November 16 , 2008

Dear Family and Friends,

It is early Sunday morning and I find myself out walking surrounded by the first snow fall of the season. Oh, it is not the snowfall of Nebraska or upper New York, but our first in northern Indiana. The roofs and lawns are covered with just a few leftover leaves peaking through. Their colors of orange and russet are striking against the pristine snow in the dawn. There are a few leaves still clinging to their branches…my pear tree, the neighbor’s oak…not wanting to let go, yet I know it is tenacious and soon the dark branches of winter will win.

It is deer season in Indiana and as I walk the distant sounds of gunfire pierce this quiet, calm Sunday morning. Those sounds mingle with the church bells as they beckon folks to early mass and services with renditions of Holy, Holy, Holy as the bells toll from street to street as I walk.

I know about deer hunting having been raised in Indiana. The hunt remains a mystery to me, but I remember Thanksgiving Day in years gone by when my Uncle and Grandfather and my Dad would take to the woods before breakfast. Their coats were red and black check. I do not remember them ever getting a deer in Indiana, even though my Grandfather and Uncle hunted more often than my Dad. I do not remember eating deer meat either, although I have cooked my share of it on the farm.

My son, Aaron, is an avid hunter. I admire his skill, his sharpness with the gun, his tracking ability and his responsibility to take the entire animal. He processes it himself on the kitchen table and0Auses the antlers for decorative purposes in his house. It is the only meat that he can physically eat so the hunt is a survival technique which is unusual in the society we live in.

My other children are all returning home one by one for the above hunt and for our Thanksgiving. They are like migrating geese only they return to the North Country in the cold weather. Adam is here now and will be joined by his wife and Abe and Kristin. I love preparing my house for their return. I wash the sheets in lavender water and hang on the line to dry, finish the beds with quilts that have spent the summer in old trunks. Each bedroom will host a son and his wife. There is still a room for little Holly complete with dolls and dress up clothes. I have not seen this granddaughter since March so I will not be able to take my eyes or arms off of her when she arrives
.
My domestic skills sharpen in this cold weather with knitting baskets full of scarves and mittens in progress, bread rising in the kitchen, candles burning, and bowls of apples from my neighbor’s orchard and windows that are tightly closed against the howl of the north wind.

As for work, I have not had a spare minute until now as I just closed my children’s theatre on Friday night. We have worked every day for the past three months, writing our show, directing, acting…I was able to actually move it to a theatre with the help of a grant this year so we had lights and tech boards…and green rooms. My student director was 12 years old and was absolutely wonderful. During the shows I was able to sit in the audience and enjoy the productions. They were wonderful and broken-hearted to end the show on Friday night. We tore the theatre down that same evening and I was still hauling out sets at midnight.

As I closed the theatre doors all that remained were a few rose petals that had fallen from bouquets…my flowers were all tossed into the front seat of the jeep ready to go home.

I love theatre, and love one production at a time. As I end one, I begin another as my community theatre begins work in two weeks!

So many other stories to share, but is it enough to say that Autumn is heavy and dark here in Indiana, that the bread continues to rise, the candles burn and laughter pours from the dinner table.

From my house to yours, enjoy this blessed time of year. The Thanksgiving season is here.

Love to all,
Lou Ann

“Indian corn in a triad is hung from the front door to commemorate the harvest…one gold, one russet, one Phoenician purple, the pale husks spread in a fan above the brass knocker.  How ancient is this symbol…an offering of thanksgiving to the god of grain for this year’s bounty, a magic to conjure fertility in the year to come. It is a reminder, each time we enter the house, of our human dependence on the mystery of seed and growth.”  Hill Song, a Country Jou rnal by Lee Pennock Huntington.