On Saturday I roamed the farm where I grew up, camera swinging from my neck, lens cap tucked in my pocket, eyes peeled for texture and angles; soul searching, too, I suppose, for memories, for clues to who I am…even why I am who I am.

I studied flaking paint on aging sheds, slowly stripped by winter wind and snow down to raw wood, warping.

Near the barn stand gates in disuse, leaning, rotting, rusting.

I photographed two old tractors parked under an overhang.

Every once in a while, Dad would let me lean against the fender and ride with him into the fields. I gripped the edges, petrified I’d fall. I’d feel the Bush Hog® power to life and the blades engage, spinning, hacking down weeds.

The tractors sit quietly in the barn lot, parked in the spot where Black Angus cattle used to eat from the manger.I stepped gingerly into the barn, on the lookout for spiders, swallows, mice and ‘coons. An old box car ladder was mounted to the wall years ago, maybe a hundred years ago, for farmers to get to the loft. I climbed it.

In the filtered, cloudy midday light, I studied the floorboards coated with a loose, thin layer of chaff mingled with bird droppings and layers of dust. Later my sister-in-law scolded me for going up there, thinking it can’t be good for a person with asthma.

One look at the loft and I remembered an afternoon in the ’80s when I carried up my silver boom box and turned on the radio waiting for “Footloose.” Within a few short minutes, it played. And I danced. The loft was almost empty, so I spun and leaped and it’s a wonder I didn’t slam a shoe right through the rickety boards.

A shaft of deep yellow afternoon sun streaked straight in as the sun set that day. I remember the shape defined by the window, how I danced through the beam, stirring up chaff, until I was sweating and spent. When the song ended, I sagged to the floor.

All these years later, I lifted and placed my feet slowly, deliberately, careful not to stir up dust. I am long removed from the days of dancing in the loft; I climbed back down, wondering how long it’s been since my dad kept cattle, when secure gates were critical…

…when bright white out buildings stood straight, boards nailed secure…

…when the tractor rumbled down the lane to hack down weeds.

I was prowling in the weeds out by the tool shed, focusing on old red fuel tanks and the corrugated roof of the dog house when my brother showed up to help my dad move some soil and cinder blocks.

While he emptied the wheelbarrow of rainwater and shoveled some soil, I was out looking for myself.

I pondered questions posed by a photographer:

1. Who made up your DNA?
2. Where do you come from?
3. What object is precious to your past?
4. What memory resonates most deeply?
5. What moment in history marks your childhood?

In the barn lot and loft, I’d hoped for a flood of vignettes and strong emotions. A psychological epiphany would be fun to report.

No vignettes. No powerful emotions. No epiphany.

No clues to who or why I am.

Only the dancing.

Dancing in the loft.

Alone.

* * *

All content and images are copyrighted © 2011 Ann Kroeker. These images may not be reproduced, copied, transmitted or manipulated without written permission.

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The post Dancing in the Loft: Reflecting on Self appeared first on Ann Kroeker, Writing Coach.

Here at the Food on Fridays carnival, any post remotely related to food is welcome—though we love to try new dishes, your post doesn’t have to be a recipe.If you want, you could simply tell us if you’re going to fast from anything for Lent or share what food would be hardest to give up. Or you could take a picture of your fruit bowl. Basically we’re pretty relaxed over here. Posts that tell stories involving food are as welcome as menus and recipes.When your Food on Fridays contribution is ready, just grab the broccoli button (the big one above or smaller option at the bottom) to paste at the top of your post. It ties us together visually.Then link to Simply Linked.

Food on Fridays with Ann

In Thursday’s post, I described my grandma’s kitchen:

I remember the back door of Grandma’s house swinging open. I can still hear the spring stretching, squeaking and pulling the door shut with a solid thunk. I can see the porcelain kitchen sink, the linoleum floor and the baker’s cabinet where she stored all that she needed to make noodles or cookies…I can still see it all.

As I reminisced a bit, I mentioned her sugar cookies known to me simply as “Grandma Cookies”:

When we arrived, she pulled out her sugar cookies. Instead of rolling them out and cutting them into shapes, she would drop them onto the cookie sheet and sprinkle some colored sugar on top or stick a gumdrop in the middle, or a piece of pecan. She stored them in a green pan, a vintage roasting pan. As soon as we arrived, my brother and I wanted some “Grandma cookies.” I hunted for the ones with gumdrops or sprinkles.

These cookies were not typical Christmas cut-out sugar cookies. They were fluffier, with a lighter texture and flavor than those I make for the kids to decorate with red and green icing. But they were delicious chased down with a glass of milk.I ended yesterday’s piece with this:

I want to hold onto the wooden door that thunked shut, and the pansies, and the grape arbor, and the baker’s cabinet, and the green pan and the sugar cookies with the gumdrops stuck in the center.Grandma passed away in 1987, and the house is gone now. The wooden door, the pansies, and the arbor—all gone.But I do have the recipe for Grandma’s sugar cookies.And the green pan in which to store them.

When I was a teen, Grandma showed me how she made her famous cookies, and I was pleased when my mom told me that my solo attempts at home were very close to Grandma’s.But it’s been years since I’ve attempted to mix up a batch. After all this time, I’m out of practice and don’t know if I’ll be able to replicate them.At any rate, it’s my pleasure to provide you with the recipe for Grandma’s Cookies.Unfortunately, I don’t have time to make them before needing to publish this post. Besides, I don’t have any gumdrops. So I shall leave you wondering what they look like. Lord willing, I’ll make them soon and snap some photographs in order to post photos for next week’s Food on Fridays.“Grandma Cookies”Ingredients:

• 1 C shortening (oleo or oleo and part butter) [Note: I have no idea what I would substitute to get the same effect—maybe 3/4 C butter and 1/4 C cooking oil?]
• 2 C sugar
• 2 eggs
• 1 C sour milk [Note: to make “sour milk,” stir in just a teaspoon or so of vinegar to make it curdle]
• 1 t soda
• 1 t baking powder
• 1 t vanilla
• about 4 cups of flour or more as needed

Directions: Cream shortening and sugar, and beat in eggs. Sift dry ingredients together and add alternately with milk to egg mixture. [Note: I recall that alternating the dry and wet mixtures was key to success.]I have this note on the recipe from Grandma: “I used to roll out the dough and use cookie cutters. Now I drop by teaspoons right on the cookie sheet to bake.”And my mom added this:  “She would put a half-walnut or pecan, or gumdrop in the middle.” [Note: Mmmmm……gumdrops.]Typical of an old-fashioned recipe, the recipe stops there, providing only the ingredients. When I come across older cookbooks and handwritten recipes (or “receipts,” as they used to be called), they seem to assume that anyone who’s planning to make cookies already knows what to do with the dough once it’s mixed together. Why risk insulting the cook by scribbling out the obvious final steps? My grandma only added that she switched to dropping them “by teaspoons right on the cookie sheet” to explain why she no longer rolled them out.So…to finish off the recipe for the modern cook accustomed to more detail:Drop by teaspoons on cookie sheet. In the middle of each teaspoonful of dough, stick a piece of walnut or pecan, or sprinkle with colored sugar. Bake at 350 degrees for 10-12 minutes or until done. [Note: I can’t remember how long they took to bake, but anyone who’s made cookies knows that 10-12 minutes is about right, and that every cookbook tacks on the phrase “or until done” to the end of recipes to avoid lawsuits.]Check back next week for cookie photos.

Photos of my grandma’s “cookie pan,” by Ann Kroeker.

The post Food on Fridays: Grandma Cookies appeared first on Ann Kroeker, Writing Coach.

In my mind, I can return to the times when I sat under the arbor, picking Concord grapes that hung from above. I remember chewing on the tough skins and spitting them out on the grass, and Grandma was in the yard maybe pulling weeds from among the day lilies along the side of the house or clipping some baby’s breath to add to a bouquet. She would point out to me the pansies planted in a shady spot near the porch, and sometimes she would pick one of the purple-and-yellow blooms, press it between pages of an old book, and use it to decorate a handmade card or bookmark months later, after it was flat and dry.

When we arrived, she pulled out her sugar cookies. Instead of rolling them out and cutting them into shapes, she would drop them onto the cookie sheet and sprinkle some colored sugar on top or stick a gumdrop in the middle, or a piece of pecan. She stored them in a green pan, a vintage roasting pan. As soon as we arrived, my brother and I wanted some “Grandma cookies.” I hunted for the ones with gumdrops or sprinkles.

Not long ago, my mom pulled out the green pan and offered it to my sister-in-law or me. My sister-in-law was delighted—it matched her kitchen in both color and style. Then something shifted. I was happy to let her have it, but maybe my eyes said something else. Honestly, my brother ate as many sugar cookies plucked from that pan as I did. He deserved it as much as anyone.

But my sister-in-law said I should have it. She wanted me to have it, she said, and though I knew it would look perfect in her kitchen, and though I knew my brother would cherish it, I accepted the pan.

Even though it doesn’t match my kitchen, the pan sits on top of my refrigerator. I see it every day, many times a day, and I store small treats in it, like Hershey’s Kisses or leftover Valentine’s candies.

After reading Nancy’s post about her own grandmother’s cookie jar, I couldn’t get the green pan out of my head.

Nancy wrote:

Grandma’s cookie jar always sat atop the refrigerator in the old farmhouse kitchen, and I remember looking up at it as a child and imagining it contained the same kinds of cookies that decorated it, ones cut in heart and flower shapes and decorated in sugary pink and green icing…At the time, it never occurred to me that having cookies on hand for the grandchildren was a luxury my hardworking farming grandparents could barely afford….Years later when I was cleaning things out of my mother’s house and came across the cookie jar, I knew I wanted to have it, to hold onto it.

I know the feeling. I want to hold onto the wooden door that thunked shut, and the pansies, and the grape arbor, and the baker’s cabinet, and the green pan and the sugar cookies with the gumdrops stuck in the center.

Grandma passed away in 1987, and the house is gone now. The wooden door, the pansies, and the arbor—all gone.

But I do have the recipe for Grandma’s sugar cookies.

And the green pan in which to store them.

This post is part of Charity Singleton’s TheHighCalling.org (THC) community project, “There & Back Again.”

Go THERE: Out of My Alleged Mind to read “Grandma’s Cookie Jar,” then come back HERE again!Each Thursday, consider going “There and Back Again” yourself. It’s simple.Here are Charity’s steps:

1. Choose another High Calling Blogger to visit. It can be someone you have “met” before, or do what I do, and work your way through the “Member Posts” section of thehighcalling.com to meet someone new.
2. Visit his blog, digesting the message until it becomes something that you can write about.
3. Go back to your blog and write about it, being sure to link to the post that gave you the idea so that your readers can visit, too.
4. Add the button to your blog so your readers know you are participating in “There and Back Again.”
5. Go back to the Network blog and leave a comment so your new friend can feel the link love!
6. Complete the journey by returning here, to Wide Open Spaces, and enter your link so that we all can benefit from the new High Calling connection you have made.

Credit: Images of Grandma’s cookie pan by Ann Kroeker

The post There & Back Again: Grandma’s Cookie Pan appeared first on Ann Kroeker, Writing Coach.

My son just discovered the music of fellow Hoosier Rich Mullins.

We have a tribute CD that includes “Awesome God,” “Hold Me, Jesus,” and “Elijah,” among others, and my son has been playing it nonstop. In fact, the first thing he does upon waking up is flip on the stereo and press play to start off the day with “Awesome God.” He loves that particular song so much, he’ll often stop the CD somewhere in the middle of another song and restart the whole thing to hear “Awesome God” yet again. I didn’t keep an exact count, but a couple of days ago I’m sure we heard just that one song at least 15 times in a row. The girls get a little tired of it, but I honestly don’t mind.

Today my son woke up, came downstairs, walked straight to the entertainment center and clicked “play.” This time, however, after “Awesome God” was over, he let it continue deeper into the CD. I was working in the kitchen and started thinking about Rich and his tragic death. Then “Elijah” came on. I listened to the lyrics and wondered how hard it must have been for Gary Chapman to sing it knowing Rich was gone.

Then I remembered the day I met Rich Mullins in a tiny church in a tiny town in southern Indiana.

My roommate Patty invited several friends to join her for the concert. We drove about 20 minutes or so from our university town to Ellettsville, Indiana, where he played a gigantic grand piano that filled what seemed like at least one-fourth of the small-town church. I vaguely recall someone saying it was brought in especially for the concert, and that would have been easy to believe. It didn’t feel like a grand piano kind of church.

Of the music he played that day, I remember most clearly his rendition of “Sing Your Praise to the Lord.” Amy Grant made it famous (this may be the version you remember), but Rich Mullins wrote it.

Here’s Rich performing it years after the Ellettsville concert (this is a little understated compared to his rendition that night I heard him, when he overflowed more energy and passion).

The reason the Ellettsville concert—and my attendance—took place…was a girl. I can’t remember her name, but she was a friend of Patty’s in whom Rich was romantically interested. I just read the Wikipedia page for Rich and saw this quote:

Mullins was engaged sometime between the late ’70’s and early ’80’s and had written the song “Doubly Good To You” (recorded by Amy Grant on her album “Straight Ahead”) for the wedding. However, his fiancée broke off the engagement, at which time Mullins wrote “Damascus Road.”

Was she the fiancee? Was he trying to reconnect with her and woo her back? I don’t know, but the timing would be about right. And she did seem uncomfortable. I don’t think she smiled the entire evening, but I could be wrong. It was a long time ago—probably 1987—and I may not have been paying much attention to anyone other than Rich.

After the concert, Rich was eager to talk with the girl. And the girl was with us. After he signed autographs and thanked people who came, the place cleared out and he came over to our group. We all stood around chatting with Rich Mullins.

I was an enthusiastic young believer at the time and beside myself with joy to be standing next to Rich Mullins. When we finally wrapped things up and said our goodbyes, I spontaneously leaped forward and hugged him.

I hugged Rich Mullins. As hugs go, it could have been a bit overwhelming, because at that point in my life I didn’t give space-respecting sideways hugs. I affectionately wrapped my arms around people and squeezed tightly.

I saw him in concert several years later, but didn’t hug him. Not that time. It was only that once. And if he remembered me from that Ellettsville encounter (he probably didn’t, because he was definitely focused on Patty’s friend; but it’s remotely possible), he may have purposefully maneuvered himself around the building to avoid me.

I only hugged Rich; I didn’t really know him at all, no more or less than any of us who have appreciated his music and the heart and soul and humor and humility behind his work. But today, listening to “Elijah” and the other songs, I felt a pang of Rich-Mullins-loss.

So today, I listened to “Creed,” which expresses the core beliefs that he and I share while I stand on this side of the Jordan and he dances on the other:

“I believe in the resurrection/I believe in a life that never ends.”

Will we give big squeezy hugs in heaven?

The post Missing Rich appeared first on Ann Kroeker, Writing Coach.