REMEMBERING THE PAST; IMAGINING THE FUTURE

Dance Card for a Red Cross Dance

IN BIRDLAND WATER HAS RETURNED, AND IF THE WATER TABLE IS STILL LOW, AND IT'S TOO LATE TO SAVE THE CORN, AT LEAST EVERYTHING IS GREENING UP. A few nights ago, when I was putting the chickens to bed I glanced over at the garden coop, which has been more theoretical this year than an actual garden. I think I've harvested 5 anemic cucumbers and a handful of cherry tomatoes. I have pulled a few weeds over the summer, but even the weeds were overcome by the drought. Anyway, I glanced over and saw that the rains have brought quite a crop of Lamb's Quarters. The earth was still damp from the last little bit of rain, and I made it a point, the next day to spend some time weeding. Now, weeding is probably my favorite thing about gardening, under certain conditions (soft, damp earth, so that the weeds pull up smoothly and the soil shakes off simply.) Conditions were perfect, and I brought a little basket out with me to harvest tomatoes. The vines are full of blossoms, but only a few were ripe on the vine. These were compact, as if the drought had concentrated them. Again, I got only a handful, but how satisfying to weed half the bed in the half hour between chicken-dark and full on dusk.

Now the wheel of the year is turning back to the dark side—earlier nights and later mornings—which is fine because now that school has started I need to spend my evenings prepping for classes instead of mooning around the yard. This morning I threw my bike in the back of my car so I could get to the Student Life Archives where my class went for a field trip. I love the archives. It's a little like a library, only you can't check things out. It has some books, but mostly it has one-of-a-kind objects. It's a little like a museum, only you can closely examine, and even handle the artifacts. Ellen Swain, the friendly archivist always has a selection of objects from student life laid out on the table for my students to see. 

Helpful Advice

 I take my class every semester, and by now she knows which are my favorites. I like to share with my students a longer perspective on the university. They are often surprised when I tell them how the university has changed in big and little ways since I was in their place so many years ago. But here, they can see the props to those stories, and more. I like to show them the green beanie cap that freshman men had to wear all year, any time they were out and about on campus. Some years the caps had small bills, others no bill. A button on the top of the cap was color coded for their college. A freshman caught without his hat would meet with dire consequences—perhaps the kind of hazing that is illegal today. In May, they would build a bonfire and burn their caps to pass the dubious honor of the beanie hats to the next crop of “green” freshmen.  

I also like the little notebook that Alan Hicks, a student from the 40's used to keep track of his expenses while here at the university. I join my students in their awe at his dedication to keeping such a faithful account, and at the expenses he records (coke date—26 cents; graph paper—21 cents; a peephole into the past—priceless). We examine a scrapbook from the 20's and Ellen explains the purpose of dance cards. 

 Some of the most telling evidence of the university's changing relationship to students is in the books written for freshmen by the Dean of Men and the Dean of Women. Facts for Freshmen is the men's version, and very straightforward and, well, factual. It has rules about bicycle use and visiting hours. 

 The women's version (Illini Wise) is much more parental, offering advice and even a helpful chart about what kind of outfit is appropriate for each part of student life. Going to class? “Saddle shoes or Loafers.” Church? “Heels with hose or dressy flats.” The Dean of Women also published a book called Campus Cues, chock full of advice about dating. I like to ask my students to contemplate the difference in their relationship to the Dean of Students today. Would they expect to be told what to wear or how to date? I ask them again, to imagine what will be different in another couple of generations. What stories will they regale their children with about their student days?

Freshman Beanie Hat

THE ARCHITECTURE OF MEMORY

One lone early bloomer turns her face to the sun.

IN BIRDLAND, THE POPPY FIELD IS READY TO BLOOM. On the end of each curving, hairy, stalk is an olive shaped bud that wants to crack open revealing scarlet crepe. Poppies seem so primordial to me. A simple two part calyx holding the full-skirted petals tightly. They remind me of prehistoric birds with long, skinny necks, sparse hair instead of feathers. One, lone early bloomer turns its head toward the sun, a flamenco dancer waiting for partners. A few buds teasingly show just the ends of their skirts. When we moved out here 25 years ago, the circle of poppies was small, maybe 4 feet across. Each year it expands and now it reaches almost from the Lilacs to the Redbud.

 

 Edging the house, my grandmother's pale purple Irises bloom, scenting my morning walks. Along my path to the barn, though, I have been planting Irises from various sources—friends and a visit to an Iris farm up north. These are a variety of colors and shapes, and I can't remember what I planted where. Some are fall blooming, but this morning two new ones are climbing out of their shells. 

 I can hardly wait to see the blossoms. The one has big fleshy buds, the sepals edged in burgundy, like exotic snails. The other is smaller, the petals beginning to turn a deep purple.

Grandma's Yellow Rose

 We have two new additions to our yard. Last weekend, in a private ceremony of reconciliation, Michael and I celebrated some of the complexities of our long association by planting a Rose and a red Maple tree. We were thinking about how to commemorate our reunion. We knew we wanted to plant something—maybe a tree, and that Malvina Reynolds song started singing itself in my head: “If you love me, if you love, love, love me/Plant a Rose for me. If you think you're gonna love me a l-o-n-g time/Plant an apple tree.” I voted for the Rose, and Michael wanted a Maple—one that would turn red in the fall. 

Iris Bud

 We ended up buying both. The Rose was already in full bloom, and the tag promised blossoms “from frost to frost.” We planted the Rose on one side of my path, and the Maple stands a little away, on the other side, so it won't shade my Irises too much. 

If you love me, plant a rose for me.

 We can see them both from the window. Our dear friend, Pastor Janet, was with us, and we showed her around the yard. I told her about the yellow Rose, blooming now, that my grandmother remembered as a tree when she was a girl, when the Lilac was just a little upstart bush. Now, of course, the gnarled Lilac tree towers over the Rose, which blooms anyway in its shadow.

If you think you're gonna love
me a long time,
plant a maple tree.

 Janet remarked about the importance of stories that connect us with our home. She said that someday our children would tell their children the story of the Rose and the Maple tree. I look around the yard and I find it is full of stories. Ghosts of five little kids greedily pluck mulberries from the tree at the side of the lane. They stain their fingers and their mouths. Over there is a young mother, planting the twigs she bought mail order, now an unruly hedge of Forsithia, Weigela, Rose of Sharon. In back, near the new Rose, my grandfather plants grapes; twenty years later a young father crafts an arbor for them to climb, with posts of Locust and boards of Cedar. Grandpa's twin cherry trees are now ghosts themselves, after living out a long life, generous with pies. A young peach tree now stands in place of the cherries. In the evenings, if we are quiet, we can see the spinney of woods that grew up between the two houses fade. Wait. The field will return and five little kids will run through the waist high grass, chasing the fireflies that rise like wishes to the sky. This emotional landscape, this architecture of memory, holds these stories for us, connecting us to our past, to this land, and to each other.

Remember Beauty; Recollect Peace; Blessed Be.