Lazy W Marie

Carpeing all the diems in semi-rural Oklahoma...xoxo

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My Book Stack This Week

   Hello! Another busy week is chomping at the bit around here, and I’m so glad. Life. Is. Good.

   In between this thing and that, I’m enjoying lots of reading moments. In fact, Handsome has even found some reading material he grooves, proving that miracles do happen; and we have instituted a cool evening ritual of sitting in our fave outdoor chairs (his is a nice, wide hammock and mine is a nifty vintage aluminum chaise) and reading while the sun sets. We face the backlit vegetable garden and often have the llama girls watching us. This is WAAAAYYY better than vegging out in front of the TV! Last night Johnny Cash tried to kill me, but it’s worth it. Johnny Cash is a gander who hates my ever-lovin guts. Sort of like how Mia hates my husband. It all comes out in the farm family wash.

   So anyway, here is what I’m reading to fill my brain and my soul…

   What’s not pictured is a digital version of C.K. Chesterson’s Orthodoxy. It’s a short little volume, but I’m reading it slowly, taking too many notes and thinking too long. At this rate I will review it around Christmas. 
   Another book that’s not pictured is The Horse Whisperer, which our famous little Oklahoma book club read recently. We are meeting Friday night to discuss it (and eat a fabulous ranch style dinner), so I’ll post my review then.
   Okay.
   The Secret Life of Bees by Sue Monk Kidd. My beekeeping mentor Maribeth loaned this to me a thousand years ago, but I understood it to be quite sad, a story about motherless girls. I kept it on the shelf until now. I finally feel strong enough to read it.
   The Art of Fiction by Ayn Rand. Maybe if I read this little book I will learn everything I need to know to make my idea for a novel come to fruition. 
   Zombactor by Sean Bingham. We became acquainted with this author at some local zombie-costume-art show events, and this book is the first in a trilogy he has written. Handsome has read and enjoyed them and offered to Sean my proofreading and reviewing services. (Stop laughing, Margi!) We’ll see about that. But in the mean time, if you think I’m gonna pass up an opportunity to read and discuss books with my husband, you’re crazy. Zombies it is.
   Keeping Bees by Green Guides and The Honeybee: A Guide for Beekeepers by V. R. Vickery. I have lots to learn, y’all. So dang much.
   The Lonely Polygamist by Brady Udall. Among all these titles, this is the one I can’t put down. Really looking forward to giving it a proper review soon. It’s a weird piece of modern fiction that changes perspective with every chapter. It has wildly fascinating characters, and I’m hooked against my will.
   And finally… The Rodale Herb Book. I am one-hundred percent infatuated with my little potagerie-style herb garden this year, and I am starving for more information and ideas of how to improve it. I dream big dreams for Lazy W herb production and propagation, and so, as with the bees, I have plenty to learn.

 

   So that’s it! What are you reading?
   Wishing all of our friends and loved ones, near and far, a spectacular week. The season is shifting. Prayers are being answered. Love reigns supreme.
“Never trust anyone who has not brought a book with them.”
-Lemony Snickett
XOXOXOXO

Senses Inventory: Moonglow

   At around 3 this morning I woke with a peculiar restlessness and decided to do some reading to train my thoughts and lull my body back to sleep. Tip-toeing past the west-facing hallway windows of our upstairs hallway, Moonglow stopped me in my tracks. It was spectacular and nearly brought me to tears. Happy, amazed tears. So before doing any reading, I stole down the carpeted stairs and slipped outside in my navy blue cotton kimono for a Senses Inventory.
See:
Startling silver light, this enchanted moon glow, washing over every shape in the farm. Stars as clear and glittering as they’ve ever been, arranged on that expansive black sky into secret patterns, coded messages about love and faith and promises. I definitely feel them looking at me in this private moment of reflection. Towering pine trees silhouetted in inky black against the sky, which is a deep grey there behind the forest, feathery and swirled before it turns the truest black for the stars. Shadows long and still, repeating the shapes of the basketball goal onto the driveway and a power pole onto the front lawn. I twist around toward our house, this place that has become such a wonderful refuge and oasis for us, and the big picture window is pouring out golden light, the only warmth of the scene. One lamp there burns like a thousand yellow candles. From there I look up, over the house and to the south, and see the distant moon. It is waning now, past its Harvest glory, and at this hour of night much smaller than how we saw it driving home, when it had loomed huge and heavy, and molten, over the hay meadows. The man in the moon grins. I notice the constellations again and marvel at the clarity of the sky.
Hear: 
Tree frogs singing. A screech owl calling out its hunger. Cheeps (baby chickens) twittering contentedly in that white Rose of Sharon bush. Crickets. So many beautiful, peaceful crickets. I can hear the interstate just a couple of miles away, and it’s easy to imagine the ocean instead. I hear a mysterious rattling in the drying canna stalks behind me and think I had better get inside soon. How many screech owls are there? Now the buffalo chuffs at me through the bright darkness, inquiring at my purpose at this strange hour. I blow him a kiss. The geese whimper, and I can pick out Mia’s voice among them.
Smell: 
I smell the smoky remnants of yesterday’s little bonfire. There is not even the slightest breeze, so I can smell the chill. The dirt, the grass, the air, the shrubs… Everything smells cold and fresh. Clean, expectant. I smell my husband on me, my own shampooed hair, and if I breathe deeply… A trace of skunk spray.
Touch:
Cold, rough concrete beneath my bare feet. A stray flower stalk there, too. The cold woven metal strips of the garden bench where I’m sitting and cool, smooth watermelons (temporary autumn decorations) to my left. So much cold, clean, refreshing air. Silver air. My cotton kimono is needed, and the generous sleeve openings allow in so much cold that the skin on my ribs and stomach seizes up slightly. I cross one leg over the other and feel another rushing chill.
Taste:
I taste almost nothing, just that sweet blankness of water. I’ve so far resisted the temptation of a midnight snack.
Think:
I think about how wonderful it would be to sleep outdoors in all of this intricate, saturated beauty. No bugs, even. I remember similar nights from the past, both special family camping trips and average bedtimes when I taught the girls to observe their sensations, thoughts, and feelings and release them into the night sky to get sleepy. We called it “Sparkling,” and it worked every time. I hear the oceanic interstate hum again and remember childhood in southeastern Oklahoma, and I wish to hear a train like then. I must learn more constellations. Thinking just lightly about marriage, friendships, romance. About how incredibly good and rich this life is. How loving people can be.
Feel:
After attending a wedding last night, and after soaking up this sensual midnight paradise, I feel deeply romantic. Swooning, even… Drunk on the details of the night. I miss my children of course; I do almost constantly. But for the first time in a very long time, I feel content and peaceful about that particular pain. I feel more joy for them than anything else as well as perfect, steady faith that everything is ok. I feel dangerously relaxed on this metal garden bench.
   My midnight reverie was brought to an abrupt end by some scampering, nervous noises in the flower bed. My eyes had grown heavy again, and  my spirit was light again. I used the last scrap of energy in my body to move back inside the house. Although every window had been open, allowing the night’s cold to visit our rooms, the front door threshold bathed me in warmth. I felt good and safe. Held. 

My Cup Overfloweth
XOXOXOXO

Missed Opportunity

   Our friend Marci required a little medical attention today, and I sat with her at the hospital. It was actually great fun (for me) chatting with her in a private room ahead of time, uninterrupted and easy, especially considering her truly fabulous wardrobe of a papery cotton tie-back gown and a blue hair net. I mean, she is usually decked out in adorable clothes, heels, great makeup and styled hair, and enviable “statement” type necklaces. This? Not normal. But the crazy thing is that she continued on with her normal confidence. LOL I tried so dang hard not to giggle. I can only hope to be this pretty while awaiting surgery, but still. So funny.

   Have you ever carried on a fairly weighty conversation with a friend while she is dressed this way? Hysterical. No matter the topic… I couldn’t take a single solitary word seriously. She was very animated, gesturing with her arms in all of their IV-riddled glory. She bobbed her hair-net head while relaying really serious-sounding general facts. In fact, I have no clue what we even discussed. But I do have two priceless cell phone photos of her in this memorable state.
   Anyway, when Marci was finally wheeled off for what turned out to be a VERY long surgery, she entrusted the care of her smart phone to me.
   Did you catch that? Not just a cell phone. Her smart phone. Her portal to the world as she knows it. In particular… Facebook.
   I know.
   In order to curb my obvious and understandable cravings to wreck Marci’s social media life while she rode the warm waves of anesthesia, I had to plug her phone in far across the room and distract myself with a new novel and a huge diet coke. It worked. 
   By the way, I just started The Lonely Polygamist and can’t put it down. Anyway.
   Time flew past, as did a luscious midday thunderstorm, and eventually Marci returned all sewn up and just as giggly and chatty as before surgery. (The anesthesia was still at high tide, for sure.) I texted her loved ones a message of success. I updated my Facebook status accordingly and realized OH NO!!! I TOTALLY FORGOT! Dang it. I sat with my regret over missing this rare opportunity and just watched sullenly as the slender piece of glass and metal technology changed hands from me back to her.
   A once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Squandered for the sake of good manners.
   So I think I’ll now write all the things I wish I had done with Marci’s smartphone. Care to join me?
I should have posted that she was leaving the white collar world forever in pursuit of Etsy fame. Marci is a great painter and revels in creative activity. But she’s also a talented worker and fixture at the Commish. It could have caused turbulence.
I should have randomly chosen one of her Facebook friends and fastidiously “liked” and commented on every one of that person’s photos, comments, updates, etc. Every dang detail, for as long as I could stand it. Have you had someone do this to your Facebook? It’s funny. For like, a minute.
I should have sent friend requests on her behalf to a hundred random people, with private messages attached. The weirder the selection, the better.
Then unfriended actual friends, also with private messages attached. Ouch.
I should have “liked” a ton of inappropriate pages for her. Then commented publicly on them all. Especially lingerie models and such. Or known liberals.
I should have flooded her Facebook feed with disjointed haiku and bad song lyrics. And then asked her friends for advice on random life issues. 
I should have posted that she was abandoning Candy Crush Saga forever. But that would have been an OBVIOUS hack.

I should have done lots of liberal-politics supporting stuff. Especially gun control and unschooling.
I should have made fake status updates about the wrong appendage being fixed. That’s not NEARLY as bad as a pregnancy joke.
And finally… I REALLY should have posted that gown & hair net photo and made it her profile pic. You’re welcome, Marci.
   Have you ever been viciously hacked by a friend? What happened, and how mad were you? What would you LOVE to do as a prank to your friend’s Facebook?
  Rest up Marci. I know you’re hurting. I’ll be here if you need me but wishing desperately I’d taken this fun opportunity.
With friends like this…
XOXOXOXO




Today in First Grade

   I spent my Tuesday subbing in a local first grade classroom, and now, having cooked dinner and changed into yoga pants and a tank top, I have *just enough* energy left to share nine short stories. Thank goodness the animal chores and housework were super light today. It’s funny how I can work all day at the farm and not feel this particular level of exhaustion, even on six mile running days. There is nothing quite like twenty-four seven year olds to sap the marrow from your bones. I mean, they’re WONDERFUL and everything… But wow. 

   Okay. Nine little stories.

1.) A little boy in the hallway rushed up to me, examined me with curiosity, and said, “I like your hair. It’s kind of… Yellow.” He spoke these words with both conviction and authority. I wanted to say, “hey there buddy! According to L’oreal this is extra-light-ash-blonde! Not YELLOW.” But that seemed excessive. So I let it slide. Yellow it is.
2.)  At 8:35 this morning, a certain little girl asked whether it was lunchtime yet. When lunchtime finally rolled around, she was asking when do we get to go home. Poor baby. I wanted to give her hugs and protein and a vitamin. Then bake her cookies. And more hugs.
3.)  I had recess duty today, and this adorable little boy showed me his black-with-red-swoosh Nikes, explaining they were cheetah shoes. I paid him the appropriate amount of awe and admiration, then he spent the rest of recess running fast to prove the cheetah moniker. 
4.)  Also at recess, a fragile little girl watching a cartwheel exhibition caught a tennis shoe to the face. She cried so I held her. She climbed up into my lap and whimpered if I stopped rocking. So we rocked and whispered until she very nearly fell asleep. I didn’t want recess to ever end.
5.)  While holding my injured first grade angel, I noticed that at least half of the kids on the playground were playing a really aggressive and organized game of Zombies. By that, as surely you’ve already guessed, I mean that a bunch of kids were human and a bunch of kids were zombies. There was much chasing and fake (thank heavens) arm biting, and some incredible acting to indicate a change from human to zombie. I was impressed. Has the zombie craze gone too far? Who am I to judge?
6.)  Have you ever noticed that kids this age, at least some of them, need to be in physical contact with some other person at all times? 
7.)  Speaking of physical contact… At some point during the day, a couple of otherwise sweet and precious girls tried to give me a baby cricket. And I almost died. They couldn’t possibly know this, but I have a deep and paralyzing fear of jumpy things like frogs and crickets. Also cows, but that’s another story. NOT shrieking, fainting, or starting a fist fight with these two girls took more self control than I thought I had. So cheers to me. I came home and cuddled my buffalo for comfort.
8.)  Early in the day, I heard lots of “aww you’re the best sub EVER, Mrs. Reed! Will you come back and see us tomorrow??” Then as the hours ground away at our souls, it was more like, “oh man, you’re not gonna be here again tomorrow, ARE YOU… Mrs. Reed?” Ouch. And no.
9.)  Finally, to take the cake, my favorite heart warmer… A really cute little boy marched up to me with a crumpled sheet of paper and announced, “I’m gonna read this to you because I can read!!” Amen.
   So that was my Tuesday subbing first grade! I love the way these days widen my view of children, of people in general, and also how they bubble up my heart. I hope y’all had a great day too. I’m now curling up with a good book and some very, very hot salsa that SHOULD have won first prize at the state fair. See you on the flip side.
There are worse things than being yellow-headed.
XOXOXOXO

You Gotta Take Care of Each Other

   Life is magical for so many reasons. My heart is throbbing from happiness lately, so much that I have a hard time shutting up about it. But I do have one story to share with you in particular. Pull up a chair and grab some coffee or sweet tea. This should only take a couple of minutes, and I wish I could give you a hug afterward.

********************

    Last Saturday, as we do on so many Saturday mornings, Handsome and I embarked on a garage-and-estate-sale treasure hunt. We drove many miles across this beautiful Oklahoma countryside, picking through other families’ boxes of castoff toys and books, threadbare clothes, dinged furniture, and myriad collectibles. We spent most of our quarters and wrinkly dollar bills and filled our pickup with so much fun stuff, chatting and laughing all the way. I love these days. We both do.

   As the Noon hour approached, we were winding down. A list of chores awaited us at the farm, and the climbing sun was elbowing through the morning’s autumnal crispness. Handsome suggested stopping at one more house, a sale he had tried after work on Friday. It would prove to offer us the smallest purchase but the deepest impressions.

   We parked on a grassy shoulder and walked across this narrow road, downhill toward the property’s deeply shaded yard. The shade was so deep that my vision needed to adjust and my skin flushed cool despite the warming day. On both sides of the curved driveway stood calm, colorful gardens, each one decorated with folksy painted art. Lots of cracked pane windows, half rotted wooden chairs, and hog panels framed and dressed in wild flower vines. A really ecclectic, happily accessorized piece of heaven. Everything smelled sweet, and from behind an umbrella-topped table where two ladies were taking money, jazz music reached out to us out like tendrils into the peaceful Saturday air. It was this great mix of Oklahoma and Louisiana, and I could feel Handsome grooving it right along with me.

   Having made one purchase here the day before, my husband knew of a few things he hoped to reconsider, so he proceeded to hunt. I had no problem following my thrifting nose to the colorful pottery, the used paints, the tall, beaten wooden shutters that remind me so strongly of New Orleans, and much more. Really, of course, I shared all of this woman’s taste in junk and craved to buy almost everything. But I had been shopping all morning and wanted to show some cash restraint. That’s part of the fun, after all, being discerning. Saying no can be as much fun as saying yes. Or at least it makes saying yes more fun when it happens.

   I did see one accent pillow that was flat-out irresistible. The bright yellow floral fabric made my 1970s-child heart skip a beat. It was tightly stuffed, quilted, in perfect condition, and fresh smelling. Not a hint of mildew of smoke or anything. For one single solitary dollar, this pillow was officially going home with me. No matter that nothing in either my house or the Apartment has these colors already. I mean, sort of my fave green velvet chair. Sort of.

See? Isn’t it great? 
I love this green and yellow 1970’s print.
But this story is not about the pillow.

 
   As I was trading four smudged quarters for this one glorious little pillow, a thin, energetic woman perhaps in her late sixties welcomed my questions about her gardens. A terrycloth sun visor was keeping her cropped white hair at bay. She touched my arms with silky soft hands, spoke closely to me, and smiled with her entire face while she described her gardens. Which plants she had cultivated, which ones were volunteers, etc. What I wanted most was to know more about the gardens, anyway. I was thrilled.

   At some point Handsome slid up beside me and listened too. This slight, bright little woman was by then talking a lot more about the myriad construction projects in her gardens than about the flora and fauna. We had found several things we both wanted to try and duplicate at the farm, so we were happy to listen. She was describing with great affection how much work her husband had been putting into their little paradise.

   “One time he built a bird cage there on that arbor, and once I bought this wooden swing from Ace Hardware and he decided it needed a better awning, so he built that. Then I wanted it out of that shade, so he moved it for me. He put up all those split-rail fences, too.”

   On and on she went, and there was no mistaking the pride and appreciation in her sweet, clear voice. You know that warm, comfortable feeling of a highly personalized garden? It is even lovelier, I’ve found, when more than one person has invested passion and energy into it. Her gardens had that glow. That loving welcome.
   I found myself looking around for her husband, thinking that surely someone so devoted to her every construction whim wouldn’t be far from her side on such a pretty day. She continued boasting of his woodworking skills and generous nature. Handsome wrapped his hand around mine, and we both stood shocked when our spontaneous hostess revealed that her husband had passed away one year ago. My throat seized up.
   Her face fell just slightly at this admission, not like it was news to her, but more like his physical absence was just a sad formality. A disappointment and even a nuisance in the midst of so much loving energy. Because, clearly, he was all around her still. He was in every garden she touched and in every word she spoke. It almost felt like she was looking for him, too.
   Neither of us dared interrupt her. Have you seen The Princess Bride, when the little boy is so enrapt by his grandfather’s story that he eventually won’t say a word to stop its telling? We needed her to continue telling her love story.
   They had been married for 35 years when he died. They had both been married before, multiple times, but had finally found compatibility and happiness with each other. She told us about how they met, their flirtations, their dating. She grinned and blushed. With unscripted sentences, she unfolded to two strangers a precious chapter of her life. I swear she looked younger and younger as she did so.
   They raised a family, some children his, some theirs. He was one of the designing engineers for the AWAC plane here at Tinker AFB in Oklahoma, and she worked on base as well. They rented their first house from a black family here, in a decade when that didn’t happen much, and that family’s minister married them too. Also something that wouldn’t have happened much then, and she was obviously delighted to have that joyful piece of history in her heart. She said they all became close friends, something about whether they were black, white, purple, or polka-dotted! Her laughter. So full and sweet.
   She described the chain of events that led them from that first rented house to this sprawling wooded property. I could easily imagine the newness of the place before she and her husband infused it with their mutual passion. She talked about their children, now adults, and the perspective they have on their parents’ marriage. She recounted with a lot of sadness how her husband was so ill a few years ago when that first big tornado swept this part of the state clean. They had to take shelter with neighbors, but his medicines and oxygen tanks were so difficult to manage. They immediately had their own large tornado shelter installed, but he never used it. When the storms were so bad this May, he was already gone. She filled it with neighbors and pets instead. Her disappointment was palpable.
   The stories were gentle and many, and Handsome and I took turns squeezing each other’s hands and either weeping or laughing.
   Then without asking, our new friend took my available hand and Handsome’s available hand, forming between the three of us a little circle. She looked us straight in the eyes, alternately, and said, You gotta take care of each other. I cannot remember this woman’s name now, a week later, but I remember the urgency and warmth in her face when she said this. Her blue eyes absolutely sparkled, and not just from her sprouting tears.
                                                              *************************
   A friend of ours is getting married this evening. Each of our parents are celebrating their 40th wedding anniversaries next month. Another set of friends is approaching their first adversary soon. Still more nearly share our own July anniversary, almost to the day. I can’t help but marvel at the power of a well invested union. Friendship, service to each other, devotion, admiration, romance, just all if it. A happy marriage can be the most profound expression of God’s power and love, in my opinion. So much love for others can pour out of it.
   
   Mitzi and Brian, we wish you all the best! We wish you a magical wedding Saturday and then far more than 35 happy years together. We wish you every blessing, every joy, every thrill that a union like this can bring. Whatever you cultivate together, whether it’s a garden like theirs or any other masterpiece you both love, may it surround you and comfort you both with proof of each other’s passion.
XOXOXOXO