Margaret Philbrick

Author. Gardener. Teacher. Planting seeds in hearts.

Author. Gardener. Teacher.

Planting seeds in hearts.
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I planted the seed, Apollos watered it, but God made it grow.   1 Corinthians 3:6
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Grandma’s Painting is Finished!

November 11, 2022 by Margaret Philbrick Leave a Comment

Like Emma Toft before her, my Grandma Lehwald was one of Door County, Wisconsin’s early women entrepreneurs. In the 1960’s she told her husband she wanted to open a “hot dog stand” as a small hobby. We all know how “small hobbies” go. Today, almost 60 years later this humble hot dog stand is the the full service Summer Kitchen restaurant on highway 42 in Ephraim, WI.

My parents came to Door County on their honeymoon in 1961 and they stayed in some pretty swanky spots like Gordon Lodge and the White Gull Inn. When they returned home they raved about the gorgeous landscape and the magical beauty they experienced. In less than a year, grandma and grandpa were buying land and building their retirement project, originally called the Red Barn Restaurant because it stood right across the street from the big red barns, today the Island Lavender Company. This little hot dog stand served hamburgers, shakes and hot dogs through the window where you placed your order, but over the years it grew into a full service restaurant and cottages. Grandma ran the kitchen and cottages and Grandpa loved tending the driving range, especially riding his big mower to pick up golf balls.

The right side was the original Red Barn Drive-In, left side dining room added later.

I celebrated my first birthday here and our family gathered for holidays, especially Thanksgiving. There was an abandoned red barn way out back where me and my cousins “made” our own pies by smashing red berries (probably poisonous) into rusty found objects. Grandma let us sneak into the kitchen and dip our fingers into the always heated hot fudge pot. Clara Appel baked the pies and back in the day Grandma managed to always find the reliable help she needed. After several years they sold the business and built their dream house in Sister Bay right next to St. Rosalia’s cemetery. Our memorable holiday gatherings moved over to Maple Lane and we savored walking down the road to bowl at Sister Bay Bowl when we were old enough to go into town without adults.

Grandma Lehwald lived to a wise old 97 years of age. She painted with oils, kept a full candy drawer for her grandkids and great grandkids, attended art classes at The Clearing and became proficient in embroidery, cross stitch and tons of card games. She also cheated (or at least it seemed like it) on her strokes when we played “pee-wee golf” at The Red Putter.

When my father sold his house this year, I found one of Grandma’s unfinished oil paintings in his attic. The painting featured the Red Barn hot dog stand, roughed out on the canvas. My own mother was a proficient oil painter and I saved all her paints when she died. So I bubble wrapped the canvas and shipped it up to Baileys Harbor where I spent last few seasons finishing Grandma’s work. 

Grandma’s finished Red Barn painting, her baptism portrait in background (from 1913)

The painting needed life. The colors were muted and she didn’t include any people in her composition. Long ago, I found a post card of her Red Barn restaurant in an antique store so I used that to convey authenticity in the building design. Her restaurant patio was covered in a pink corrugated roof which made all our food look pink no matter what we ordered. As a four year old girl this was a wonder work of beauty. I added my cousins playing hide and seek and grandma walking to the kitchen with her buckets of apples for Clara’s pies. I couldn’t resist painting their Lincoln Continental in the gravel parking lot and the little wooden train at the campground next door which we snuck over to play on when Grandma wasn’t watching.

I adored and respected my grandparents. They worked hard all their lives and how they loved us. They taught us to love and respect the land of Door County and the invaluable bonds of family. I’m so thankful that today their work continues at the Summer Kitchen restaurant in the capable hands of the Jauregui brothers who still serve homemade pies. If you’re up in Door County, stop by and walk into 60 plus years of serving home cooked food to residents and guests in need of a bowl of soup or a cup of coffee and a slice of apple pie on a crisp fall day. Happy Thanksgiving everyone!

Filed Under: Art, Family Tagged With: #mygrandmaswasanentrepreneur, Door County, Ephraim, grandmas art, oil painting, women entrepreneurs

Leftover Lace

August 16, 2022 by Margaret Philbrick 2 Comments

The Wedding is Over, Now What?

It was beautiful, but it wasn’t perfect. As I shared the post-wedding download chat over the phone with my dear friend we both concluded that life is “tainted.” Even in the moments of our greatest joy, something icky tries to steal it away.

My dad is 87 and I love him. We long ago determined that we were going to move heaven and earth to ensure that the only living grandparent made it to the wedding. This involved him doing physical therapy for months leading up to the event so that he would be strong enough to attend, buying him the Cadillac of walkers to get around (only to end up renting a wheelchair), flying he and his caregiver/escort up from Arkansas and finding them an “accessible” cabin … everything inched along on track until day 2 at our house when he started sneezing. “It’s just allergies,” he assured us. Our bride and groom cringed, we rolled the windows down in the car to air out his germs. Too late, this mother-of-the-bride caught his spewing nose inferno and I was the only blessed recipient of this gift come wedding day. Enter bottles of DayQuil, NyQuil, Airborne, Nettle drops in water, Zycam, Covid tests just to be sure (they were negative)  — anything to get through the four day extravaganza of parties and people with a smile and some level of enjoyment.

photo credit: Paper Antler

It all happened. As we boarded the trolley bound for the reception I took my last large shot of DayQuil. French 75 cocktails, best-man and maid-of-honor toasts floated by in a fog. The evening I imagined dancing the night away turned into me stifling and submitting to coughing fits in the downstairs locker room, trying not to contaminate everyone else. Sadly, my repeating thought was, “Can I go home now?” Thank you to my sweet friends who took me home so I didn’t have to wait for the return trolley trip! Thank you to my beloved college roommate who grabbed me and my wheelchair bound father and helped get us on the dance floor, EARLY in the evening! Thank you to all our friends and bridal party who did have a blast and danced until they dropped!

We got him out there! photo credit: Paper Antler
Hey there tambourine man! Photo credit: Paper Antler

Now it’s over. The bride and groom returned from their honeymoon and drove their presents and their Persian cat (Smushie) back to St. Louis. The bridal bouquet is drying in the closet, the wedding dress back in dry-cleaner plastic. The question remains, “Was it worth it? Was my dad’s participation worth the cost of my health and enjoyment of the biggest day in our daughter’s life?” I honestly don’t know. We are called to honor our mother and father, but at what cost? We live by our choices in this life and hope for the best. 

As I unpacked a zip-lock bag of leftover lace from the seamstress who remade my wedding dress into Jessie’s wedding dress, I thought of her reassuring words to our daughter, “If it doesn’t work out, you can always turn it into a christening gown for your first baby.” Well, it didn’t quite “work out” for me, but our daughter and her adorable groom said it was “the best day of their entire lives” and that was certainly the goal. 

Life is a sacrament infused with the power of God. As long as we are breathing, there is another moment in life to celebrate. As long as the sun rises and sets, a jewel to behold.

photo credit: Paper Antler

For my friends who want the truly breathtaking photographer’s take on Jessie and Michael’s wedding, here’s the highlight reel with music. If you need a photographer for your family wedding you’ll see by this reel that there is no one like Paper Antler, www.paperantler.com Thank you to our dear friends Jonny and Michelle for seeing J + M’s wedding in a way that none of us and most especially me, could possibly have seen that day. Your photos are a huge gift to all of us. We love you and we hope everyone we know uses Paper Antler for their family wedding!

https://paperantler.pic-time.com/4KV7vWx9dD1TD

And… I’ve already moved on to thinking about that baby gown, wink-wink.

Maid of Honor Taylor and her “princess of the field.” Photo credit: Paper Antler

Filed Under: Home, Love, New life, Uncategorized Tagged With: bjorklunden wedding, daughter'swedding, Door County, paperantler.com, post-wedding survival

Letters to My Mother During Covid19

April 24, 2020 by Margaret Philbrick Leave a Comment

Dear Mom,

Greetings smiley, sweet Nana! We received a call last night with the unfortunate news that a Coronavirus case has been confirmed down in your memory care wing. The good news is that it is NOT a resident there, but rather a staff member. These faithful workers have been wearing masks and gloves since early March as a way of protecting you if they contract the virus so we are grateful for these steps. And we are praying that no residents come down with the virus. Thus far there are NO cases among residents in any part of your retirement facility! JOY!

Door County Cherries

On to happier news. I love you! I’m so thankful that you are healthy and taking care of yourself. I’ve been reflecting on your fascination with orchards, tart cherries and apples. Drinking Montmorency TART cherry juice is a regular Door County treat for you when most of us can only tolerate the sweetened cherry juice. There is a magical quality to orchards, especially Seaquist Orchards where they trim the grass between the trees. What is it about an orchard that captures the human heart? Is it the abundance of fruit, the graceful ordering of trees, the history of cherry picking migrants camping out during July in long frame buildings, sleeping single file on metal cots? The ramshackle remnants of those cherry picker houses still line highway 42. A family transformed one into their colorful summer home.

Seaquist Orchard, Ellison Bay

Growing up, we always went cherry picking and so our children go cherry picking and even now in your 80’s when we head north with your caregiver Maria we revisit those reliable rows of trees at Lautenbachs or Seaquists. The last time we went, your hair stuck to your face as the wind speckled cherry juice on your sticky cheeks. Maria grew up in Poland and she too loves tart cherries so she took home ziplock bags full of them in her little, silver Nissan Versa. You have a friend who wrote a lovely poem about Door County which mentions the cherry trees. Kindly, after reading my letter about our favorite county on my website it came to me in an email. Close your eyes and picture the images in this poem as someone reads it to you.

DOOR TO PARADISE

Pure clear water, vistaed heights,

Glorious dreaming through the nights!

Bright greens and blues, cloudless skies

O’er crystal lakes of paradise!

There we’ll find sweet red cherry trees,

Warm as the sun, soft as the breeze,

Long peaceful trails, secluded bays,

And happiness throughout our days.

This glimpse of heaven is enough reward

For pious patience, for working hard,

For righteous efforts wisely spent

Weaving love’s ephemeral raiment.

Here the best scenes our memory saves

Wash over us gently like silver waves

Lapping repeatedly upon our shore,

Where storms and clouds return no more.

Pure clear water, vistaed heights,

Glorious dreaming through the nights!

Bright greens and blues, cloudless skies

O’er crystal lakes of paradise!

There we’ll find sweet red cherry trees,

Warm as the sun, soft as the breeze,

Long peaceful trails, secluded bays,

And happiness throughout our days.

J. Jennings, 1997 

I look forward to picking many cherries with you this coming July!!

Love,

Margaret

Filed Under: Family, Poetry Tagged With: Cherry picking, Door County, Montmorency Cherries, Seaquist Orchard

Letters to My Mother During Covid19

April 13, 2020 by Margaret Philbrick Leave a Comment

Dear Mom,

Happy Easter! We are so thankful that Mercy and the talented staff at your facility took the time to do your hair for Easter. Look at how you impressed the Easter bunny! In the midst of stay-at-home celebrating today we are reminiscing about one of your favorite places in the world…

Think back to your honeymoon. You and dad were high school sweethearts and managed to keep your relationship going through college in two different states. When you married and began planning your honeymoon, you wanted to go somewhere fresh and not too far away. Fortunately, Goggie read an article in the Chicago Tribune about a destination called, “The Cape Cod of the Midwest,” only five hours up north. After your downtown wedding night in the Palmer House, you packed up the ghost-white station wagon and headed into the unknown. Dad described it as a miserable drive, “Rained the whole way and your mother didn’t feel well. We checked in and wondered what tomorrow would bring. The entire area looked bleak and black.” But when you woke up, you saw the June sunlight tilting through the conifers surrounding your cottage. I imagine you two stepping out and letting the screen door slam behind you— inhaling your first breath of what would become 50 years of Door County pine scented air.

Door County. It is a huge part of the life of all my grandparents, both sides of your family and now our own family. Thanks to your 1950’s trekking up north along that Lake Michigan coast, here’s what happened:

Grandma and Grandpa followed you and built “just a little hot dog stand” on highway 42 between Ephraim and Sister Bay. That little hot dog stand became a full service restaurant known as the Red Barn complete with cottages for rent, a driving range and their summer house. The restaurant is still there and is now known as the Summer Kitchen.

We jammed our massive Lehwald family into their little summer house, heated by a Coleman stove and baseboard heaters for many Thanksgivings. We spent my first birthday eating dad’s favorite strawberry shortcake out on the concrete patio.

Uncle Jay and Janet rented the “big, grey house” on Cottage Row and cousin Leslie and I played with the electrified dollhouse more than we played outside. 

Dad and Grandma battled over which fish boil served the best meal. Dad swore allegiance to the White Gull Inn and Grandma and Grandpa loved The Viking. Both of these restaurants still do fish boils. The White Gull Inn won the family contest. Who wants to pay to eat a fancy dinner off an army mess hall, stainless steel tray?

After baking countless apple and cherry pies and picking up legions of golf balls on his riding mower, Grandma and Grandpa sold The Red Barn and built their dream house just up Maple Lane from the Sister Bay Bowl. Erica and I stayed in the guest house and snuck out at night. Me and Uncle Billy and Dad and  cut down our most gigantic Christmas tree and we all made the ornaments and chains out of paper. Grandpa taught me how to play cribbage. Grandma cheated at pee-wee golf. We killed each other over slap-jack and Fool Your Neighbor card games. 

Our kids spent many Presidents’ Day weekends running down hotel halls and jumping off the sides of the High Point Inn pool. Summers lazily wandering orchards picking cherries, skipping and heaving rocks into the water, hiking in Peninsula State Park. Nathaniel got lost in the woods at the Wilson’s Eagle cottage and Pebble Beach provided hours of rainy day entertainment by painting rocks. Pebble Beach and the surrounding land was recently purchased by the Door County Land Trust so it will forever be enjoyed by generations of rock painters and skippers.

This past Christmas you spent with all of us up at High Pines, sitting beside the second most gigantic Christmas tree, looking fly in your cheesehead hat and sipping cherry bounce. Snoopy the dog ate all the sugar cookie ornaments off the tree and we enjoyed the best hot chocolate in our individual whipped cream topped teapots at the White Gull Inn. 

Generations of cherry juice running down the arms of children who jammed more cherries into their mouths than their pails and everything else happened because you listened to your mother who read the newspaper! Thank you for taking us to shuffleboard courts by the bay at the Evergreen Beach Hotel and snowmobiling on New Years Eve from the Hotel DuNord and everywhere else in Door County. As the worlds battles the Coronavirus, the beauty of birches by the lake remains untouched.

Gratefully loving you from a distance this Easter!

Filed Under: Family Tagged With: CoVid19, Door County, isolated senior, love letter, memories, memory care in Covid19

This Couch

December 3, 2019 by Margaret Philbrick Leave a Comment

A single question, asked on this couch changed everything. Thirty-one years ago today I lived in a tiny apartment in Chicago on Dearborn street, worked in an advertising agency and stopped for groceries at Treasure Island after getting off the El-train. Snowflakes mixed with yellow gingko leaves on the sidewalk as I slushed my boots into 1100 N. Dearborn. I pressed the 19th floor elevator button and checked out my hair in the mirrored glass. We’d decided earlier in the day to go pick out a Christmas tree that evening. After dropping my groceries onto the only counter in my “galley” kitchen, which is a romantic city term for inadequate kitchen, I changed into jeans and a Christmas sweater. This was the end of the 80’s — people wore gaudy sweaters for real, not as a joke at corporate Christmas parties. 

Over on Rush street a bar with outdoor seating beckoned commuters, a busy watering hole called Melvins. During holiday season they filled the red-painted wrought iron furniture with Christmas trees beneath multi-colored lights, the old fashioned kind our grandparents hung on their trees with single colored, large light bulbs. The evergreen smell and warm, holiday glow created an oasis in the city rush.

He tucked his gloved hand into my mitten. We found a tree that might fit. I took the top and he carried the trunk. City lights and taxi horns mingled with the “Charlie Brown Christmas” theme song as we carried my first “big” Christmas tree back to my first “big” one bedroom apartment. 

“I think I’ll take a shower,” I said. The tree sap pinned my fingers together and I felt sweaty. Radiator heat equals boiling hot, unadjustable indoor temperatures. We’d wrestled the tree into the stand and moved the furniture around to make space for it. “Oh, okay,” he said with a puzzled look. 

I emerged in a yellow robe and hair up in a towel, (we’d been dating for six years so this was not a big deal.) Slumping down next to him on the couch I noticed he looked pale, almost gaunt. He gathered my hands in his sweaty palms, “We’ve been together for awhile. We both love family and I want that to continue, to grow. I want us to have our own family someday. I want what we have to go on.” Oh, how I could not believe I’m sitting in a robe with no make-up on at this moment. He slid off the couch onto his knees. “Will you marry me?”

THE wicker couch

“Of course I will!” I laughed, screamed, and surprisingly did not cry. Being sneaky, he’d tucked the ring box behind a pillow on the couch. After we finished hugging (and of course, kissing) we sat back and stared at each other, he handed it to me. Laughing louder, I opened the black, velvet box and to my shock there was a ring inside, his grandmother’s ring which I knew nothing about. I’d been expecting a cigar band with a cute message written inside, something like, “I.O.U. an incredible ring when I’m a successful lawyer someday.” We’d never looked at rings or even talked about them and he slid his grandmother’s beautiful ring on my finger. My “of course I will” went silent. To this day, it is the most special ring in the world.

The view this morning from this couch is a world of white. First rain, then ice, then snow coated all the trees in our neighborhood and it stuck. Just like his question 31 years ago today. It stuck. In an age of IKEA furniture that ends up out on the curb and disposable Joanna Gaines signs, I hope this Advent we seek after something that sticks, something that lasts. My parents bought this couch on their honeymoon for ten dollars off the porch of the Thorp Hotel in Fish Creek. WI. It still says “ten dollars” in pencil on the bottom. Then it moved to our back porch in Geneva, IL and held many dressed up girls at birthday parties, then on to my studio apartment and down the hall to apt. 1901, my one bedroom and now it’s back home where it began. We changed the color from white to forest green and each spring we take the wicker furniture outside and touch up the chipped paint. My mother and father take naps on the couch they bought on their honeymoon, our friends laugh and cry as we tell stories and drink craft beer around the fire. This couch…his question…the pure joy of something that lasts. And today, “Of course I will, my love.”

Part one of a four part Advent series on the tangible and intangible aspects of life that last.

Filed Under: Love Tagged With: 1100 N. Dearborn, Door County, engagement stories, memories

Polar Plunging Into 2016!

January 6, 2016 by Margaret Philbrick Leave a Comment

As the LARGE bearded men gathered in their white robes on the beach of Lake Michigan, I had second thoughts. We’ve attended the January 1st Polar Bear Plunge over the years and laughed at the pounds of searing red flesh exiting the water and half naked people of all sizes standing in coolers of hot water to revive their frozen feet. This year was my year. No ice to be chopped up means no ice cutting through your shins and knees as you fly out of the water as fast as your near hypothermia muscles can get you ashore. Another edge, our friends who are seasoned plungers were going in and they knew the tricks, e.g. HOT water coolers, clothes waiting on chairs so they don’t get soaked, must wear shoes so you can run out more effectively and most important, go out in the front of the crowd to avoid the back up of tiptoers into the water who slow down the process to a polar crawl.

While festing at a New Years Eve party the night before a yogi was asked what she thought of the plunge, “I think it would be great for your lymph system.” Of course, this is the main reason to do it. All my lymph nodes will be excruciatingly squeezed and therefor detoxed for about two minutes. Sounded like a good idea, but then I could enjoy this benefit at my local juice bar while waiting for my cut of locavore salmon. Another compelling reason was provided by my girlfriend who served in the Marine Corp., (the real one, not the 35 degree water marine corp. we were about to dip into) “It propels you into the new year like nothing else. It kind of sets the tone for your whole year.” Hmmm. What might my whole year be like if I plunge? Visions of conquering new, unforseen heights and depths of creativity came to mind. Now that’s a benefit.

imagejpeg_3

The “Jump Around” music blasted out of the speakers and we got psyched up by jumping around. The new years day countdown to plunge sang out and off we all charged into what might be our end. There are several ambulances and firefighters who stand waiting to retrieve the weak and frail, or the many Packer fans who are overloaded with holiday cheese curds and Cherry Bounce, yes they go in too and you can smell them on the beach before you hit the water. Here’s what I learned:

– 35 degree water is easy to run out in but it makes it hard to run back. Your system is so shocked that you can’t breath, but your muscles need oxygen to get you out. This is why the kayaks and fireman are in place so no one goes out too far.

– There is a camaradarie that comes with doing something stupid. My son plunged with me and we are now proud members of the Polar Bear Club. The organizers give you a certificate if you sign the waiver saying you won’t sue them if you die. I wonder how many plunges you need to get one of those white robes with the official polar bear patch on them? Those were impressive. If my son gets one before I do, I will be jealous.

– 25 degree air feels like 25 degree air whether you are wet or dry. The difference is that your body becomes stiff when wet so park your car CLOSE to the beach.

– Hot water filled coolers provide the difference between life and death.

I hope this inspires many of you to plunge next New Years Day! Here’s the video of our graceful water ballet if you need more motivation. God bless your 2016 with healthy lymph nodes and the fulfillment of all your resolutions. Check out the lady in the white bikini holding the two stuffed polar bears. Now that’s Wisconsin!

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X5UGt6XD3Co

imagejpeg_2 (1)

 

Filed Under: Uncategorized Tagged With: Door County, Inspiration, JOY, New Year

The Ups and Downs of Aquiring an Unholy Desire

October 7, 2015 by Margaret Philbrick Leave a Comment

While sitting in our favorite crepe restaurant the other night, La Creperie www.lacreperiechicago.com, our oldest son asked, “What have you spent money on recently that you really wanted?” The question was directed at my husband and after thinking it over he said, “wine.” I know this is true because his smartphone is always tuned to Robert Parker’s wine reviews when I turn on Google. Like his father, he has become somewhat of a student of wine, forever in search of the exquisite yet affordable (no more than $15.00) red table wine. When you are paying for college and private high school, you don’t buy much for yourself, but the question woke me up in the middle of the night calling for an answer.

My wants are more intangible; more of God’s presence, more time in my garden to get the insanely invasive “prairie plant” under control before it destroys the entire perennial bed, the opportunity to travel the world and see every painting ever painted by Caravaggio.  These items do not come by my debit card and they don’t answer our son’s question, but one item comes to mind and it is a lesson in how we probably shouldn’t desire a certain thing too much.

Emma Toft is one of my heroines in life. Her image can be found on my Pinterest under the Hero’s category,  https://www.pinterest.com/margaretphilbri/heroes/ but her watermark is best found on the 300 plus acres of land in Wisconsin that she bequeathed to the University of Wisconsin. I’ve spent countless hours exploring and praying in her woods, even geeking out with binoculars and gawking at an eagle’s nest that reappears in the top of the white pine tree each spring. When she could no longer live off the land, she moved into town on highway 57. Her clapboard home recently became the town Visitor Center and during the renovation I saw them, two castaways inside a chain link fence out back, two old wooden ladders. We are talking old ladders, as in dowled together, covered with splatters of whitewash and rotting in the rain old. I’ve been fantasizing about acquiring Emma’s ladders and placing my hands on her rungs. Climbing one foot at a time where she placed her work boot protected feet. Although she’s been dead for more than thirty years, somehow owning those ladders would draw her closer to me. So like any wise woman intent on getting what she wants, I plotted.

ladder_1

In June I walked into the visitors center and asked, oh so casually if I could have them, just to take the rotting garbage out back off their hands. The adorable senior volunteer smiled and said, “No. I’ve already asked for them and the folks said no. I thought they’d be cute to hang plants on ‘em.” Hang plants on this sacred object? Hmm, this was not going to be as easy as I’d imagined. I seriously thought about stealing them but the Lord’s Prayer kept me from that temptation as well as the thought of how to explain to my husband the sudden appearance of two ancient fifteen foot ladders. By the end of the summer, I decided to call the town hall and find out who was in charge of the visitors center. “Well I think that’s June Greeley, just let me check here.” I told June I would give a donation to the Visitor’s Center if she would let me take those ladders. “Oh, let me talk to the board about it and I’ll get back to you.” The Board of a town visitor’s center, a town of less than a thousand people? You are kidding me.  A month went by and she didn’t call.

I couldn’t bring myself to pray for these ladders, the thought was too selfish. What would we do with them if we did get them? As fading summer crickets chirped in the evening, I clung to the chainlink fence, staring down at them. They looked unusable, half rotten. I began to talk myself out of it, This is a completely impractical, irrational desire, get over it, But then the blessed voicemail came. “The Board has agreed to let you have the ladders for a donation. You can pick them up any time.” JOY inescapable washed over me as I drove home from teaching that Monday afternoon. Emma Toft’s ladders were ours! A piece of Emma, coming into our home! They would transform the living room with their primitive character and unique aesthetic. However distant, a part of her life would inhabit ours and this glory was accomplished for only a small donation.

Both ladders were soaking wet when I picked them up. The smaller of the two ladders fell apart into six pieces when I put it in the car. The giant ladder was full of earwigs, seeping out of each interlocking joint. They would need some serious repair and drying out. After a few days of debugging and baking in the sun I managed to prop the giant one up against the stucco wall in our living room. It looked incomplete, like Shel Silverstein’s Missing Piece or the Bridge to Nowhere. Perhaps someone didn’t finish painting the room and they left their ladder behind hoping to come back? The ladder is so huge and old that it’s dangerous. It could fall on a visiting child or crush the piano. It took me twenty minutes to get the beast back outside without killing myself. I called my father for consolation and a dose of vision. He helped, a little. “Oh you need to make a complete display out of it with a variety of rural antiquities, you know, a bunch of old farm stuff mounted on the wall in a group.”

Right now the dilapidated ladders are resting under an outside staircase waiting for their redemption and restoration. What would Emma Toft do? What will we do with them? I really wanted these ladders but now I seem to have inherited an even bigger project by acquiring them. Was it worth all the energy spent desiring them? This story is incomplete, but I might just be at an age where I need to stick to my holy, intangible desires … praying for them, trusting God to fulfill them in his own way and in his good and right time. If you have an idea of what to do with these monsters, please let me know. And, if you want to read more about the inimitable Emma Toft, here’s the link. Now I put our son’s question to you, what have you spent money on recently that you really wanted? How has it worked out?

http://www.doorcountycompass.com/blei/emma/emma_toft.htm

My favorite quote in this article, when asked what she wants to be remembered by: “Trying to keep the home place. Making people enjoy the out of doors. If you can’t make people love the out of doors, then they’re ignorant. Make them enjoy it. It’s the little things. That’s, I suppose, why so many people don’t see it.” Emma Toft’s interview with author Norbert Blei

 

 

Filed Under: Inspiration Tagged With: desire, Door County

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A Minor: A Novel of Love, Music & Memory
Redbud Writer's Guild
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© Margaret Ann Philbrick 2014. All rights reserved. / Contact
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