The Hills Where the Black Spruce Grow Short Stories from Life All Around Me

The Hills Where the Black Spruce GrowDuring my twenty years of teaching both my students and my own children often asked to hear stories that I would tell. I am pretty good at remembering these tales, trials and tragedies of days gone by. As the years progress, I wonder if this gift will fade away, like my ability to play sports has already done. Additionally a couple of drunk drivers have hit me, the last one being a head-on collision. I also rammed my head into a garage wall. This accident was a bleak reminder of a saying that my grandmother Lida was fond of, "It's always later than you think!" The crash temporally paralyzed me on the left half of my body, albeit short-lived, praise God. The lingering effect being a constant pains in the neck- a condition that I am occasionally believed to cause for others.Life as a youth on traditional livestock and crop farm life was certainly no picnic. Hard, hot, and dirty work, without much fun was the order of the day. Pitching manure, picking rocks, hauling hay, driving tractors, weeding gardens, making firewood, cleaning house, and doing dirty dishes were my most vivid memories. Life in those days was not a lot of laughs. My wife has tried to tell me that this was not uncommon for kids in rural communities. That may be true although I have my doubts about this. I guess I was farmer boy of the 50s and 60s similar to the harsh life mentioned in the stories written by Laura Ingalls Wilder.The other side of life involved spending time at my grandma's house and cottage on a nice lake. She was the classic: a great cook, crafty card player, super seamstress, excellent fisherman, and a kind soul. I always thought I was, or the luckiest boy alive when I was with her. My grandmother had something special and wonderful in her life. Only now at age 56 do I realize what it was - time. She didn't spend her time watching Dish Network, taking cell phone calls, surfing the net, or rushing around to make various appointments. Her life was hers to enjoy, spending precious moments alone in turn with each of her seven grandchildren was one of her greatest delights. When my turn came around it was a treasure to glory in. Making homemade beef stew, soft sugar cookies with raisins, and being able to go into the milk delivery truck and choose a bottle of buttermilk or chocolate milk that was cool. I loved my grandmother and she loved me. It was simple as that. All those many years now since her death in 1981, yet the happy memories can still pull me out of the doldrums. I pray that one day at least one person can say that about me. At this point I have no grandchildren to see if I have inherited any of her kindness magic.Yes, times were different, life seemed slower and you were required to do a lot more physical labor in those day. If a person has to dig up their potatoes it keeps them from being a couch potato. I still do my own vegetable garden. These are the stories of days gone by on a southern Michigan farm where the challenges were big and the times left for fun seemed small. The lessons of life came from all directions like the winders of life some favorable and some ill. Then we never knew what the day, week or month held in store. As a middle child with an older brother and younger brother I believed that I got a rough row to hoe, more than my fair share. The lessons learned have lasted well. First, work as hard and fast as you safely can while remembering the old adage "haste makes waste." Second, things can and often do go wrong especially on a farm. The Bible tells us that when we are given trials we can become bitter or better. The latter is more likely to help make you be the person you pray you might become - God willing. Last, one can often out last or out- think most people who think they are smarter than you with time and persistence. I hope these true stories are memorable and fun. Enjoy the many trips down the farm lane and have a cup of warm cheer on me.