The First Snowfall: Winter's Official Arrival

Yes, I realize that technically speaking winter doesn't descend upon us until December 22nd. But I've never been one to pin this season to a certain date. In Minnesota, winter plays by its own set of rules and is controlled only by its own whims, not an orderly old calendar. In essence, winter comes when winter wants to come, and you can usually bet that pre-dates the end of December.

Whether you're 5 or 35, there's a certain magic that floats down with the first snowfall. As a child, the very first sign of a snowflake's flutter had us all running to unearth hats, mittens and snowpants that had been stored away sometime in March. Or April, during particularly infuriating Minnesota winters. I would imagine my mother heaved a heavy sigh of "Here we go again" pondering the wet floors and soppy mittens that would soon be a constant in her entryway. But even she anticipated the clean, white snow that would soon cover the ground in a crystalline blanket of lovely winter splendor.

All those years ago, we scooped together bits of that first snowfall and packed snowballs to hurl at one another, happy that a new season had commenced. It heralded the return of sledding and snow forts. It ushered in the months of hot chocolate and the smell of my mother's seasonal baking. It announced Christmas was nigh (even if those first flakes fell in October).

We received nearly two inches of pristine, white snow on Saturday. I dug out mittens and hats, boots and scarves. My kids bundled up and played outside until their cheeks were rosy and their eyelashes were wet and their socks were in need of a warm radiator. "Mommy!" announced my daughter stomping off her snow-covered boots in the entryway. "Winter is HERE!"

Sliding two snowmen mugs onto the table, each filled with hot chocolate and topped with extra marshmallows, I looked at her and winked, remembering my own youthful exuberance over the first snowfall. "You're exactly right, my dear. Winter starts today."

Happy Halloween, M'lady!

When I was young, television and movies portrayed kids trick-or-treating in what I now assume was California. They scurried about in their skin-baring, colorful costumes on bone-dry streets, no coats or mittens hampering their candy-collecting endeavors.

This wasn't really the case for us Minnesota kids. The most elaborate of costumes were usually hidden under puffy parkas or, on a few occasions, full-fledged snowsuits. In fact, the smartest of mothers would actually incorporate winter gear into their kids' homemade costumes. I recall rain, sleet and snow on several occasions, and every once in a very great while, we would have a nice evening, requiring only a light jacket under one's costume.

Therefore, it would seem futile to put a Herculean effort into producing a spectacular, show-stopping costume. However, since sewing my daughter's costume for her dance number to an Annie song when she was three, she has expected me to break out the sewing machine for her Halloween costumes. This was a breeze the year she dressed up as an orphan and then when she convinced me to sew Dorothy's blue and white gingham dress from The Wizard of Oz. But this year, she chose her yearly Halloween costume on our annual trip to the Renaissance Festival. She informed me that I would need to sew a Renaissance princess dress. Oh boy. The upside to this plan? She'd be able to wear it to next year's Renaissance Festival if I made it a skosh larger than necessary.

Now, to be fair, I've never sewn a costume for my son. But he's far happier donning a Star Wars outfit or shimmying into a Power Rangers costume, so I focus my efforts on my daughter's costumes. My first year in college, I worked in the university's theater costume shop sewing Hawaiian shirts for their rendition of South Pacific, fairytale frocks for Into the Woods, and (thankfully now), Elizabethan gowns for Shakespeare's Richard III. I never thought I'd put those skills back into use, but here we are!

Perusing the aisles of the fabric store, we happened upon a brocade woven into a luxurious gold, pale aqua and coral pink tapestry. My daughter's eyes grew wide as she ran her hand across the fabric. It was much more opulent than I would normally be prepared to pay for, but this mom had a 50% off coupon!

It occurred to me a number of times while toiling away at my sewing machine that this costume I was lovingly crafting would be hidden under a large purple coat. But, my daughter awoke each morning and ran downstairs to inspect the progress I'd made the night before on her dress, so I assured myself it was a labor of love.

I finished the gown just in time for Halloween, despite an unplanned round of pneumonia for me – true love, to be sure, to continue basting and hemming while coughing and sneezing. But she was so proud when I finally zipped her up, and the smile on her face as she gracefully lifted her skirts and descended the stairway made it completely and totally worth it.

And, as if the fates knew of my effort, we had an unusually mild Halloween evening. My little Renaissance princess darted from house to house, collecting her candy with her Storm Trooper brother, her costume on full display.

And to think, twenty years earlier, I trudged through the record-breaking 20+ inches of snow with my younger siblings during the great Halloween Blizzard of 1991, my little sister's Snow White gown that I'd sewn stuffed into snowpants and covered with a parka.

I hope you all had a wonderful Halloween! Now on to Thanksgiving!

The Last Hurrah

The brilliance has waned from the tree canopies and the vast majority of the leaves have drifted into heaping, crunchy piles on the lawns, sidewalks and streets. Nighttime falls sooner these days, and the evenings reveal each puff of breath, leading the kids to forage for their mittens in the winter accessory basket.

But, clinging onto this majestic season until the last leaf has forfeited hold onto its branch, I'm intent on soaking up the last autumnal traditions. So when a family from the school my children attend opened their home in the country for a fall festival, I was downright mirthful.

It was a beautiful fall day – crisp, autumn air and sunny. This celebration involved not only a hayride through the woods, a scrumptious potluck and a mountain of leaves for the kids to tumble around in, but also old fashioned cider pressing. This was a first for our family, but a fun new tradition, to be sure!

Two large bins heaped full of Red Baron apples awaited. Old apple cider presses stood at the ready. How would these work, exactly? Would the kids be interested in this? The operation looked suspiciously like hard work. Hmmm.

My husband, the brave one who is always up for trying something new, stepped right up to the hand crank. Apples were poured into the hopper at the top of the apparatus and soon the fun began. As he cranked, the apples were ground up into a pulp-like consistency which fell below to a small, wooden, barrel-looking tub. It looked like a fun way to expel any aggression, grinding away and mashing up those apples, and so the kids soon wanted in on this lark.

Once the tub was full, a cover was placed at the top, which was then screwed down, pressing the apple pulp and squeezing out the juice into a catch pan. Fresh apple cider! Voilà!

The kids were mesmerized. Surely, apple cider comes from the grocery store! What’s all this business, they asked. These discussions always lead into a conversation about “back in the olden days” and whether that timeframe was during my childhood or their grandparents’. I fear what they would think of my age if I ever took them to grind flour or hollow out a canoe from a log.

Taking breaks from the apple press, the kids clambered onto the tire swing, rolled in the leaves, and explored the wooded ravine behind the house. Parents continued with the apple pressing, laughing and chatting over hot, mulled cider.

After supper, as evening fell, the kids snuggled into our laps amid the hay bales arranged on the wagon hitched behind the tractor that pulled us through the harvested cornfields and snaked us through the woods.

We wrapped up the night around the bonfire, discussing the many gallons of apple cider we produced earlier that afternoon, and how this would certainly make for a special treat for Thanksgiving.

Yes, the grocery store still sells apple cider, and yes, it’s a lot less work to buy a gallon. But I’ve always been drawn to the old fashioned way of doing things, whether it’s canning jars upon jars of jams and sauces or hand-dipping candles. It’s a bit of history. It hearkens back to a slower, less-hectic time, and affords me a new appreciation for my forefathers and –mothers. And many times, these old ways of doing things bring people together – just as they did years ago.

Amid the cool weather and last breath of fall colors, this was the best cider I’ve ever tasted in my life. I can’t wait for this day next year. A perfect ending to a perfect fall.

A Bag of Apples and a Dash of Courage

Soooo… sometimes I'm reminded that the smaller, less momentous occasions in life need to be celebrated in their own small ways. Take, for example, this past weekend's little to-do our family experienced.

The kids and I awoke to a perfect, sunny, 60° fall day. My husband had already left to run a community football program, so we agreed to meet him for lunch at the apple orchard. Haralsons are in season and the kids were eager to have another go at apple picking.

Ten minutes into our visit to the apple lodge, my daughter left my side at the maple syrup and candy shelves, where I was crouched next to her little brother, to take a peek at the caramel apples. Except that's not where she went. Enticed by the apple sample table, she decided a nice slice of an Empire was in order. I hadn't yet noticed that she had left my side when she rushed up to me, in a panic, clutching her finger. She certainly sliced something – but it wasn't the Empire.

A family fun day trip to the apple orchard shouldn't be capped off with a frenzied drive to the ER. But, life being unpredictable and all, that's exactly where the four of us sat. This was my daughter's first foray into the realm of stitches, and she wanted mom to sit right next to her on the gurney in the exam room. Now, historically, these things make me awfully woozy. But, since it wouldn't do to have both of us crying and cringing, I had no choice but to toughen up a bit.

I don't particularly relish having to physically restrain my kids when they're hurt and scared, but luckily for me, the promise of a new Barbie doll if she was brave and stopped crying did the trick, and she settled down enough for the doctor to proceed with the Novocain. Hey, bribery is certainly not beneath me in these instances, and I do believe anyone who endures having the side of his or her finger sewn back on surely deserves a shiny new toy.

When the ordeal was over, the nurse enthused that she now had "kitty whiskers" in her finger, just like her beloved orange tabby at home. She smiled a bit through her tear-pooled eyes. Once bandaged up, she was eager to stop at the store for her new Barbie. This, of course, had my five-year-old informing me that, "It's not fair! Why should she get a toy? Can't I get one too?" Dad informed him he could absolutely get a new toy – all he had to do was first get a couple shots and then some stitches. Apparently he didn't want Legos quite that badly.

These moments are tough for parents, and make your heart ache for your child. I hate needles and I hate getting stitches even more, but I would have volunteered without a thought if I could have taken her place. But they're important life lessons for kids, too. She made it through her first laceration, and proved to be a brave little girl.

On the drive home, she perked up a bit. "Mommy," she asked, "do you think we could go back to the apple orchard and pick some apples?" Absolutely! A half an hour later, perched atop dad's shoulders, she was reaching for great big red Haralsons high on the boughs.

Among the big things in life – birthdays, anniversaries, weddings, etc. – there are the everyday moments that help shape us and teach us new things about ourselves. Going through a scary and painful "first" and coming out of it brave enough to head back and finish the day – now that's a little life lesson worth celebrating.

Apple Picking!

If you hadn't noticed, apple harvest time is here!

I'm pretty finicky when it comes to apples and their many varieties. I get that from my mother, who got if from her mother before her. I would imagine even my great-grandmother had a propensity toward carefully selecting a half peck of Jonathans, Haralsons or Wealthys for use in apple pie baking, saving the softer Cortlands and McIntosh for the countless quarts of applesauce she surely canned. Truth be told, I was into my college years before a good friend and classmate clued me in that the world would not, in fact, stop spinning should you opt to cut up a bag of Red Delicious apples for pies. Gasp! Surely no one told her those are better left for eating out of hand!

And so it is that every fall my husband and I make our way to the very same apple orchard we've visited for going on our seventeenth harvest season together to bounce along in the wagon ride which pulls us back to the farther corners of the apple orchard where we pick bags full of ripe, deliciously aromatic apples to take home, wash, and cut up for the season's run of pies, crisps, cobblers, strudels, sauces and cakes. No, this isn't the only time of the year that I utilize apples in my kitchen, but it's the best time!

While my son still frowns at eating fruits of any and all varieties, my daughter loves apples. The girl makes this mom proud with the efficiency with which she bites and nibbles neatly down to the core. She's partial to Fuji and Braeburn, but has been known to bite into a tart Granny Smith when that's all that's left in the crisper basket in the fridge. Since her first apple picking experience at the age of five months, our annual fall trip to the apple orchard has been an autumn activity she eagerly looks forward to with fervent anticipation of being perched atop dad's shoulders to reach the good ones. As she is now at the age of seven, she's had to give up her spot to her little brother. This means I will be called upon to hoist her up from time to time to pluck a perfect pomme from the overloaded bough.

After a thoroughly enjoyable time in the petting zoo, we decide it's time to get to pickin'. "Mommy, can we pick Paula Reds this year?" my daughter asks as she pitches and sways gently next to me on the rumbling wagon ride through the orchard. "And how 'bout Zestar!, mommy. Can we try some of those?" This makes me squirm just a tad. I'm a creature of habit. Tried and true is my motto when it comes to apple picking, and some of the newer apple hybrids make me wonder how many varieties are really necessary. There are already thousands! There's nothing at all wrong with a good old McIntosh, I think to myself. At times like these I have to remind myself that change can be okay, and that the Red Delicious apple pie didn't poison me one bit. Perhaps I'll find a new favorite?

But as I'm mulling over new apple varieties like MN 1734 and New York 2, my husband beats me to answering our daughter. "Sure! Let's try something new!" he heartily proclaims. And so we are deposited under a red embossed street sign planted firmly in the earth that reads "PAULA RED." For a moment, I feel as if I'm disembarking a Greyhound Bus in a strange city. This is new territory for me.

But it's all about the kids, right? So here's to new adventures, folks! I'll keep you posted on how these beauties cook up. In the meantime, get out there and enjoy a day in an orchard.

Fall Hayrides – A Rambling Ride Through the Colors

 

What better way to revel in fall's wondrous display of colors and brisk weather than to wend your way through the woods perched atop a hay bale on the back of a wagon? Now that's fall!

Having spent a good number of my childhood afternoons amid the wooded acres of my grandparents' farm, it simply doesn't feel like fall for me until I partake in a seasonal hayride. Of course, those rambling rides of my youth usually entailed chugging past the cornfields, over the hills and down into a valley adjacent to the wooded fence line to forage for hickory nuts underneath a canopy of brilliant yellows and rusty reds. Once my grandmother and I had filled our pails, buckets and bushel barrels with those meaty little nuts, we'd climb back into the wagon, sit atop our wobbly bales and enjoy the autumn afternoon as my grandpa pulled us back home behind the tractor.

My introduction to fall hayrides may have been simple transportation to and from one of nature's generous little food supplies, but the beauty and simplicity of those rides wasn't lost on me. When my kids were younger, I decided it simply wouldn't do to find the winter winds descending upon us without having taken time out for a fall hayride. As luck would have it, a large regional park/nature reserve in the area was not only home to acres upon acres of wooded splendor, but was also open for business for those looking to hire a hay wagon. This would be a perfect family activity, I decided!

We gathered the extended family one Saturday afternoon in late October and clambered atop bales stacked on a large flatbed wagon. Imagine the kids' delight when they discovered that this ride would not be powered by a pickup or a tractor, but two gentle giant draft horses! Some coaxing was needed to convince the kids to leave the horses be and climb up on the wagon.

A two-hour ride through woodlands and fields was just enough time for children of all ages to jump and play in the loose hay before snuggling down into their parents' straw- and hay-covered laps as the day grew cooler. The afternoon sun illuminated the hues of the season, setting the leaves ablaze in autumn tones of reds, oranges, coppers, yellows and golds. I sat back, my three-year-old daughter in my lap, thinking that fall drives are heavenly, but you miss out on the fresh, cool air in your face and the squirmy, giggling straw-covered urchin in your lap.

When the horses finally pulled the wagon to a gentle, swaying stop, kids and adults jumped down, brushed themselves free of straw and chaff, and ambled toward the picnic area where a bonfire and hotdog roasting sticks were at the ready. The hot mulled apple cider that awaited us helped ward off the chill in the air as my husband and I helped the kids hold their hotdogs over the flames. Later, after a potluck supper, the marshmallows, chocolate and graham crackers were brought out – a perfect ending to a perfect day. Ooey-gooey s'mores and hot chocolate as the sun set on a lovely fall day.

Don't let this fall escape without finding an apple orchard, park or farm to partake in a fall hayride.

Welcome to Autumn Splendor!

 

Perhaps it has something to do with my hair color, but every year when fall settles upon us, my soul is happy and I find genuine contentment with the world around me. The colors! Oh, the colors! Brilliant reds, decadent oranges, deep russets, glowing coppers… the hues that create the palette of fall feel like home to me, and I am at peace.

I’ll admit, there are moments of summer that I adore – the smell of freshly mown hay, the feel of thick green grass below bare feet, an ice cold root beer on a hot day, my mom’s colorful riot of blooming flowers filling the yard of my childhood home. But summer can hold only so much sway over a redhead with pale skin, devoid of any and all ability to tan, who has an ironic allergy to sunscreen. I simply wither when the mercury climbs into the 90s and beyond, and I’ve known my fair share of sunburns. No thank you!

Fall, on the other hand, is another matter entirely. The crisp, cool mornings and late evenings are invigorating. And who can resist the season’s smells? My grandmother’s apple crisp – heavenly. Cinnamon and nutmeg simmering together with apple cider – divine. But the inviting aroma of the crackling wood from a fall bonfire, now that’s the smell of the season I look forward to all year long!

There are those perfect days that come along every once in a while – the ones that you look back on and smile about for years to come. I couldn’t have been older than six or seven. I spent the day raking leaves into big piles with my grandparents in their expansive backyard on their farm. We raked and raked, and then my brothers and I jumped into piles of crunchy red and brown leaves. Later that day, we sat atop straw bales stacked in the wagon as my Grandpa’s red Farmall H chugged us back towards the woods. There, amid yellowing birch leaves and under golden orange hickory tree canopies, my dad and grandpa built a fire. Supper that night consisted of hotdogs cooked on sticks over the flames, golden brown marshmallows and apple cider.

The evening was chilly, but wrapped up in red woolen blankets and gathered around that delicious-smelling fall fire, sitting amid the fallen leaves, listening to my grandparents and parents talk and laugh, life was perfect.

Welcome, Autumn. I’ve missed you.