The Hawk’s Cry

The cry of the hawk, reaching my ears even through the closed windows of my house, reminds me instantly of my grandparent’s house.

My grandfather built his house on the side of a tall, tall hill, at the end of a street, at the edge of the woods.

My sister and I would climb up the grassy hill, and run down it, screaming like the little girls that we were. My parents and grandparents would sit outside on the large wooden deck watching us. Once, I stared screaming in more of a scared way than an excited way. I saw a black snake slithering in the grass. He was going sideways as I was going down.

The trail in the woods led to a little creek that trickled here and there. The water was always icy cold, even in the summer. Further on, an old abandoned car rusted away. My sister and I always wondered how a car could get into the middle of the woods and be forgotten.

And always, by the grassy meadow or up on the hill, I would hear the cry of a hawk.

This summer, we often spotted a small hawk in our suburban yard. Because of its striped tail feathers, we think it is a Cooper’s Hawk. He is small, and seems to be rather foolish. We saw him once chase a squirrel, with no chance of actually catching it. The nest he built for his mate was rather flimsy. Twigs kept falling down to the ground and an actual, solid nest never materialized.

Just the other morning, I heard his shrill hawk cry again. Fierce and independent sounding, not foolish at all.

I hope that hawk is growing more mature, so he can start doing his job around here and catch those dang mice.

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Popcorn

On Friday, I had the urge to make popcorn. It did not involve throwing a paper bag lined with God-knows-what into the microwave, but instead: a heavy pot, a stove, oil and popcorn kernels. I shook the pan over the stove like a madwoman, to keep the oil from burning. Then pop! pop! poppoppoppoppoppoppoppop! until the pot was filled with the white fluffy food almost to overflowing. Dumping the hot popcorn into large bowls, I waited until the pot cooled a little before putting pats of butter in it to melt. I poured the butter over the popcorn, salted it, and served it to my girls as an afternoon snack.

Popcorn. Just the way my mom used to make popcorn for us. Freshly popped, heavy on the butter and salt, delicious.

It has been a long time since I last tasted my mother’s popcorn. We used to have popcorn every Sunday night. Mom had already made a big Sunday dinner for us to eat after church; Sunday evening was her time to relax, to not cook. If we wanted something else to eat, that was fine, but we had to fix it ourselves. I ate a lot of cheese sandwiches with my popcorn on Sunday nights.

It seems like my mom pops into my head a lot these days as I’m cooking meals for my family. On Halloween, I made her chili recipe in the crock pot. It was a great, warm meal to come home to after trick-or-treating in the cold weather. Tonight, I made homemade pizza just the way Mom taught me.  Mom told me every now and then that she was tired of cooking for all six of us. She would complain about how she couldn’t think of anything to make for dinner. I would always compliment her cooking; I loved her meals. But now, as I struggle to make dinner for the family every night, I know how she felt.

I also know that even though she got tired of cooking dinner, she loved seeing the family come together at the dinner table. As I make her recipes and come up with my own recipes, I have wonderful memories of the meals she made.

Even of the meals that consisted of nothing but popcorn.

Mom husking corn with Lily and Emmy.

Second Blooming

In memory of Mom
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