Shiny Days!

Some days shine.

Not just because the temperature reaches 75, and the sun finally spends an entire twelve hours glowing.

Perhaps the shining has more to do with sensibility rather than meteorology

Today was one of those days.

Could it have been aglow because I spent the day with my 92-year-old father, a pleasure few can enjoy? Dad drives the 700 miles between South Carolina and Pennsylvania on his own, he can walk without assistance, he golfs a mean 46 on nine holes, he hikes a mile every day, he looks 80 - tops, and he can complete a crossword faster than I can read it.

Or was it because we had breakfast out with neighbors? Good friends, pleasant conversation, the richness of relationship building with people we enjoy . . . not to mention the buttermilk pancakes.

Was it the two children in front of me on the airplane who had obviously never traveled before? They grasped their mother's hand on take-off, and when they became comfortable at altitude, they vied for the window to ooh and aah at every stretch of cloud. "Look," the girl gasped. "It's a city!" Unjaded travelers awed by the miracle of modern science.

Or could it have been that magical moment in the arrivals lounge in Wilmington, North Carolina? As we sat awaiting yet another long-delayed flight, I took to people-watching. The young soldier in dress uniform on the sofa cross from us was hard to miss. Over six feet tall and handsome, his demeanor belied his appearance. His fingers tapped endlessly on his knee, on his chin. He wiped his brow. His leg vibrated up and down. I thought perhaps he had just returned from the war; perhaps this was Post-Traumatic Stress Syndrome. And then a flight arrival announcement bolted him from his seat.

As he stood by the gate and watched the disembarking passengers, his tension grew. Finally, a perky, petite cutie with a crop of curly blond hair came through the gate in her pink and white sundress with a matching bag and sandals. Our soldier quickly wrapped his arms around her, a momentary kiss and a few words ensued, then . . . he dropped to his knee, all six feet of him, and he took her little hand in his. "Look, Dad!" I elbowed him wildly, but he was lost in a chess game on the NOOK. "Look!" By this time the entire lounge had zeroed in on the life moment unfolding before us.

We heard our soldier say, "Will you marry me?" A small box came out of his pocket. Our heroine said, "Yes!" and a ring was placed on her finger. He stood, lifted his arms to the heavens (and the arrivals lounge clientele) and boomed, "She said "Yes!' " Of course, we spectators couldn't get enough of this real life movie scene, and we burst into applause.

The bride-to-be jumped into his arms, and there was a twirling and hugging in the middle of the lounge. More applause. Joy all around.

Quickly, the couple moved off toward the exit. The moment united those of of us frustrated with airplane delays. No doubt, everyone's memories traveled to the day of our marriage proposals, our weddings, or our long journeys since then. And we smiled for the hope of newness and fresh starts and young love.

"She did everything right, " Dad remarked finally surfacing from the NOOK in time to see the action. "She even lifted her leg when he picked her up." A coquette indeed. A magical life moment shared by a room full of strangers.

Or did the day shine because of a special gift? As I sat in the megalithic airport known as Charlotte, awaiting the plane for yet another leg of my journey back to Layton (not an easy place to acess from distant points), I recognized a friend. A rush of joy and excitement always accompanies reunions in foreign arenas. "Cindy!" I yelled, and we hurried to embrace. Our mouths started clattering non-stop, and before we knew it, our flight was boarding. Old hands at travel, we didn't rush the gate but relaxed to wait for our zones to be called.

The clattering and chattering continued and . . .  somehow . . . we missed our call. The door to the aircraft had closed! How did that happen without our knowledge? In unison and before a crowd of hundreds at ten conjoining gates, we banged on the closed door. In hindsight, it was interesting that no security came to stop us or bind our panic. Instead, the gate attendant showed up with a grin. "Why, girls, they had cake at the next gate, and I just had to get me some! You're OK. Here, I'll change your seats so you all can sit together."  So the chattering, clattering, and add giggling to that mix, continued until we reached Scranton . . . where the sun rarely shines, but the friendship glistens.

Some days just shine . . . even when it's gray . . . here on Layton.

"Nothing Could Be Finer Than To Be In Carolina in the Morning"

Dogwood in bloom at the "Homestead South"

The winter of 2012-13 refused to release her grip . . . on Layton.

The snow fell steadily for five months. The temperatures lanquished at 25 degrees and lower. The  turtleneck sweaters and corduroy slacks, my standard winter uniform, were worn ad nauseum.  The electric snow shovel and 25 feet of extension cord, ready for momentary use, never left the back porch.

In late March the trees refused to bud, and the flowers remained wrapped in cocoon warmth.  Even the cat became claustrophobic, pacing in front of the door and mewing, yet unwilling to step a paw outdoors . . . kind of like her owner.

With spring stalled on the calendar, the family decided to migrate to the "Homestead South."

My parents established the "Homestead South" upon their retirement 31 years ago. Since then, Jefferson Circle has become the alternate home and vacation spot for the Layton family.

And spring arrives early and lavishly on Jefferson.

The azaleas splash color abundantly with oranges, pinks, whites, and reds, smiling cheerily from every yard. The dogwood's little faces turn upward with a flush in their cheeks and a perky little nose pointed always heavenward. The sweet gum tree drops its prickly fruit across the yard to wake up any flip flop clad pedestrians to the presence of spring. The Carolina wrens sing a reminder, "Nothing could be finer than to be in Carolina in the morning!"

The salt marsh near Jefferson comes alive. Fiddler crabs dash about brandishing their one large claw menacingly above their heads. Herons and egrets stand statuesque in the marsh, eyes skimming the reeds for edibles.

Spring's warmth lures us to the water and a stroll on the oyster beds. The oyster beds heap themselves above the tide line along the Atlantic Intracoastal Waterway and along the salt marsh. They lay bleached and sterile as we crunch our way beside the river in the sun. The oyster beds remind me of Lewis Carroll's poem "The Walrus and the Carpenter." Unconsciously, I recite to the oysters as the Walrus did before devouring them,

 " The time has come," the Walrus said, "to talk of many things. 

Of shoes and ships and sealing wax, of cabbages and kings,

 and why the sea is boiling hot and whether pigs have wings." 

And the pleasure boats leave the marinas and sail  . . . up and down the river, headed for the Atlantic.

Spring arrives in the South - bright, verdant, alive.

"Nothing could be finer than to be in Carolina in the morning!"  . . . unless, of course, you are blessed to witness the coming alive of the earth a second time . . . when spring finally appears, all gowned and bedecked, and the dogwoods bloom . . .

On Layton.

Atlantic Intracoastal Waterway and salt marsh

Azaleas welcome the Carolina morning.

Celebrating Easter Every Day . . . On Layton

The Cross on Layton

Easter approaches . . .
And some things haven't changed much on Layton through the years:

• Buying new clothes and shoes.
• Making a pilgrimage to church.
• Putting on a sumptuous ham dinner for the family.
• Hiding Easter baskets around the yard.
• Scattering eggs for an Easter egg hunt.
• Traveling to Myrtle Beach for spring family reunions.
• Rising early on Easter morning for the sunrise service at Mt. Bethel or Lackawanna State Park or at the end of Cherry Grove beach in South Carolina.

We did these things as children; we did them with my children and now my grandchildren.

One significant change has occurred . . . my increasing realization that Easter should be celebrated every day of the year.

Easter brings a sweet and precious HOPE that makes life worth living on Layton . . . and everywhere for that matter.

That HOPE centers on Jesus, God's Son, God Himself. He was born into the world to provide the final sacrifice for all those millions of things I have done to violate His standard of holiness. Left to my own devices, I wouldn't have a chance to meet that standard and enter eternity in heaven with Him. Eternity is certain, and the smell of hell is too much with me.

BUT Jesus stepped into time and took care of that problem in me and you for only one reason: LOVE. It's an unconditional love that I have trouble fully grasping. The sacrifice that was needed for my sin, He provided . . . on a cross at Calvary . . . His blood shed for the sins of many. The deal was sealed with His resurrection and victory over death.

Acceptance of His forgiveness and sacrifice gave me the greatest gifts I will ever receive: the hope of eternity in heaven with Him after death and the assurance of His presence each day in life.

Death and life . . . He has covered it all.

Now, His Spirit walks with me daily giving help, comfort, encouragement, wisdom, guidance. He has given the opportunity to intimately know and experience Him - day in and day out - on Layton.

That cross and resurrection were not exclusive to residents of a country road in rural USA. They stand as offers to people on Lombard Street in San Francisco, Abbey Road in London, the Hollywood Walk of Fame, the Las Vegas Strip, Wall Street, the Champs Elysees, or Orchard Road in Singapore . . . any street, any time in history.

One of my favorite Easter hymns is called "He Lives." The lyrics voice our joy:

I serve a risen Savior,
He's in the world today;
I know that He is living,
Whatever men may say;
I see His hand of mercy,
I hear His voice of cheer,
And just the time I need Him,
He's always near.


He lives, He lives, Christ Jesus lives today!
He walks with me and talks with me
Along life's narrow way.
He lives, He lives, salvation to impart!
You ask me how I know He lives:
He lives within my heart.


Another of my favorites is "Because He Lives."

God sent His Son, they called Him Jesus.
He came to love, heal, and forgive.
He lived and died to buy my pardon,
An empty grave is there to prove my Savior lives.

Because He lives, I can face tomorrow.
Because He lives, All fear is gone.
Because I know He holds the future,
And life is worth the living just because He lives.

So . . . Easter approaches, but it's an every day holiday. And I'm celebrating under the cross . . .

 on Layton.

St. David's Day on Layton

Welsh National Flag

We celebrated St. David's Day this week on Layton.

St. David's Day is the Welsh national holiday, commemorated annually on March 1st in honor of Dewi Sant or St. David, the patron saint of Wales. Cardiff and Caernarvon throbbed with activity this week as the citizens turned out for their national holiday. 

Since she is colonel-in-chief of the 3rd Battalion of the The Royal Welsh, the Queen herself visited Swansea, Wales, this week for a traditional St. David's Day ceremony of presenting leeks to members of the battalion (there's an interesting cultural reward - an onion!). "According to legend, St. David advised the Britons on the eve of a battle with the Saxons, to wear leeks in their caps so as to easily distinguish friend from foe. This helped to secure a victory. Today, Welsh people wear leeks on St. David's Day, and soldiers in the Welsh regiments eat a raw leek." (National Welsh Museum)

Meanwhile, Prince Charles, also known as the Prince of Wales, and the Duchess of Cornwall, visited the Royal Welsh College of Music and Drama in South Wales this week to celebrate with the native population. High ceremony helps the Welsh to remember and appreciate their ancient origins and culture.

There was somewhat less activity across the Atlantic on Layton for St. David's Day. Most of the Layton population probably didn't acknowledge the holiday, but the old homestead was abuzz with preparations. 

Bryn Terfel, the premier Welsh tenor, serenaded us on the stereo. The leg of lamb, bedded in cabbage and onions, slow roasted all day. The parsnips, turnips and squash were mashed. The classic Celtic piece d'resistance, the Welsh cookies, were fried and heaped on plates. The table, decorated with daffodils, the national flower of Wales, and Welsh dolls in traditional attire with Pilgrim style high hats, red skirts, and knitted capes, was readied for my guests, all of whom boasted Welsh roots. Abundant quantities of Earl Grey warmed in several teapots, wrapped in cozies . . . our annual St. David's celebration was in full swing. 

I follow the example of my mother and my Grandmother Jones by remembering our Welsh roots. Grandpa Jones (the most common surname in Wales is Jones) was born in North Wales. A typical Welshman, at about 5'4" with a feisty disposition and a scrappy physique, Grandpa could belt out a tune with the best tenors. Hands down, he had the strongest and sweetest voice at Mt. Bethel Baptist Church, where the family attended, as well as at a variety of pubs in the valley where the Welsh miners gathered to talk, argue, take a pint and . . . sing.

My dad, though not a pure bred Welshman like Grandpa, was born just over the border in Liverpool, England. These connections, plus a few other Welsh great-grandparents on the other side of the family, gave us the onus of bearing the Welsh heritage into future generations.

Like the Irish and the Polish, the Welsh migrated to this area in the early part of the twentieth century to work in the coal mines. With the prevalence of coal mines in Wales, it seemed natural that the Welsh would bring their mining skills to Lackawanna County to join the local mine works. They poured into the valley towns of Blakely, Olyphant, and Dickson City. In fact, several Welsh churches sprang up in the valley; the Welsh Baptist Church on the hill in Olyphant is still meeting. My grandparents joined the Welsh Baptist Church and the other coal mining families in Blakely and Olyphant.

In the 1950s-60s when I attended school, my mother made a very strong statement about our Welsh heritage, but she made the proclamation, annually, on . . . St. Patrick's Day! On St. Pat's Day Mom would cut the shape of a shamrock from an orange peel and pin the orange shamrock to our sweaters. The shamrock carried a sweet aroma and left a mark on my sweater. As I grew old enough to realize that the orange shamrock was a slap in the face of my Irish friends, whether or not they realized it, I began to slip the shamrock off while on the bus before I got to school. The orange vs. the green, Protestant vs. Catholic . . . the cultural milieu of the mid-twentieth century.

The family's attraction to all things Welsh had a powerful effect on the younger generations. It seemed natural that I should spend a semester of my junior year in college in the British Isles, meeting the relatives in Wales, Scotland and England and studying the history and literature of the land. That was 1969. 

Almost thirty years later in 1996, my son hauled off across the globe for a year to the University of Lancaster in England. No danger of considering him an Anglophile. At every opportunity he would trek off to Scotland (cousins in Kilsyth) or North Wales to climb Mt. Snowdon with a Welsh headmaster cousin or to camp among the sheep on the hills.

Heritage gives rootedness and depth. Whether Welsh, Irish, Polish, Lebanese, or Kenyan, identification with those who have gone before is a special gift. Connectedness with previous generations . . . one more blessing for which I am thankful.

Here's a St. David's Day gift for you . . .

My Grandmother's Welsh Cookie Recipe

(There are many Welsh cookie recipes out there. I have several in my files, but this is one of the best!)
4 cups flour      2 eggs

              3/4 lb. lard        1 cup buttermilk

            1 cup sugar      1 cup currants

                       1 tsp. salt          3 tsp. baking powder

                                       4 tsps. nutmeg

Work the flour and lard like pie crust. The batter will be sticky. Add baking powder, salt, nutmeg, and sugar. Drop in the eggs; add buttermilk and currants. Work the dough. Roll the dough in as little flour as possible. Cut the dough in circles. Fry in a 380 degree electric fry pan or on an electric griddle. Flip when golden brown.

Dydd Gwyl Dewi Hapus! (Happy St. David's Day!)
until next year . . . on Layton

Front Porch "Moments"

The front porch of this old house on Layton, 2012.

The front porch of this old house has seen its share of family "moments."

Five generations have opened the door, slammed the door, let the cat in, let the dog out, posed for graduation photos, carried suitcases and boxes off to college, squeezed  wedding gowns through the portal, bundled in  new babies,  and heard,  "Don't stand there with the door open! You're letting the flies in!"

Yes, the door on this old porch has witnessed its share of comings and goings.

Take that day back in 1940 when my mother stood there waving goodbye to her sweetheart with no certainty of his sure return. The sweetheart, who would one day be my dad, came to the house for one last kiss as he shipped out to destinations unknown. All hell was set to break loose around the world, not just in my mother's heart. Dad would spend the Big War in fox holes throughout North Africa, Sicily, and Italy for five years. Imagine the reunion on this old porch in 1945 when that handsome soldier marched up the steps and took his wartime sweetie in his arms.

Then there was the time in the late 1930s when cousin Ida Mae Reid took her first look at the world outside from this old porch. Aunt Millie came to stay with her sister, Nana Evans, here in the house on Layton while her husband, Uncle Cliff, built a home for them right next door. Aunt Millie was eight months pregnant. In those days many infant deliveries occurred at home, and that's what happened. Aunt Millie gave birth in the room off the kitchen which I now use as my dining room. (If you ever come to eat in my home, I hope your appetite won't be hampered by dining in a birthing room.) The little girl, born a bit small, was bundled up by her aunts in warm cotton and shoved in the oven. You heard me . . . the oven. This homemade incubator kept the little one warm, not baked, until she grew big enough to be carried out on the porch for a look about. Ida Mae is now in her 80s and retired in Florida (perhaps the oven incubator predisposed her to warm temperatures.) Nevertheless, she is no worse for the wear because of her beginnings in General Electric's finest . . . on Layton.

I stood on the porch for a few final goodbyes. My Nana Evans died in that same room off the kitchen. I spent most of the last week of her life sitting beside her there.  I watched as the undertaker carried her out the front door, leaving for the last time the house that she and my grandfather had built.

Thirty-four years later, I stood on the porch, holding the door again, for another final goodbye. The EMT's carried mom out the door and into the ambulance after her fatal stroke. Two generations slipped off this earthly sod through this door on our old porch.

As much as I miss my mother and grandmother, I'm so grateful that the next door they entered, after leaving our family home, opened to a mansion on a street of gold, their new, heavenly home . . . not on a street called Layton.

The House on Layton

At 92-years-old Dad still enjoys visiting the Old Homestead (January, 2013).

We've been together a long time, this old house and I on Layton.

Grandpa Evans built this two story, box-style in the early 1930's with the help of Uncle Cliff, Uncle Dave, Uncle Walter, Uncle Gordy, and probably a few others. They hand dug the basement and the well. The rock ledge hampered the work as surely as the economy of the Depression, but this group of brothers-in-law from North Scranton made it a family effort.

The band of brothers (in-law) built the house with three rooms down, three rooms up, and a 60 degree angle on the roof. The only bathroom, located on the first floor near the kitchen,  had the family bathing and running upstairs to the bedrooms . . .   for about the next thirty years. Closets were non-existent downstairs, a problem that took that same thirty years to correct. Lathe and plaster walls, yellow pine floors throughout, arched doorways, five inch moldings, and hundreds of pounds of hot water radiators still grace the house.

Dad took over home maintenance when Grandpa Evans passed. Like Grandpa, he proved to be a master craftsman. Dad built a house for his family right next door to Grandpa's, and he and mom raised their three daughters there. My years were spent back and forth, everyday, between the two houses on Layton.

The generations rolled on: Grandpa and Nana Evans died, then Mom, Dad retired to South Carolina, my sisters moved out of town and out of state, and I . . . stayed on Layton in Grandpa's house. My sons grew up romping through the same rooms as me and my mother before. And now my grandsons use the same hiding places and ride their bikes in the same route around the yard. 

The front door of Grandpa Evans' house has welcomed five generations of family and friends. Originally accessed by a few wooden steps, the front door eventually gave way to a small concrete "stoop" which later expanded to a roofed porch that ballooned to a deck in its seventieth year. And it's here I sit, these sixty-something years later, enjoying the view . . . on Layton.