Home – Woodsmoke and Cardamom

Phlox and Asters

It’s November now. The phlox and asters have long since ended their blooming season, and the time is fast approaching when the house will once again be filled with the heady scent of cardamom as Christmas bread rises and bakes. How the seasons swirl by, with one set of pleasure-to-the-senses melding into the next! One of my nieces asked me recently if I would be baking Christmas bread this year. “IF”?!?! It could hardly be Christmas if not!!! So, yes – of course!! And I can hardly wait to get started!

If you are among the fortunate souls who take great pleasure in the baking of homemade bread, you need no explanation for the joy it brings. If not, I will try to describe it as best I can.

It often begins with merely the delightful anticipation of the process itself! The gathering of the tools and ingredients, greasing of pans, seasoned to black from many years of use. Though my lovely black bread-tins are used only for our toast and sandwich bread, they are a precious treasure to me, handed down with love from my mama after her many years of baking for our family.

My bread-board, too, is a treasure I have used for many years, built by my dad, well-used by my mom.

My “canister” for flour is immense: 11″ tall, 9+” in diameter, holds the 10lbs of flour I buy at a time throughout the year. 25lbs at Christmas time won’t fit all at once, but it doesn’t take long to get through it!! And my lovely bread bowl that only comes out for Christmas bread (I use my bread-mixer the rest of the year)

flour “canister,” bread bowl and wooden spoon

I have always loved the scent of yeast, that conjures memories of my childhood home and Mama, baking bread in our cozy kitchen. From the moment the yeast hits the lukewarm water, I am transported to that kitchen and all the wonderful memories of the best childhood, filled with love and laughter.

Here is a link to the recipe for Christmas Bread, aka Swedish Coffee Bread:

https://wp.me/p2i29U-1D

And to circle back to the title of this post: another simple joy of my childhood, and the beginning of my lifelong love of these wildflowers, was the tiny not-quite-meadow of tall grasses, phlox and asters that grew between our yard and the next-door neighbor’s.

Autobiography of Lucy M. Young

written in 1988

I was born seventy-one years ago on a beautiful farm in northern Vermont, the oldest of three girls. Only my father and a neighbor woman were in attendance as the doctor was busy elsewhere delivering another baby. I've been told I came into the world yelling lustily in protest against it all and I am still protesting although not quite so belligerently. As age creeps up on me I have mellowed somewhat, but I still hate prejudice, jealousy, discrimination.

I attended a small rural school (all eight grades in the same room) high school, and two years at a teacher's college. I loved school and cried graduation night. I taught school for two years then I married. At the age when life allegedly begins (forty) I went back to college, majoring in English, hoping to get my degree. I was unable to complete more than one year for financial reasons. I loved my English courses, (especially Creative Writing); hated Physics, Chemistry and Math.

I have always wanted to write. Even in the lower grades I tried to write stories, In High School I wrote reams of poetry which my teachers liked but publishers did not.

Between the ages of forty and fifty I began having pain in my hip, very severe at times. I thought I was wheelchair bound until my doctor told me about hip-replacement surgery. As soon as it could be arranged I had the operation. Before it was healed I fell, necessitating another hip replacement. During that surgery my femur was shattered. After more surgery and many weeks in the hospital I was sent to an orthopaedic surgeon in Boston, a miracle worker who takes hopeless cases no other surgeon will touch. With the help of God and the prayers of many friends he did indeed perform a miracle. Today I can walk without crutches. After ten years of nearly constant pain, hobbling on crutches I am free.

My husband died six months ago and I find I have time to pursue some of the things I have always wanted to do. I live alone with eight cats and three birds. My home is in the country where I can enjoy clean air, peace and quiet. I love the solitude and I am never lonely because I know I am never really alone. The Lord has seen me through many years of pain and disability, and through His grace I am now free to do many things I have been unable to do for many years.

I love gardening, good music, historical novels and TV sitcoms. I have no patience with self-pitying, self-righteous people. I am deeply grateful for the good life my parents gave me on the farm and I would like to write about country living sixty years ago. My nieces and nephews are fascinated by my tales of "long ago."

The Lord has done so much for me that I want to do something for Him. I hope in some way my writing may help others to know Him better. I want to write the story of my miraculous recovery in the hope that it might give someone else the courage to keep trying, even against seemingly impossible odds.

Nostalgia

by Lucy M. Young

September with its various activities was my favorite month:
Going back to school with eagerness, anticipation and a little trepidation;
The smell of books and chalks and pencils;
Goldenrod along the roadsides;
Warm delightful days and cool crisp nights;
Stopping on the way from school at the potato field
Where father had been working all day long
Digging the winter store of white potatoes,
While the waiting horses stamped and neighed,
Impatient for their warm dry stalls
And their nightly ration of water, oats and hay;
Riding home on a lumpy wagon load of bagged potatoes;
Listening as they rolled and tumbled, rumbling into the waiting bin
       beneath the cellar window;
Gathering apples red-cheeked, crisp and juicy
To eat with popcorn on long winter evenings while mother read aloud
       our favorite books;
Bringing succulent plums - yellow, red and blue,
To mother to preserve for winter use;

Stepping from the chilly air into the steamy, lamplit kitchen
Redolent with the spicy smell of pickles simmering on the
       old black iron woodstove.
For supper there were baked sweet apples,
Mother's luscious brown bread,
And sweet fresh milk from our own Jersey cows;
Or hot soup from the last tomatoes in the garden,
With crusty home-made bread, hot from the oven,
Drenched with father's golden dairy butter.

And there were those lovely, lazy Saturdays -
Blue haze on the mountains,
A tapestry of red and gold and bronze spread across the countryside;
Clean air fragrant with the scent of frost-touched grass
       and burning leaves.

Those were the days.
Nothing can ever be so perfect as those happy, youthful days
        in retrospect.
There must have been cold, gloomy, rainy days of grumbling discontent,
But they have been forgotten,
Obliterated by the kindly hand of Time.
Recalling those lovely days of yesteryear I shed a tear or two
        of longing
For that long-lost past when I was young and life was good.
I breathe a prayer of thankfulness, however,
For these memories of home and loving parents;
And bless the Lord for giving me the golden opportunity
To live those joyous carefree days of yore.

Luxuries

by Lucy M. Young

Snuggling 'neath the covers on a cold November night
While the north wind whistles frostily without,
Or listening to the raindrops pelting 'gainst the windowpane
While warm and dry beside a crackling fire;

Savoring the creamy coldness of a strawberry ice cream soda
On a hot and steamy, torrid August day;
Or a sparkling drink of water from an icy mountain spring -
These are luxuries to me beyond compare.

You can have your yachts and Cadillacs, your emeralds and champagne,
They are cold and cheerless, comfortless indeed;
And I wouldn't trade my cherished luxuries, not even one -
For all the rich possessions 'neath the sun.

Christmas Memories

by Lucy M. Young

I would give everything I have or ever hope to have
If I could but return to yesteryear
And Christmas as it used to be when I was young
By ordinary standards we were poor.
But we didn't know it
Money was a very scarce commodity.
Not knowing what it was, we didn't miss it;
For we were truly rich beyond compare in all the things that matter
We had love and understanding,
Security from cold and hunger.
We were content with what we had.
Our world was beautiful, our happiness complete.
Our home was filled with so much love and Christmas spirit
That I can almost taste it even now.

We never made a Christmas list
Nor asked for any special thing.
But waited with such glad anticipation for Christmas morning
To find our home-made gifts beneath the tree,
And see the joy on the faces of our loved ones
When they received the things we'd made for them.

Memories come crowding back
Of snow and sparkling, starry nights;
The one large Christmas star which shone above the mountains
in the East
Bringing in the tree and trimming it;
The cold clean smell of balsam
Spicy smells of Christmas goodies baking in the kitchen,
Smiling faces, happy hearts, excited chatter;
Oyster stew on Christmas Eve;
Oranges and nuts and shiny red-cheeked apples;
Candy bags upon the branches of the tree;
Mother at the organ playing Christmas Carols
While we gathered 'round her singing joyously.

Santa Claus was just a pleasant character like Mother Goose
or Cinderella's fairy godmother.
We knew what Christmas really meant -
The birthday of our Lord.
We knew our gifts came from each other
In memory of His birth.

Dear Lord, I'd give all I possess
If I could just have one more Christmas as it used to be
With all the warmth and love and joy and peace
But I do thank you most sincerely for these precious memories
Of Christmas day at home so long ago.

Be the Good Lord Willin’…

by Lucy M. Young

When I reluctantly awake
  And glaring sunlight blinds my eyes,
I know I'll somehow meet the day -
  Be the good Lord willin' and the crick don't rise.

There is so much I need to do;
  I'd like to cleverly devise
A neat way out, but I'll do my best -
  Be the good Lord willin' and the crick don't rise.

The laundry waits, the dishes too,
  And dinner I must improvise;
It seems too much but I'll work things out -
  Be the good Lord willin' and the crick don't rise.

When Gabriel blows that golden horn
  And we must break our earthly ties,
I'll be there with my load of sin -
  Be the good Lord willin' and the crick don't rise.



photo by Jeffrey Hamilton on Unsplash

My Greatest Gift

by Lucy M. Young

God gave me a loving family
  And many friends who care
Good neighbors that I might not be alone
  And lots of love to share.

He gave me a home in the country
  And pure fresh country air
Cool green trees that touch the sky
  The music of birds in the air.

He gave me sunshine and gentle rain
  Sweet flowers kissed with dew
But I didn't realize how blest I am
  Until He gave me you.

Lucy wrote, "For Ruth after she did so much work on my house, cleaning, painting. I can never thank her enough."  I hope she knew that this poem was way more thanks than I deserved. Love you, Auntie

Memories of Christmas

by Lucy M. Young

There was snow, always snow -
Crisp and creaky underfoot,
Gleaming silver in the moonlight,
Sparkling like crystals in the sun.

I recall the utter stillness of the night,
The vast star-studded sky,
And every year the Christmas star
Aglow above the eastern mountain
Just as it shone o'er Bethlehem so long ago.

I see my mother busy in the kitchen,
Christmas baking perfuming the air;
My father reading in the mellow lamplight
Beside a crackling fire;
My sisters whispering Christmas secrets,
So eagerly anticipating Christmas day.

Most of all I feel the steadfast love
That bound us all together;
The warm security of loving parents,
The peace and harmony and deep contentment
That filled our hearts with everlasting joy.



photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash

A Prayer for the Homeless

by Lucy M. Young

When I awoke this morning, Lord,
And looked out at your beautiful world,
I thought of the other nations on earth
Whose banners of war are unfurled;
While here the morning songs of the birds
Brought music into my room;
And a softly whispering spring-time breeze
Held the scent of lilacs in bloom.

While I enjoyed the quiet peace
Of my little country home,
I thought of the homeless far and near
Who have been condemned to roam
In search of a place to call their own,
No matter how humble it be -
Just a tiny spot to make their home
From war and tyranny free.

Help them find it, Lord - a place of their own -
Secure and safe from fear.
Let them know the joy of freedom and peace,
The assurance that you are near.
Let them settle down with their families and friends,
Let their children romp in the sun;
May they never again know the terrors of war
Or hear the sound of a gun.

photo by Fares Hamouche on Unsplash

Our Daily Bread

by Lucy M. Young

The art of making bread is ages old -
Thousands of years ago 'twas made
By women of ancient Egypt, Syria, Greece, and Babylon.

Unleavened bread was made by Israelite women
During their flight from Pharaoh's cruel bondage.
Housewives were baking bread
When Mount Vesuvius poured tons of ash and molten rock
On unsuspecting Pompeii.

It is the staff of life,
The staple food of a million generations.
Sarah, Rebecca, Hannah, Rachel, Martha
Baked their fragrant loaves by open fires
To feed their families;

And Jesus broke the bread of life with His disciples
Before Gethsemane.

There's a deep religious connotation
In the humble art of making bread -
A soul-deep feeling, difficult to understand
Or explain.

Today, as I mix and knead and bake my bread;
And when like incense its aroma fills the house,
I think of all those women of the past
Whose work-worn hands performed this simple task.
In spirit I am close to them;
And just as they, so long ago, did lift their hearts in gratitude to God,
I, too, sincerely thank Him for our daily bread.