The Naming of a Child

It has been a tradition in our family to name a child after a saint and also, a close relative. Usually, the first born son is named after the mother's father and the middle name after the husband's father. Such was the case for my son, Wm. after my dad and Leon after my father-in-law.

Not surprising, my grandsons middle name after both the grandfather and father, Leon and the second child after his father and grandfather, Wm.

It is a blessing to remembered in this way. Knowing that they'll not be any girls in my family, I know that no granddaughter will bear my name nor my grandmother's. Sometimes, other family members will, but I don't think it will happen and I'm resolved to it, as my neices have already named their daughters.

Several days ago, as I was reading the obits in our town, I came across a big surprise. The lady that had passed on had a step-daughter named Patricia. Many years ago, I met Patricia when she came to town to visit her new step mom and step brother, Jimmy. Her dad Bob, wanted to introduce her to someone she could hang out with, her age, while here in town.

I don't remember too much as it was many years ago. I often wonder if you touch someone's life, would they know you years later. I recall, she loved balony sandwiches with lots of mustard and loved to swim at the town pool. My sister Ruth, Patricia and I also went swimming at the big Alum in Sturbridge. We loss touch along the way, but, I recall someone telling me that she married her school teacher. I wasn't surprised as Patricia was an exceptional person. She always knew what she wanted and had a lot of determination.

As I read with interest that she now resides in Florida with her husband, it came as news to me that she had children. The first one was named Laura. Maybe I'm assuming that she remembered who I was, but more likely, it was an innocent coincidence, but it surely put a smile on my face.

You never know in life--what you do or say, may make an impression on someone. Sometimes, the smallest things make a large difference in the life of someone, unknown to you.

She must have made an impression on me, as I remember and can still invision in fact, her making that balony sandwich, while sitting at the picnic table with us, a few gigles as girls will, and lying on the beach soaking in the sun.

I wonder if she remembers me.

A First Time for Everything

My mom used to say that there is a first time for everything. Yesterday, was that day. I've fed ducks at the Broken Wheel Restaurant, at least that was what it used to be called, many years ago, when I took my sons to feed the ducks left over scraps of bread, on occasion. It was located past the golf course, on the way to Connecticut. I remember it fondly, but have not been there recently.

Old Sturbridge Village offers an opportunity to see many ducks in the pond which is fed by the Quinnebaug River, in Sturbridge. They also have chickens running around in the yard of one of my favorite exhibits, on the Freeman farm. Just last week, I took my grandson, Ryan, who is a year old, to see the animals penned there, and he was fascinated by the chickens who came right up to the carriage. While we were there, one of the inhabitants came out with old bread and fed the remnants to the chickens.

Friday night, a few of us went to hear story telling, in one of the barns. It was to be a spooky story, told by a woman who could hold her audience captive, just by her eyes. She also made some spooky sounds. Designed to give one a haunting experience, she was a professional at what she did. I left her with a few stories of my own, and something to think about. It was a great night, with wonderful music and good food. Even though the chickens were around, probably safely in their coop, we would not have been able to see them in the dark. Lanterns lined the dirt paved road which was muddy from the rain. We took shelter in the meeting house during the unexpected downpour and listened to wonderful romantic tunes played by two young and talented guys, dressed in period costumes.

Yesterday, I met Tikhon. He has had his picture all over face book recently, and what was captured on the photo, was even more beautiful in person. His tale feathers are a spectacular blend of the blue shades that I love, something like the colors of a peacock. He has red eyes to match the red on top of his head. A handsome bird, and protector of his seven hens.

I can't imagine what inspired me to feed him worms from my hand. The chickens were well received by many who ventured back behind the shed to see them. Life in its simplicity is hopefully, where we are headed. It may not feel the same on a cold winter's day, though. Fresh eggs have been a tradition here in New England in the past, and for many generations to come, as well as hardy chicken soup.

Although, after meeting Tikhon, and finding him so admirable, it would be hard to think of him in a chicken pot pie.

Father said a quick prayer for the new birds and for these feathered friends, well being and great egg production.