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A Joyful Noise

nana

#ThrowbackThursday: Nana’s presence, near and dear

February 21, 2019 by Melodye Shore

I’m missing my Nana something fierce these days, so imagine my delight when my sister found and shared this special photograph. It’s a peaceful, somewhat stable moment in our family history, but you can read the previous chapters in our facial expressions and body language. And yet… When it landed in my Inbox, I was able to sense Nana’s presence, as if she were once again sitting right beside me, and that’s what makes this image a rare and wonderful treasure.

(Left to right: my mom; my sister Sheryll and her infant son, Jason; me, opening a gift; and Nana.)

Posted in: #TBT, #ThrowbackThursday, family, family archives, nana, Throwback Thursday Tagged: #ThrowbackThursday, family archives, memories, nana, TBT

Nana’s Porch Swing and My New Glider

March 13, 2017 by Melodye Shore

My Nana’s house was tiny—a “cracker box,” my father called it—with a tar roof and peeling paint, two bedrooms and a single bathroom. She stored her wringer washing machine beside the creaky screen door, and stretched a clothesline between the apricot and fig trees in her grassy backyard.

Cozy enough for two, it was a tight squeeze for ten. But when our car rolled up to the curb, she burst through the front door, apron strings flying, and welcomed all eight of us with open arms.

I loved everything about my Nana’s house, but I have special memories of her front porch swing. It wasn’t fancy at all: just a slatted-wood bench, attached to the rafters with metal chains. But when daylight gave way to moonlit evenings, Grandpa Fred would settle his lanky frame into the swing and pull me into his lap. It was a cherished nightly ritual: I’d snuggle into his flannel shirt, and he’d stuff a wad of cherry tobacco into his pipe, light a match and suck on the pipe stem until the tobacco glowed red. We swayed back and forth in wordless silence, twisting pipe cleaners into clothespin dolls as the tobacco curled itself into smoky ribbons that drifted overhead.

That’s me on the left, standing with two of my sisters in Nana’s driveway.

To this day, I don’t think there’s anything more soothing than the  back-and-forth rhythm of a porch swing, especially when it’s shared with someone you love.  If you’ve ever experienced that, I know you’ll understand why I’ve always wanted a porch swing of my own.

It’s one of those dreams that’s proven more fanciful than practical. My front porch is welcoming, but it’s not big enough to swing your legs wide and far. Our backyard is filled with butterflies and birdsong, and the adjacent hillside is teeming with wildlife—all of which invites us to linger, to make new memories and share our stories. Even so, there’s no place to hang an old-fashioned swing.

But that’s how it goes sometimes, isn’t it? Times change. We adapt. Like this tangerine tree in our backyard, we cling to life’s sweetness — even as we make the inevitable changes, one generation to the next.

When I was a little girl, I vowed that when I eventually had a home of my own, I’d get myself a porch swing like Nana’s.  But when that didn’t work out, for one reason and another, I looked high and low for a suitable alternative.  A stand-alone swing might just work, I told myself, but store-bought options were either too big, too small, too rickety or stiff.

Patience isn’t my strongest virtue, but in this case, it paid off. Because, voilà! Like magic, a classified ad appeared on my NextDoor app: Two slightly-used rocking chairs AND a glider, $50.00 to the first responder.

SOLD, in a blink of an eye! Granted: my lifelong wish!

Yes, they need a good scrubbing. Seat cushions would be nice. The paint is so glossy, so glaringly white, and I much prefer a weathered look. But…$50.00, for the whole set! I couldn’t resist.

No, they’re not what I originally envisioned, but with a little elbow grease, I can transform these cast-offs into something beautiful. If I use my imagination, I can turn their rigid backs into something more rounded, soft and soothing.

Truth be told, I don’t even know where I’ll put them all.  (Shhh! Don’t tell my husband!) But I’ll make room for them somewhere…it’s what we do, for the things (the people and memories) we love and cherish.

Posted in: childhood, family, glider, Grandpa Fred, memories, nana, Nana's Porch swing, Porch swing, rocking chair, Van Nuys Tagged: glider, Grandpa Fred, memories, nana, rocking chair

Can Spring be far behind?

February 8, 2016 by Melodye Shore

“In the darkest nights of winter,” my Nana always told me, “watch the skies and listen for the robins.”

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I mentioned that very thing, in my blog post last week.

She was right, of course. Again. Because, oh hey, look who’s splashing in my birdbath!

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Rarely have I ever seen robins in this area, and only once before in my own garden. He perched on my soul fence for a single afternoon, and then vanished.

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Such cheerful birds, these harbingers of spring. I’m glad for their company, however long they choose to stay.

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Seems Edward Jenner was equally enthralled by their visits. Here, his love letter to these red-chested beauties:

Address to a Robin
Come, sweetest of the feathered throng,
And soothe me with thy plaintive song;
Come to my cot, devoid of fear,
No danger shall await thee here…

Hop o’er my cheering hearth, and be
One of my peaceful family
Then soothe me with thy plaintive song,
Thou sweetest of the feathered throng.

–Edward Jenner (physician, musician, balloonist, and inventor of modern-day vaccinations, 1749-1823)

Posted in: Address to a Robin, birds, Edward Jenner, Hope the thing with feathers, nana, Poetry, robin, Spring Tagged: backyard garden, birds, hope, joy, nana, poetry

Throwback Thursday: Annie Elizabeth Harding, one of countless immigrants

November 19, 2015 by Melodye Shore

My great grandmother, Annie Elizabeth Aldrich, was born in Hertfordshire, England in 1859.  In this snapshot , she’s about 45 years old and has long since moved to Nottingham. As mother to 11 living children (9 girls and 3 boys), it’s no surprise that she looks a bit weary. Even so, she was by all accounts a very happy woman who probably imagined herself living out her days among the people she knew and loved, in the homeland she cherished.

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May (L) and Evelyn (RO were the youngest of Annie Elizabeth Harding’s 12 children.

But when World War I erupted, Nottingham was hit hard. Annie’s boys enlisted in the military, and my great-grandparents sought refuge on American soil. They were second class passengers on the USMS Philadelphia, which was chased by German submarines for countless, terrifying miles.

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Her daughters found work at a local corset factory, and Annie — who, by then, was 56 years old–set about creating a new life for them on Pleasant Street in West Brookfield, Massachusetts.

She and her husband George worked hard, saved diligently, and eventually purchased a comfortable home on an old country road, across from a yeast-making factory and adjacent to the railroad tracks. Annie planted flowers on the hillside and was feted by her beloved children on the occasion of  her 50th wedding anniversary.

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Within a month, the Great Depression hit. They made do and did with less, so as to lend financial support to those in need.

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Annie Elizabeth and George Harding, on the occasion of their 50th wedding anniversary in 1929.

Just five years later, my great-grandfather passed away. Annie was 75 years old. A widow now, she once again rolled up her sleeves. She endured floods and other hardships, but as it was with her pet canaries, she never lost her song. Local historians told me that hobos etched friendly symbols in the dirt roads that led from the rail cars to her house. “Hot meals offered here,” they said. “Everyone’s invited.” How utterly Annie, to share what little she had!

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When I met the current owners of her humble abode, they offered me a gift.

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Pulled from the crumbling remains of the original foundation, this brick reminds me of my personal roots. Too, it grounds me in the truth of things, within and beyond the current narratives we’re hearing. That is to say, that we are a nation of immigrants, settled by great-grandmothers who sacrificed much in the name of safety and freedom, and who were welcomed equally at Ellis Island.

Posted in: family, genealogy, memoir, nana, TBT, Throwback Thursday Tagged: Annie Elizabeth Harding, Ellis Island, genealogy, Great Depression, Immigrants, nana, Refugees, west brookfield massachusetts

The red, red robin comes bob bob bobbin’ along

September 2, 2015 by Melodye Shore
Robin_01September2015Surprise

American Robin

At the confluence of serendipity & symbolism sits this red-breasted beauty. He appeared in my backyard for the first time yesterday, a dandelion wish finally realized.

I’d search the skies above our new home for more than a year, believed beyond reason that our backyard would one day be graced by a robin’s cheerful song. And just before sunset, without advance warning or fanfare, hope perched its chubby self on my back fence.

He foraged in my flowerbed, splashed in the birdbath, and surveyed the hillside beyond our fence before flying home to his own nest. I’m hoping he’ll return, but even if he doesn’t, I’m over-the-moon happy about this visit.

 

Blog title courtesy of Dean Martin.

 

 

Posted in: birds, Flight, Home, Hope the thing with feathers, joy, nana, Nature, Photography, robin, serendipity, symbolism Tagged: birds, gardening, joy, photography, robin, serendipity, symbolism

Within this pomegranate, tiny seeds of truth

September 1, 2015 by Melodye Shore

P1170802Pomegranates evoke one of my favorite memories of early autumn. Juicy red temptations, packed with tiny seeds of promise.

And still…September, already?

‘Tis the season for reflection, falling leaves and drifting thoughts.

I’m good with retrospectives. As a memoirist, I probably glance in my rear view mirror more often than most. But I’m trying not to dwell in the past or anchor my dreams to a future date, uncertain. Be here, now, I tell myself. There are gifts in this very moment, ripe for the picking.

 

Posted in: joy, nana, Nature, Pomegranates Tagged: autumn, be here now, memories, nana, pomegranates, reflections, september

Stop and smell the roses

August 14, 2015 by Melodye Shore

Vanilla beans and cinnamon rolls…Lavender and lemon…Crisp, clean air,  after a rainstorm…Fresh brewed coffee in the morning. These are standout fragrances, no doubt about it, but I’d put roses at the top.

Selected by the Vatican to honor the late Pope John Paul II, this luminous beauty has perfectly shaped blossoms and a sweet, citrus scent. Although it’s relatively new to the rose catalogue, Pope John Paul II is considered one of the most fragrant roses of all time. It’s certainly one of my favorites!(Don’t you just wish this were a scratch-and-sniff page?)

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Pope John Paul II rose in my backyard

 

But when it comes to that quintessential “old-fashioned rose” fragrance, Damask is the once and reigning Queen. New roses are introduced every year, with various “improvements” to her lineage. Sure, it’s exciting to see all the new shapes and colors, with creative names to match. But once you catch a whiff of her classic pink blossoms, you’ll remember her always. Dreamiest scent, ever.

The Soul of the Rose, aka My Sweet Rose, by John William Waterhouse (via Wikimedia Commons)

 

I suspect my big love for roses stems from my tiny grandmother, Nana. One of my sweetest, fragranced memories comes of seeing her dab Rosewater Eau de Toilette behind her ears every morning and massage rosewater and glycerine into her arthritic hands at night. Oh, and when we ran into her arms after a prolonged road trip, she’d pinch her nose and tease, “You sure don’t smell like roses!” In this undated picture, she’s planted herself among her–our–favorite flowers. I’d like to think it captures the essence of her granddaughters, too, who loved her very much.

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Nana among the roses, estimated 1916-1926

#AugustBreak2015 Photography Challenge, continued. The phrase for Day 14 is favorite smell. 

 

Posted in: #AugustBreak2015, family, gardening, joy, joyful noise, Mom, nana, Nature, Photography Tagged: Damask Rose, family archives, John William Waterhouse, joy, My Sweet Rose, nana, photography, pope john paul ii rose, The Soul of the Rose

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