The Barn always told me we had a lot of long livers in our family tree. I didn’t understand the how the measurement of a vital organ would bring him such pride, but by the monkeyshine in his eyes, I figured there must be some riddle in the remark. Once he had me hooked, he’d say, “Grandma Snorteland lived until she was ninety-two, Uncle Oscar was ninety-six, Uncle Christ was eighty-nine, and Aunt Laurensa was seventy-eight. We have a lot of long livers.”
It’s a homegrown version of a Barney Joke, those quips that have given him legendary status among his offspring and our peers. The definition of a Barney joke is one that, when the punchline is revealed, draws a deep groan from the listener, but which the listener will retell many times as the daffy cleverness of it cures and mellows in our humor centers. His own inventions are often the best.
Being grandparents and retired in their sixties, it was always fun to have The Barn and The Peg pop up from Southeast Iowa to visit our two contributions to their rogues gallery. One morning I emerged from our bedroom to find The Barn making breakfast for The Dot. Grandpa Barney told me he was making her breakfast, because she had “beat him up” that morning.
“What?!” Then I noticed the familiar monkeyshine eyes.
“Morgan was up at 6:00, and I didn’t get up until 6:15. She beat me up.”
If you hear yourself repeating this to others, you’ll have entered the land of Barney Jokes.
Barney Games are another trip to Huh?-ville. A music educator and father of five, and possessing a mind that doesn’t quit, his entertainment was way past musical chairs and into composing songs and thinking up word games. Our long summer family vacations bred all sorts of diversions. To this day I can’t look at a license plate without coming up with a slogan to match the scramble of numbers and letters inscribed there. To her horror, The Dot does it, too, but she’s learning like the rest of us to expect the bemused look on the faces of her friends.
One fabled game has spread out beyond the family and into the lives of casual acquaintances. While visiting The Barn a few years ago, he showed me a letter from the adult child of one of his friends. “I’ll never forget playing ‘Tree’. I taught it to my kids, and they’re teaching it to theirs.”
Get out. Tree?
Tree was the brainchild of The Barn on our long summer tours throughout the Upper 48, Canada, and Mexico. When getting from Point A to Point B, The Barn didn’t mess around. We’d easily cover 500 miles a day, back before Interstate highways were plentiful. Besides, getting off the main roads made the trip more interesting.
He made a “car kitchen” for the back seat, rendering the back door behind the driver’s seat useless for getting in and out of the station wagon. With this invention, he foreshadowed the minivan by nearly thirty years. The Peg sat next to the “car kitchen”, and dispensed water from the buttoned spout of the big Thermos jug that sat in its custom slot on the top shelf. There were shelves that held Tupperware containers full of things that were needed throughout the day, including Keen, a fruit-flavored powder that we could mix for our afternoon snack, and the cookies The Peg would pack each day.
Each day we would get a big bag of Scotsman’s® ice, and dump it into the ice chest that sat on the shelf across the seat of the “car kitchen”. Instead of buying soda pop or sugary/salty snacks, we’d get a cup of ice. It was fun, too! We’d have contests to see who could hold an ice cube in his or her mouth the longest. If a sibling ticked you off, you could always sit behind them and loudly crunch on ice cubes. That really burned ‘em, but they knew if they complained, the ice cruncher won, so a battle of the wills ensued.
It’s hard to mention the “car kitchen” and not be reminded of “the sleeve”. Each year, while on these long trips with hours on the road, The Barn would rest his arm out the driver’s side window. To prevent sunburn, The Peg fashioned a temporary full-length sleeve from one of his old shirts, retaining the collar and button closure.
“Where’s my sleeve? Oh, here it is. Has everyone gone to the restroom? We aren’t stopping again, you know. Peggy, do you have the coffee can?” We had that along “just in case”. “Once we get on the road, I’ll have a cup of Scotsman’s® ice, please.”
Keeping five growing kids cooped up in a station wagon all day, with one stop at noon for a picnic lunch and maybe an afternoon stretch, meant that those limbs needed some serious movement in the little amount of time we could afford. 500 miles was a haul in those days, but it didn’t get you as far when the roads were twisting and slowing for every little town. We couldn’t always find a park with playground equipment, either, so we had to work with what we had.
“All right, now everyone pay attention. When I say, ‘Tree,’ I want you all to run and find a tree. One tree apiece, and when you get there, just wait for my command. When I say, ‘Tree,’ again, each of you run for another tree. Remember, one tree apiece.”
So, like five little cramped-up zombies, we waited motionless until he exploded, “Tree!” We ran like the dickens to the first tree of our choice. I always ran for the least obvious tree, little sister Lora for the tree that needed the most comfort, Neil to the farthest tree (and he’d get there first, too, because he was the fastest runner), Paul, the oldest, would command the largest tree in the middle, and Jeanie would make a determined stride to the tree she deemed the most logical choice.
“Tree!”
Another scramble, and we’d choose Tree Number Two with less care, but with more energy than Tree Number One.
“Tree!”
The game continued, and we relished the relief of having some much-needed activity.
“Tree!”
Soon enough we’d start to giggle at how silly the whole thing was. There were no rules, no winners, no competition, and no skill required. We were all equals, blowing off steam in a crisscrossed, catawampus pattern of running and release.
Hubba and I are making the trek south from our nest in the bluffs of Northeast Iowa, through the stretches of soil-rich acres and the villages that bring commerce to farm families, and into the former coal mining center of Southeast Iowa. It’s a happy trip, one that ends in our celebrating The Barn’s 89th birthday. I’ll check to see how long his liver is getting, and groan when he tells me the joke I’ll hear myself repeating for the next week. Not everyone gets a father like The Barn, and we have another year of blessings to count with him.
Happy 89th Birthday, The Barn!
Copyright © March 2006 Kari E.O. Burns
Unspeakable Misery
It is nearly impossible to consider. The e-mail, shrouded in pain, said simply, “I thought you should know – Gloria Ormord died this morning.” In my horror, I deleted the e-mail for good. It just wasn’t right. A phone call supplied the verification that the words were real, but it still didn’t make sense.
Gloria and her husband Brian had recently transplanted their four children from the Twin Cities to the bucolic sweetness of our rural community. Gloria’s parents had come “home” years earlier, and the Ormords eventually followed, building their dream home and settling in.
We met Brian as a member of our ushering crew, and immediately liked his easy-going and open nature. My first conversation with Gloria was beyond flattering. She told me she noticed my name in the bulletin when here visiting her parents, and liked it so much she used it when naming their second daughter. That decision had nothing to do with me at all, but it was noteworthy that she would have mentioned it so kindly. Our quick and sporadic conversations held the promise of a budding friendship, and I counted on the opportunity to know her better.
Brian agreed to lead the 40 Days of Community program at our church last fall, and when he called to include Hubba and me on the planning committee, we jumped at the chance to get to know him better. We wanted to get to know him better. Everyone who meets him does.
With four school-aged children, getting to know Gloria would never advance beyond the gabbing we could fit in while sitting in the pew or greeting each other in the Narthex. She had lots of new friends, I learned, in the parents of her children’s classmates. She had the opportunity to cement those relationships in their mother’s bible study and on the sidelines of school events.
There is no sense to her death. She was here one minute, and gone the next. She was in church for Lenten service on Wednesday night, and collapsed early Thursday morning, before the kids were even off for school. And now what?
Heaven, that’s what. Gloria, her husband, her parents and brothers and sisters and extended family share the knowledge that there is an order in this chaos. There is a divine gift in the faith that comes with this knowledge. That faith gift doesn’t make those who survive her happy that she’s in heaven. No, everyone wants her here, where she is needed and loved and embraceable. Who could ever be ready to give her up, let alone with such cruel abruptness at an inopportune age, with young children and a husband who relies on her?
But Gloria is in Heaven. It does indeed bring comfort, but it’s comfort in the place of understanding. Those of us left behind want to believe that having her here is better than having her in Heaven. We understand very clearly that she is needed here, and those she left behind will suffer terribly because she isn’t. There is no way to translate the bereavement of her mother, her father, her husband, and most of all, her children, who will bear the loss the longest of all. We cannot understand, but we know she is in Heaven.
And what can we do? Pray. It’s another crazy notion, like the crazy-stupid comfort that Gloria is in Heaven. Brian and the children and her parents and her brothers and sisters and extended family need our prayers. They need our casseroles, our babysitting, our hands and hearts and embraces of sympathy. Though not the same coming from us, it’s what we can offer. Those are the concrete things that Gloria could give them, some of which any of us can provide.
Gloria wants us to pray for them, too. She lived that bidding. She wants us to keep praying, because she believed in prayer, learning it from her parents and teaching it to her children. She prayed with her husband and her brothers and sisters. She prayed with her friends.
We are in the continuum of belief with Gloria. She now knows what we believe and hope for, and at some point we’ll begin to feel her cheer us on through the pain to the promise. The healing will eventually begin, but the loss will never be understood.
Believing, praying, Heaven. The promise of the Father, the journey of the Son, and the gift of the Spirit, passed in love from generation to generation. It is what joins us all in Gloria, and brings strength to our sharing with her bereaved, pained family.
Thank you, Heavenly Father, for Gloria Hougen Ormord’s life. Her presence here was a blessing to those who knew her, and we will trust in Your will to provide comfort and aid for those she left here. Heal us, Father. The misery is unspeakable, so we will listen to the words You speak to us instead. Amen.
Copyright © 3/10/06 Kari E.O. Burns
Gloria and her husband Brian had recently transplanted their four children from the Twin Cities to the bucolic sweetness of our rural community. Gloria’s parents had come “home” years earlier, and the Ormords eventually followed, building their dream home and settling in.
We met Brian as a member of our ushering crew, and immediately liked his easy-going and open nature. My first conversation with Gloria was beyond flattering. She told me she noticed my name in the bulletin when here visiting her parents, and liked it so much she used it when naming their second daughter. That decision had nothing to do with me at all, but it was noteworthy that she would have mentioned it so kindly. Our quick and sporadic conversations held the promise of a budding friendship, and I counted on the opportunity to know her better.
Brian agreed to lead the 40 Days of Community program at our church last fall, and when he called to include Hubba and me on the planning committee, we jumped at the chance to get to know him better. We wanted to get to know him better. Everyone who meets him does.
With four school-aged children, getting to know Gloria would never advance beyond the gabbing we could fit in while sitting in the pew or greeting each other in the Narthex. She had lots of new friends, I learned, in the parents of her children’s classmates. She had the opportunity to cement those relationships in their mother’s bible study and on the sidelines of school events.
There is no sense to her death. She was here one minute, and gone the next. She was in church for Lenten service on Wednesday night, and collapsed early Thursday morning, before the kids were even off for school. And now what?
Heaven, that’s what. Gloria, her husband, her parents and brothers and sisters and extended family share the knowledge that there is an order in this chaos. There is a divine gift in the faith that comes with this knowledge. That faith gift doesn’t make those who survive her happy that she’s in heaven. No, everyone wants her here, where she is needed and loved and embraceable. Who could ever be ready to give her up, let alone with such cruel abruptness at an inopportune age, with young children and a husband who relies on her?
But Gloria is in Heaven. It does indeed bring comfort, but it’s comfort in the place of understanding. Those of us left behind want to believe that having her here is better than having her in Heaven. We understand very clearly that she is needed here, and those she left behind will suffer terribly because she isn’t. There is no way to translate the bereavement of her mother, her father, her husband, and most of all, her children, who will bear the loss the longest of all. We cannot understand, but we know she is in Heaven.
And what can we do? Pray. It’s another crazy notion, like the crazy-stupid comfort that Gloria is in Heaven. Brian and the children and her parents and her brothers and sisters and extended family need our prayers. They need our casseroles, our babysitting, our hands and hearts and embraces of sympathy. Though not the same coming from us, it’s what we can offer. Those are the concrete things that Gloria could give them, some of which any of us can provide.
Gloria wants us to pray for them, too. She lived that bidding. She wants us to keep praying, because she believed in prayer, learning it from her parents and teaching it to her children. She prayed with her husband and her brothers and sisters. She prayed with her friends.
We are in the continuum of belief with Gloria. She now knows what we believe and hope for, and at some point we’ll begin to feel her cheer us on through the pain to the promise. The healing will eventually begin, but the loss will never be understood.
Believing, praying, Heaven. The promise of the Father, the journey of the Son, and the gift of the Spirit, passed in love from generation to generation. It is what joins us all in Gloria, and brings strength to our sharing with her bereaved, pained family.
Thank you, Heavenly Father, for Gloria Hougen Ormord’s life. Her presence here was a blessing to those who knew her, and we will trust in Your will to provide comfort and aid for those she left here. Heal us, Father. The misery is unspeakable, so we will listen to the words You speak to us instead. Amen.
Copyright © 3/10/06 Kari E.O. Burns
Lyddie's Quilt
Every now and then something you expected to be good turns out to be unexpectedly good. Being me, I like to describe what at first I find indescribable, so that it will emerge from the mists of my mind into something more tangible.
This is also an update about the group of home-schooled students I have been teaching to quilt. We have all learned something from this experience, and for me it is the realization that teaching children ranging in ages from five to ten to quilt, even in a group of four, is difficult. The younger the student, the more need there is to rely on the parents to see the project to completion. If the older children can work more independently, the younger children may berate themselves for their natural limitations. Fortunately, philosophical considerations are a part of this home school setting, and questions of self-worth can be properly positioned.
What’s more, each child in this specific home school setting has her or his individual talents recognized, and they don’t expect to be carbon copies of one another. Each student was clearly distinguishable from the first session I had with them, and I observed each one’s flair surface every time we met.
Lydia is one of the big kids. She has a natural interest in fiber things, as she already knew how to knit and sew before she came to try quilting. We took a long break over the holidays, and in that time Lydia had been pestering her mother to finish her quilt top. Since the class is using reclaimed and recycled fabrics, she had incorporated a nice array of fabrics gathered from a grandmother who sews garments. She instinctively recognized the properties of light and dark fabrics, along with the flexibility available with medium shades. A few patches were from clothing that was ready for recycling, and there were two notable swatches of fabric that had been used as a makeshift tourniquet-type dressing when Lydia had been hiking with her grown-up friend Kristen.
With input from her grandma, Lydia was able to arrange a pattern of light and dark, with the mediums serving as either a light or a dark, just to add interest. She had joined together four-patch units as a start, but had become unsure how to proceed beyond that. Her mother had spoken with me a few times since the first of the year, and I learned that Lydia had been pressing her to continue with classes so that she could produce the completed top.
After one of these conversations, I decided maybe it would be a good thing for Lydia and me to work together, quilting for a day and exploring her options, so that she would be confident in her choices. Though we had worked as a group before, Lydia’s intensity led me to understand that she would appreciate having the time to work with me alone. We met to review where she was on her project, and set a date for a good old-fashioned quilting bee for two.
I was looking forward to our day together. I flat out like Lydia to begin with, but her drive to work with fiber was quite familiar to me - I was doing similar things at her age, and I knew how important it was to chart my progress with a competent adult. Lucky for me, The Peg was under the same roof. I wanted to spend a day with Lydia to meet that same need in her.
We laid out the pieces, fussed and moved some about, and made a couple of corrective decisions to even out the look she was trying to achieve. It was then just a matter of getting the pieces joined. I pinned and Lydia sewed, making the progress methodical and measurable. By the time Hubba came home for lunch, we were down to attaching the last outer border. It was fun, but I knew it would be. I expected that.
The unexpected part came from Lydia and me growing our friendship. We communicated mutual respect from the start, focusing on her goal and considering each other’s suggestions. Lydia was in the driver’s seat, and took responsibility for making the quilt meet the vision of her mind’s eye. I was able to talk about technique, and help her discover ways to rotate choices. Everybody who has ever quilted knows how confusing the layout stage can be. The obvious can be hidden in a spectrum of fabric squares, and it helps to have someone say, “If you turn it this way, it will work.”
As the quilt grew, she became more and more energized. She would squeal every now and then, giggling and wiggling, and saying, “I can’t wait! This is getting so exciting!” Lint lovers understand each other.
We shared our histories and ideas we have about life, a process that people can’t plan out ahead of time. For some odd reason, I asked her if she had a nickname. She told me that some people call her “Lyd”, and that sometimes she is called “Lyddie”. Yes! I had heard her mother say that, but at the time it hadn’t registered as a nickname. It sounds so familiar to call her “Lyddie”, and that’s what I say in my head when I think about her now.
I told Lyddie that I name my quilts. I reminded her about “She Reposes Among Roses…” (she had seen a picture of that one) and “Neil’s Garden, Zinnias for Judith”. Lyddie told me she grows zinnias, the brightly-colored ones I first saw in my brother’s garden. She had the look, like the one I get when engaged in a naming puzzle, and I knew she would eventually solve that puzzle for her own. A little more time with her quilt will do the trick.
Hubba knew the drill. When he came home for lunch, he proceeded directly to where we had Lyddie's quilt laid out. He was complimentary, and genuinely impressed that a ten-year-old had the stick-to-itiveness to put together a project of this scale. Over our sandwiches, I mentioned naming the quilt again.
“Bill. I think you should name it Bill. Bill the Quilt,” Hubba proposed. Lyddie and I rolled our eyes, but we couldn’t help but snicker at the silly suggestion.
“We name our quilts like paintings, not like people.”
“Okay, but I still think 'Bill the Quilt' is a good name.”
After we cleaned up the kitchen, Lyddie and I attached the last of the border pieces. Then we smoothed the quilt out on the floor in front of the couch, and we sat there and looked at it for quite some time. We talked about the movement of the pattern, the interest brought by the double use of the mediums, sometimes acting as a light and sometimes as a dark. We remarked on the size of the finished top, and how it would be suitable to nap under when she was as grown as I.
Lyddie will discover the name of her quilt. Once it is sandwiched, and she starts quilting with perle cotton, it will come to her. As it turns out, though, it already has a nickname. For now we refer to Lyddie’s quilt as “Bill”.
I knew this day would be good – my friend Lydia were going to quilt. I just didn’t expect that it would end with my buddy Lyddie and me calling a conglomeration of fabrics she had gathered from family and friends “Bill”. It turned out to be better than good. I love when that happens.
Copyright © March 2006 Kari E.O. Burns
This is also an update about the group of home-schooled students I have been teaching to quilt. We have all learned something from this experience, and for me it is the realization that teaching children ranging in ages from five to ten to quilt, even in a group of four, is difficult. The younger the student, the more need there is to rely on the parents to see the project to completion. If the older children can work more independently, the younger children may berate themselves for their natural limitations. Fortunately, philosophical considerations are a part of this home school setting, and questions of self-worth can be properly positioned.
What’s more, each child in this specific home school setting has her or his individual talents recognized, and they don’t expect to be carbon copies of one another. Each student was clearly distinguishable from the first session I had with them, and I observed each one’s flair surface every time we met.
Lydia is one of the big kids. She has a natural interest in fiber things, as she already knew how to knit and sew before she came to try quilting. We took a long break over the holidays, and in that time Lydia had been pestering her mother to finish her quilt top. Since the class is using reclaimed and recycled fabrics, she had incorporated a nice array of fabrics gathered from a grandmother who sews garments. She instinctively recognized the properties of light and dark fabrics, along with the flexibility available with medium shades. A few patches were from clothing that was ready for recycling, and there were two notable swatches of fabric that had been used as a makeshift tourniquet-type dressing when Lydia had been hiking with her grown-up friend Kristen.
With input from her grandma, Lydia was able to arrange a pattern of light and dark, with the mediums serving as either a light or a dark, just to add interest. She had joined together four-patch units as a start, but had become unsure how to proceed beyond that. Her mother had spoken with me a few times since the first of the year, and I learned that Lydia had been pressing her to continue with classes so that she could produce the completed top.
After one of these conversations, I decided maybe it would be a good thing for Lydia and me to work together, quilting for a day and exploring her options, so that she would be confident in her choices. Though we had worked as a group before, Lydia’s intensity led me to understand that she would appreciate having the time to work with me alone. We met to review where she was on her project, and set a date for a good old-fashioned quilting bee for two.
I was looking forward to our day together. I flat out like Lydia to begin with, but her drive to work with fiber was quite familiar to me - I was doing similar things at her age, and I knew how important it was to chart my progress with a competent adult. Lucky for me, The Peg was under the same roof. I wanted to spend a day with Lydia to meet that same need in her.
We laid out the pieces, fussed and moved some about, and made a couple of corrective decisions to even out the look she was trying to achieve. It was then just a matter of getting the pieces joined. I pinned and Lydia sewed, making the progress methodical and measurable. By the time Hubba came home for lunch, we were down to attaching the last outer border. It was fun, but I knew it would be. I expected that.
The unexpected part came from Lydia and me growing our friendship. We communicated mutual respect from the start, focusing on her goal and considering each other’s suggestions. Lydia was in the driver’s seat, and took responsibility for making the quilt meet the vision of her mind’s eye. I was able to talk about technique, and help her discover ways to rotate choices. Everybody who has ever quilted knows how confusing the layout stage can be. The obvious can be hidden in a spectrum of fabric squares, and it helps to have someone say, “If you turn it this way, it will work.”
As the quilt grew, she became more and more energized. She would squeal every now and then, giggling and wiggling, and saying, “I can’t wait! This is getting so exciting!” Lint lovers understand each other.
We shared our histories and ideas we have about life, a process that people can’t plan out ahead of time. For some odd reason, I asked her if she had a nickname. She told me that some people call her “Lyd”, and that sometimes she is called “Lyddie”. Yes! I had heard her mother say that, but at the time it hadn’t registered as a nickname. It sounds so familiar to call her “Lyddie”, and that’s what I say in my head when I think about her now.
I told Lyddie that I name my quilts. I reminded her about “She Reposes Among Roses…” (she had seen a picture of that one) and “Neil’s Garden, Zinnias for Judith”. Lyddie told me she grows zinnias, the brightly-colored ones I first saw in my brother’s garden. She had the look, like the one I get when engaged in a naming puzzle, and I knew she would eventually solve that puzzle for her own. A little more time with her quilt will do the trick.
Hubba knew the drill. When he came home for lunch, he proceeded directly to where we had Lyddie's quilt laid out. He was complimentary, and genuinely impressed that a ten-year-old had the stick-to-itiveness to put together a project of this scale. Over our sandwiches, I mentioned naming the quilt again.
“Bill. I think you should name it Bill. Bill the Quilt,” Hubba proposed. Lyddie and I rolled our eyes, but we couldn’t help but snicker at the silly suggestion.
“We name our quilts like paintings, not like people.”
“Okay, but I still think 'Bill the Quilt' is a good name.”
After we cleaned up the kitchen, Lyddie and I attached the last of the border pieces. Then we smoothed the quilt out on the floor in front of the couch, and we sat there and looked at it for quite some time. We talked about the movement of the pattern, the interest brought by the double use of the mediums, sometimes acting as a light and sometimes as a dark. We remarked on the size of the finished top, and how it would be suitable to nap under when she was as grown as I.
Lyddie will discover the name of her quilt. Once it is sandwiched, and she starts quilting with perle cotton, it will come to her. As it turns out, though, it already has a nickname. For now we refer to Lyddie’s quilt as “Bill”.
I knew this day would be good – my friend Lydia were going to quilt. I just didn’t expect that it would end with my buddy Lyddie and me calling a conglomeration of fabrics she had gathered from family and friends “Bill”. It turned out to be better than good. I love when that happens.
Copyright © March 2006 Kari E.O. Burns
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