Of Military Packing Habits

There is something intrinsically comforting about the smell of black shoe-polish, I have decided. When I was younger, dad was still in the National Guard, and while he never went overseas when I was around, there were still many long journeys to distant states for prolonged periods of time, for training, schooling, training others, and other things regarding the care, keeping and proper usage of large metal tanks. Dad became quite the expert on packing for these ventures, slight OCD and meticulous care serving him well in a military environment. He knew every trick for saving space, packing exactly what he needed, and had the whole process down to a flawless routine.

When I was quite small, I found this routine absolutely fascinating. I would watch as well-worn grey and white t-shirts got rolled up into neat rolls, everything that was in green camo flat and folded and packed neatly away. When dad brought out his shoe-shining kit, I’d be sure to have my little black mary-janes ready for him too, waiting alongside his big black combat boots. We’d usually had something on tv…Jeopardy, or Austin City Limits, depending on what night it was. And while country music played, I’d watch dad carefully shine his boots. When I was really little, I would pick out one of the rolled up t-shirts, and pretend it was a baby doll. When I was a little older, we’d try to see who could answer the most questions on Jeopardy. And the next day he’d be gone for a long time, and we’d all be a bit glum. But I always looked forward to the night before he left, and I always knew that no matter how long he was gone, he would still come home again.

A week ago, I found myself at the commissary again, buying those ever-familiar grey PT t-shirts, only now they said NAVY across the chest instead of ARMY (“I can’t fold over the R to make my name anymore!” “…What?” “Long story…”) . Whites and new running sneakers and many socks followed. A can of Kiwi black shoe polish was tossed into our cart. Ah, old friend, how I’ve missed you. That evening, I sat cross-legged on the floor of our apartment, helping Rick pack up his sea-bag. A.F.I was playing on the laptop and we were quizzing each other on obscure movie knowledge, as he polished his work boots, and I rolled up t-shirts. At one point, his friend James came by to pick something up, and saw me folding. “Wow, you’re good at that.” To which I responded, “I learned from the Master.”

That night the Husbot set out everything he would need for the next day, work uniform, watch, freshly polished shoes, socks, all in order where he would remember them. The next day he would be gone for a long time, and I’d be more than a bit glum. But I am comforted in a manner most familiar. I know that no matter how long he is gone, there will always be a meticulous shoe-polisher coming home to me.


~ Amy

Grandpa George

I wish you all had known my Grandfather Atkins. Actually, I wish I had known my Grandfather Atkins. He died when my father was still a young boy in 1938. I was named after my grandfather, George Clyde Atkins. George, I can handle, but the middle name of Clyde never did give me a “warm fuzzy.” I always thought of myself as a camel, from a popular song back in the sixties. I guess I resented being the kid that had to carry on the name for family’s sake. However, as I grew older, my opinion started to change.

The family, uncles & aunts, would visit and tell stories about my grandfather that would interest me. Such as examples of his honesty, or perhaps his work ethic which was certainly worthy of admiration. The stories that would interest me most were about the way he provided entertainment for the small community in which he lived and worked. He worked as a foreman on a modest but successful farm in rural Virginia. In the evenings families visited their neighbors more frequently than they do now. There were no TVs, or Stereos. Most families in the area were too poor to afford movies or dinning out. Even if they could afford it, such places weren’t available around Porter’s Crossroads, VA.

When families would visit my grandparents they would always ask my Grandfather George to tell them about the latest novel he was reading. From what I understand he had an appetite for reading the frontier novels of Zane Grey that was never satisfied. So he would tell the story. “Riders of the Purple Sage,” “The Last Trail,” and many others were always told with an intensity that kept listeners on the edge of their seats, even if they had heard his telling of the story before. Folks would listen for hours I’m told. One night he provided a special treat, according to my Uncle Jack,as he had just finished the novel “Tarzan.”

I came across some information about my Grandfather from an unexpected source one day. I’m sure it is the most precious bit of knowledge I will remember. I was seventeen years old at the time and very much into myself. The year was 1968. Integration in the Public Schools in Virginia was still something new that both Black and White kids were trying to get used to. I do think the kids were doing better at it than their parents, but that still remains to be seen even today. Anyway.

I was hitchhiking to football practice one day in the summer prior to the school year starting, when an elderly African-American couple stopped to give me a ride. I got into the back seat beside a young lad my same age who just happened to be member of the school basketball team, as well as a friend of mine. It turns out that the couple was his grandparents, so introductions were made.

The elderly gentlemen then asked me, “You must be the grandson of Mister George Atkins, correct?” I told him that I was, but that I never knew my Grandfather. He said, “I knew your grandpa, you should have known him, he was a good man.” He told me how his father and family would buy livestock in Wytheville. It was about a sixteen mile trip over a mountain trail. They would herd their horses and mules and drive them over the trail. He said, “We would always make sure to see that Mister George could go with us. Mister George would tell us all the stories that he could remember and we all laughed and had lots of fun. The trip always seemed too short. But the real reason that my daddy wanted Mister George with us was because he knew them White Traders weren’t going to try and cheat us with Mister George there.”

Nowadays I sit around and read Louis L’Amour or, perhaps, study my drama script. I think of how nice it would have been to have known and shared my Grandfather with my own family. But then sometimes I wonder; maybe my name isn’t all that I got from my Grandfather. I no longer despise my middle name, I’m thankful for it. I pray that God will let me live up to it.

Written by George Atkins 1-17-2008

Christmas Eve Luminaries

We lived on River Road South in Walpole N.H. Our cousins lived on Stagecoach Road in Westminster Vt. The two locations, as the crow flies, were a straight shot to each other. We could have walked to each other's houses almost, except for the half a dozen corn fields, woods, one small highway, a smaller road, oh yeah, and a River. :P
But, in the winter you could almost see their house through the leafless trees up on the mountain across the river. We had a tradition, Christmas Eve was Mom's night, she made a big dinner, with all the trimmings of Christmas, and the Plumleys came to our place and we played, exchanged gifts, giggled about secrets and made predictions about the next morning. Then the next morning, after the gift madness, and after Mom and Dad recovered with coffee, and after we were stuffed with Spice round cookies, we packed up our favorite new toys, and went to their house for Christmas Breakfast made by Uncle CP. Twas a fabulous tradition, and even with Grandpa visiting, or nasty weather, it never changed, every year the same, every year more and more fun.
One other thing never changed, the luminaries. Every year, at sunset on Christmas Eve, we would run to the windows and look out towards the Westminster side of the River, and you could see one by one, the little dits of light would start to light up making a long line through all the trees. Some years we were even able to pack up, and take a drive over there. Right down main street, (now main street Westminster was actually Rte5, it ran right through, with old town buildings on either side, with a couple churches, the post office, the Bates motel, ERM, the roadside inn, or whatever, and a smattering of giant, century old houses, untouched by time it seemed) So, all down the street, they had Luminaries, little paper bags with candles inside, starting at the first house, ending at the last house before the cornfields. Proper etiquette was to turn off your headlights, and drive slowly, to drink in all the atmosphere. The old houses decked to the max in classy greens and white lights.
I wish you all could remember Mom's candlelight Christmas Eve dinners, and Uncle CP's breakfast, and how Christmas felt back then, and of course, the Luminaries!

Cornfields

Where we grew up in New Hampshire, cornfields surrounded us nearly everywhere you looked. Our 200 year old house was smack-dab in the middle of a farming community, and though we weren’t exactly farm kids, we all got really familiar with the many moods and dispositions of cows, horses, sheep, dump trucks, tractors, and cornfields. We were polite trespassers in this gorgeously untouched area, our adventures tolerated by those who owned the dandelion fields, violet patches, perfect sledding hills, skating ponds, and cornfields around us.

To the west of our house lay a cornucopia of adventure. First there was a cow pasture, which was usually empty, but every so often housed a few cows or horses. Beyond that was a cornfield, which stretched out to what seemed like forever to a little girl. After the cornfield, there was a small field of alfalfa. And after that, the ground sloped down to the most forbidden shores of the Connecticut River. It was a test of bravery (and how much you wanted to push the parental boundaries) how far you would go. I only made it to the river once, and spent most of my playtime in the pasture. But oh, there were some great times in the cornfield.

I was usually the shortest of course, my three elder siblings towering over me in both age and wisdom (or so it seemed to me, from about age 5 to 10). It was easy to lose the annoying tag-along little sister amongst the cornstalks, but they put up with me nonetheless. We had epic adventures playing Marco Polo, nibbling on the forbidden veggies, and getting paper cut-esque wounds from flapping corn leaves. Once, when it was just my brother Matt and I, we trekked bravely through the maze together, he telling me we’d have a great surprise beyond it. I was about 7 or 8, and trusted him implicitly, following close behind him in the path he walked through the corn. We came out on the other side, to find the alfalfa thick, green, and smelling wonderful under the hot summer sunshine. It was about shoulder-high for me, the perfect height for us to stomp out our respective playhouses. And there we sat, on a bed of warm green leaves, watching clouds and corn leaves waving lazily over us, and probably getting bad sunburns.

The best time I ever had in that cornfield though was in the dead of winter, I think I was 8 years old. Every now and then, winter will thaw just enough to allow a rainfall or an icefall, and then freeze right back again, leaving a crust on the snow and roads that gives adults heartburn, and children glee. Of course, it’s never strong enough for you to actually walk on top of the snow...only this time, it was. On top of 16 inches of snow was a crust two inches thick of pure smooth frothy ICE. You almost could have strapped on your skates and skated on it. The huge hills left by the snowplow, which we’d dug snow forts into, were frozen solid and looked like Luke Skywalker’s house on Tattooine. And the cornfield, which had been nothing more than a wasteland of chopped stalks at that time of year, was now a vast smooth slippery glacier.

Sliding out on our boots, my sister Sara, Matt and I all slid into the field. There was one point where the gentle sloping of the field made a sort of slight valley, which wasn’t very obvious in the summertime, but on this frozen week it was perfect. Instead of a snowball fight, we sat on opposite hills and slid ice chunks across this giant smooth bowl at each other, dodging and laughing and falling over on our bums. At one point, I’m fairly certain my brother Matt used ME as a weapon, and slid me full force across the ice at my sister. Of course, this whole situation made our sledding hills in the field into veritable smooth death traps, from which there was no escape...but we’ll save that emotional trauma for another day.

I had an interesting experience, being in the middle. I have treasured memories of that house and those times with my older siblings, but my little brothers and I made new memories and new adventures here in the woods of Bomoseen, and I got to be the big sister using her littlest brother as a projectile for a few years. Still, I wish you could have known about the magic of those cornfields...

Raccoons in the moonlight.

There was this little house, on the shores of lake Zoar that was nestled behind large trees and a stone patio, and all manner of various plants and flowers. The house, was pretty much built INTO the cliff that went down to the lake. You would pull up to it, and it almost resembled a Hobbit hole, all you could see was the front door, and the large low window that looked out on the stone patio. The entire house was pretty much built around the giant fieldstone fireplace. It was the paper trash bag, LOL Nana always had us put our paper plates and napkins into the fireplace. We could sit on the Hearth and do puzzles, or watch cartoons. The kitchen was on the backside of this giant masterpiece, It was also two steps lower than the living room. Nana's Pantry was IN the fireplace LOL. To me, as a youngster, it was slightly amazing! But yes, on the back of the fireplace was a wooden door, that hid the pantry, where Nana usually hid to Cracker jacks!
We used to love to stand in the kitchen and lean on the rock wall that was warm from the fire blazing on the other side. I am sure we were NOT helpful in the tiny kitchen as She tried to cook meals for all of us, but she just laughed and told us about her plants. The back side of the house was nearly all glass, large floor length panes of glass in the dining room followed the curve of the deck outside. The desk started at ground level in the front of the house, then it was a walkway with a 5 foot high fence as a wall, you could see between the cracks that as you walked around to the back of the house, the ground was dropping dramatically underneath you, and by the time you got to the patio part, with the red chunky wood picnic table and lounge chairs, with sunshine yellow cushions, you were walking above the tree tops. Some trees still towered over us, and provided shade, but mostly we were in a secret hide above the trees, looking down onto the lake below.
On the side of the dining room you could walk back up two steps into the sun room. It had a wall of windows too, looking out onto the patio/deck area. With a radiator cleverly disguised by a quaint wooden sill, covered with More plants. She LOVES her plants. :) There was a stereo in the sun room, where we listened to Music machine and John Denver on 8 tracks. As we played with the toys she kept just for us. A large doll house, stuffed animals, and if we were really good, we got to play with the feathery Marionette birds.
From the sun room, you could go back into the living room, and hang over the railing that looked down into the dining room, THAT Nana did scold us for, well, when we climbed over it, or hung on it anyways. LOL
There was a dark hallway to the bathroom, that held two? Chest freezers. They held all manner of yummy treats, sherbets and ice cream sandwiches! The bathroom was a study in 60's design! I believe it was all in sea foam green. a pretty big room, but the cool part was that you had to step down to the toilet, it was cool :)
The deck off of the back of the house, was overlooking a VERY long drop to the rocky shore. and IF you could ever go down to ground level and look UP at the underside of the house, you would see how it perched on the edge, and MY GOODNESS, it was years before i could be comfortable on that deck, i was so petrified of heights!
Mom's step dad, Pop, had a large pair of powerful binoculars, he would let us use them to look out over the lake, to the bridge, and watch the traffic. We could see the Boy scouts at their camp, and the various boaters out on the lake.
The thing i remember the best, besides her brown dishes dipped with white glaze, and the glass bottle that played a tune and had a tiny dancing lady inside, were the raccoons. Nana loves animals, and aways had full birfeeders everywhere. A stone Birdbath out on the patio seconded as a lake for our tiny sail boats and fairy leaf boats, and the middle of the stone Patio, sat a black bucket, upside down, covered in black sunflower seeds. When you entered her house, there was a coat rack, boot mat, and two tubs, one of birdseed, one of sunflower seeds. We were sent out to fill the feeders, using a little plastic cup red or yellow, some of you remember that cup!
So, the sunflower seeds, what were they for? Well, at night, we would all line up at the low window in the living room, overlooking the patio, and wait. Sure enough, every night, they would come, the raccoons. BIG fat raccoons! They came to the black bucket table, and sit on their haunches and shell seeds and watch us watch them. They came one by one, until there were 3-4 even 5 ..... sometimes we left bread crusts, and more would come, They were so cute! They were huge, and friendly, and knew us as well as we knew them. I wonder if that one old fat raccoon sits and wonders where that lady went to? With her sunflower seeds and bread crusts. The birdfeeder is in Vermont now, still being used for many things other than a birdbath. The house was sold. Nana moved to Vermont, where she still grows plants, and loves animals.
That house has changed I'm sure, but the memories are as fresh as yesterday. The large rock on the corner of her road, where we would slide down on our bottoms, and wear out all our best pants. The trundle bed we thought was soo cool, and now sits in my Moms house. The pictures we drew, and pasted, and the paper dolls Nana made for Kate and I, all stored in our own smurf File folder, high on the shelf in the sun room. The pine cones, the leaves, the smell of the birdseed. The feel of the warm fireplace on a snowy day. The look on Nana's face as she watched us hunt for the Cracker jacks she hid. The smell of Sausage and peppers when we arrived after a 3 hour car ride. The tiny raccoon Eric gave her, that she kept on her spice rack, and of course, the Raccoons. The family of rolly polly "big ol' fat raccoons" as Dad called them. "walking around in their winter jammies"
Ah those days were fun! I wish you could have met the raccoons.

The White Man

Grandpa Varnadore, Amy met him when he was pretty old, and sick. but Dave and Jake never got the pleasure. He wasn't really all that old, but Parkinson's disease had taken it's toll on him. he grew up in Baxley Georgia, actually he and Nana both did, but never met till they were in New england. Cool huh? After Nana left and remarried, he moved down to Florida.
Mom tells us stories about how he was a carpenter, he built houses in his younger healthy years, and could almost build anything. He loved the look, feel smell and rawness of wood. My Mom found a cradle in a magazine one time that she loved, and sent it to him, to see if he could make it. Oh he could! And he did, it was a beautiful cradle, one of a kind too, made by her dad, out of Cyprus wood from Florida. How many New englanders have Cyprus wood cradles?
What i remember of my grandpa is Delta airlines. LOL Yes, he would always fly Delta, we had almost memorized how to get to the Delta terminal at the Bradley airport in Mass. This was way before 911 and all the security. We could stand at the big tall windows and watch the planes taxi and take off and land. We could watch the line of people walking off the plane, and look for the hat. He wore a brown tweed hat, always. Then we went down to baggage claim and looked for the big hard Yellow suitcase.
I have always wanted a yellow suitcase, only recently did it dawn on me why. Someday, i will had a hard shell yellow suitcase. :)

Anywho ..... then we drove home, and probably exhausted the already tired man with our questions, and stories and energy. He slept alot, LOL, but that was okay, he was pretty patient with all us kids. We took turns having him in our homes. Between the Plumley's and us, he was usually up for Christmas. At our house he sat in the horrid old lazy boy that had some weird old green pattern on it. In the Plumley's house he always sat in the pink leather Lazy boy. Yes, PINK leather! :) Aunt Christine hid it well with her afghans and such, but when you looked at it close, it was definitely PINK.
One year , when we first saw "The Princess Bride" we were dying to show Grandpa, we knew he would love it, he had a good sense of humor. So we put it in the Plumley's VCR, and all 5 cousins sat n the floor while he sat in his pink throne. Don't you know, he slept through the entire movie! The couple times he woke up, they were kissing. SO at the end we all peppered him for his opinion, to which he says .."That's the worse movie i ever saw!" :P
We went down to visit him one year, Mom Aunt C, Eric, Chris, Katie, yubby, Matt and baby Amy. When we left to go home, he gave us all tickets and money to go spend the day at Epcot center. THAT was fun! I will tell the Florida story on another day :)
Grandpa taught us how to blow straw wrappers into the vents at Wendy's. Mom LOVED that :) He also went grocery shopping with us in Keene at Sun Foods, and liked to take peanuts out of the barrels.
(see, they still sold peanuts out of barrels, just sitting there for anyone to scoop out a bagful)
So he would walk over, grab a handful and plop them in his pocket, then he'd shell them and eat them through the store. LOL He told Mom,
"if they didn't want people eating them, they shouldn't leave them out."
As he got older, he got weaker, he had difficulty walking, he kinda shuffled. He would go for walks down our road just shuffling along. One time Amy, very young at the time, took his hand and said... "Nono Grandpa, thats not how you walk, i will help you!" so she held onto his hand and slowly step by step showed him the proper walk technique. LOL SO precious! She was the one who called him "the White Man" He did have white hair :)
One of the reasons mom loved the house in bomoseen was the unfinished wood trim. It reminds her of Grandpa V. Of the kind of houses he would build, of how he loved wood, and the beauty of it. We don't have alot of things from him, but i think the most treasured item that came form his hands is that cradle.
It was made for a little baby girl who never got to sleep in it, and then, I came along, and gave the Cradle it's maiden run. He only ever got to see three babies in it. Me, Matt and Amy. Since then, it's held David and Jacob. Now Grandpa's great grandchildren Grant and Samantha have used it. That would make him Happy. :) I miss him alot, and i wish you had gotten to know him.

summer mornings in the country ...................

We lived in Walpole NH. on a farm, in the summer, on warm perfect days, we would come out of our rooms and peek out the windows to check the weather. The cows were grazing in the pasture, fog was lifting off the river just beyond the tree line, and there, at the end of our yard, buried to her shoulders in "briars" was Meemaw. She stayed with us many times for a week or so at a time. When David and Jake were born both times she came to help Mom till she got back on her feet.
Those summer mornings she was picking blackberries. We had this giant blackberry bush half on our yard, half in the cow pasture, with a barbed wire fence running right through it.
I hated that bush in the mornings, it had nasty big ol' spider webs all over it, definitely NOT worth the effort.
Meemaw thought differently. She would go out there, bowl in hand and bury her tiny body in those "briars" (thats the southern word ya know) and she would come out with a bowl heaping full of ripe glistening, dewy blackberries. They were delectable, especially in a bowl of farm fresh milk, with sugar. NOTHING beats that taste! She took us blueberry picking once, and even dragged Eric out to go strawberry picking one time. Always giving us "berries and cream" for breakfast.
I suppose Dave and Jake wouldn't remember since they were the tiny little people at the time. How i Wish you had known Summer mornings with Meemaw and Blackberries. :)