauce with meat in it. The player’s wives have their baked goods for sale, I see they have my favorite, caramel filled brownies!

Everything is going along nicely, we started serving at three o clock, all of a sudden I can’t see! I panicked as I only have one good eye! We figured it out, one of my lenses popped out of the frame of my glasses.

STOP! DONT MOVE! Look down on the floor to see if my glass lens is there.                                                                     

We couldn't find it, guess where it was! The only other place it could be, was in the pot of spaghetti meat sauce!                                                                           

We all had a good laugh!

By G. Brethorst