Kristen Friesen: Another season, more change

King Solomon said it first. But the Byrds made it memorable, giving the Beatles a run for their money … for a time. I almost can't say the words without humming. You know, "To everything there is a season … "

I just stumbled upon it today. Not for the first time, but literally. As in, I fell over a sign bearing those words. Maybe I should back up.

It began this morning when I awoke with a cold nose -- like everyone else who's too cheap to turn on the heat just yet. No problem. I warm up quickly with my morning aerobics -- a sprint to the back door to let out the dog, a tug-of-war to extract kids from bed, a wrestling match to get them dressed, the scramble to provide breakfast and the mad dash to the gridlocks of two different drop-off lanes. 

Today was even more exciting. Our daughter Grace had seven teal blue rubber bands threaded between her teeth to make room for spacers. I know, it sounds redundant. And it cost us $400, so I really broke a sweat. Never mind that I have scads of rubber bands sitting idle in the junk drawer.

As if the prospect of spending our life's savings at the orthodontist's office isn't enough, we have certain family traditions. One in particular mandates that trips to the dentist or doctor, which happen to fall during the school day, be followed up with lunch out. The location is the patient's call. And there's little room for reform. You can't just cut off a girl who's trying to get used to the sensation of chewing on Barbie shoes. Even I'm not that cheap.

So we headed to our favorite place, the Plum Thicket. In case you've never been there, it's the perfect blend of fussy sandwiches, "salads" made from whipped cream, hot soup and bottomless cups of peach tea. It belongs to my dear friend, Mary, and it's also her home. But, now that the kids are grown and her husband is gone, she reserves most of the grand old house for her guests.

Food is served in the dining room, but the parlor, staircase, bedrooms and bathroom are stocked with books, gifts and seasonal décor. The seasonal décor  -- and the soup -- are my favorites.

I absolutely can't allow a season to sneak up without making a spectacle of it. Neither can I just look. I have to touch, run my fingers across Mary's gorgeous garlands and lift the lids to sniff the candles -- everything I tell my kids not to do. Besides, I can wait until next month to turn on the heat, I tell myself.

Truth be told, I'm wary of people who don't change with the seasons. You know the type: coastal crazies who think a vineyard is a farm, who sunbath in February and who've never made a snowman.

Where I come from, seasons produce character. And there's much to be said for those who spend hot, steamy August days canning in hopes of peaches come November. For fields that summon strength beneath fallen leaves, a blanket of snow, relentless rain and scorching sun. For homes that boast practical pantries, storm cellars, patched roofs and front porches. And for churches that unite 60's rock fans and King James' purists over potlucks and prayer.

My daughter was taking a long time chewing her Plum Thicket lunch, so I did a little shopping. And that's when I nearly knocked it over -- the distressed, wooden sign with its gentle reminder, "To everything there is a season."

I wondered if Mary laughed a little as she priced it and propped it in place. Surely she didn't miss six kids bickering over one bathroom. Or perhaps it made her soul smile sadly, grateful that company for lunch nearly everyday helps drown out the quiet. And it does, particularly when clumsy customers are tripping over the merchandise.

Come what may, I know that autumn is just around the bend. I can feel it in my bones. And, while $400 certainly packs the heat into an otherwise brisk September day, I suppose it's a small investment in a smile that melts me. 

Anyone for soup?



Kristen Friesen is a wife and mother of three girls and lives in Grand Island. She grew up in a house on Cottonwood Drive in Lincoln, where she learned much of what she passes on in this column. Contact her at hervoice@theindependent.com.