Hi there! If you have been reading at the Lazy W for a bit then you are familiar with my ten-four-good-buddy M Half. She is the smart as snot girl blogger with whom I shared that infamous Pine Forest Misadventure. Okay. M is in Europe this month enjoying a much deserved sabbatical, and I have to say that North America is poorer for her absence. Do take a peek at her blog; she is chronicling great stuff daily!
   However. 
   Today I am going to take advantage of her not being at a six-hour striking distance and write a rebuttal to her recently published “G is for Goosed by a Gander.” Everybody relax! Especially you, Mom! Last month she shared her version of the hike, so now I am simply offering my version of this, umm, violation, but as a line-by-line argument. Fair’s fair, baby!

M Said:
I’ve been avoiding telling this story for a couple of weeks now. I keep reliving the whole thing and    the worst part, the worst part, is how no one came to my defense. They sat and watched, nay, they laughed. Laughed a horrible, terrible, heartless laugh. I think there were tears in his eyes, and he almost fell off his chair. In retrospect, I sort of wish he had.


I Say: 
Yes, we laughed. But it was anything but heartless. Our hearts were fully involved in the transaction. No one laughs that hard without some passion.


M Said:
Perhaps I’m getting ahead of myself. Let me back up.


I Say:
That’s what she said.


M Said:
I asked Marie if I could spend a day working with her at the Lazy W. I’ve spent many days watching her work, doing my own computer-y stuff, and listening to her move about. This time, I wanted to leave the computer in the car and join her in doing chores. She writes about brushing the horses and it just sounds all romantic and dreamy and wonderful. I’ve been around enough that I know it’s hard work. Marie works harder than I do, for sure. But for a day? Sounded like fun. It’s like The Lazy W is my own personal dude ranch. And Marie cooks. Bonus.

So theyer I was, ready for some werkin. 

I Say:
We actually do talk this way when we’re alone at the farm. Case in Point? Murder Sheyed.

She Said:
We cleaned out buffalo and horse troughs. She shoveled poo. I got sunburned. We ate fruit and cheese. Her Handsome came home and we all sat outside chatting in the shade. Marie told me again how MIA and Mama Goose had come to sit on her back while she read the other day.


I Say:
I really don’t work that hard. But I do move around a lot, on account of the excessive coffee intake around here. And actually when M asked how she could help, I shrewdly assigned her one of my least favorite tasks… scooping debris out of the large-animal troughs. LOL But she’s a trooper. And yes, she did get a little pink around the shoulders, a fact I grew to regret later that day… Regarding my prior goose-sitting experiences, let me stress that up to this point everything had been platonic. I had been reading on a picnic blanket when both Mia and Momma Goose climbed gingerly on the small of my back and sunned themselves while I polished off some good fiction. After a few chapters everyone’s innocence was still perfectly in tact. This was about two weeks before the incident being described here.


She Said:
She came out of the house waving a blanket around. “Let’s see if they come sit with you!” She spread the blanket out and I giddily stretched out on my belly to try it.


Sure enough, MIA didn’t even hesitate. He climbed right up on my shoulder and positioned himself somewhere around the back of my head. 


I Say:
This was a red flag that I missed. Mia wasted zero seconds getting to M’s shoulder blade area. There was no polite back sitting or sun cuddling whatsoever. And the truth? I was instantly transfixed. Frozen in morbid observation. My bad.


She Said:
His little feet were a bit scratchy and on freshly sunburned skin, I felt a little tender. Marie asked if he was hurting me and I said a little. This next part is a bit of a blur. I have spent the last week trying to figure it all out.


I was focusing on trying to soothe my skin when I realized there was something going on behind my head. MIA was pulling my hair, and hard. There was a flurry of activity and I couldn’t figure out what it was until I saw Handsome’s face. He was red, laughing with big fat tears rolling down his face. His expression told me everything I needed to know about MIA’s intentions with the back of my head.

Where was Marie? Right next to me. Laughing, watching, and doing nothing to stop it.

I Say:
Raise your hand if you have ever laughed nervously or if you loved National Geographic shows. It’s fascinating, right?

She Said:
“Ow, get him off me! It hurts!” I’m not sure how long it took. 3 hours? 30 minutes? Maybe 15 seconds … it’s all the same.


I Say:
Like, eight and a half seconds. It would have been a winning rodeo score.

She Said:
Finally Marie pulled this lusty bird off my head and I sat up to fend off any additional advances. Handsome still couldn’t actually form words with the laughter ripping through him. Marie looked a bit stunned. MIA kept trying to … woo … me again.


There was some talk of video and YouTube and encouragement for me to lay back down to replay the sordid scene all over again.

“NO!”


I Say:
Perhaps M has forgotten HER offer to put Mia on MY back and replay the drama in reverse! Perhaps the tears of laughter in her own eyes had obscured her vision just a tiny bit, and the tears of laughter on mine and Handsome’s faces appeared just a little fatter than they really were. Maybe. But I do admit there was talk of YouTube. And later that night Hubs (M’s guy) was on board, ready to rake in the cash, already making financial plans for the inevitable golden egg.

She Said:
And that’s how my relationship with MIA crossed a line we can’t ever uncross. I may never see geese the same way again.


No geese were harmed in the construction of this blog post. My ego, however, may never be the same.


I Say:
Mia was certainly affected by the whole thing, though not the least bit harmed. His love for M is stronger than ever. And while he and Momma still take sun naps with with me, now there is no fraction of a chance that gander is allowed anywhere north of my rib cage. Ever. I may even paint a sign warning visitors of the lustiness around here. 


As for my friendship with M, I just hope she still trusts me. I hope she knows deep in her bones that I would never allow that to happen with a hooved animal or even a talon-weilding rooster. Also, if she needs some neosporin I have some handy. And I hope she takes it as a compliment that Mia loves her so.

   Welcome to the weekend, you guys! Wow, this has been a happy, productive week around the farm. I do not feel caught up exactly, not even close actually, but no worries. I do feel the swell of springtime and the momentum of so many worthwhile projects lifting me up out of what is normally lots of regret and worry. The magic of this time of year is in full effect, regenerating me day after day.

   As I write this, the buttery sun is at my back. The geese are waking up from an afternoon nap, unwinding their long necks and stretching those wings into asymmetrical shapes. The Oklahoma wind is blowing but relatively mellow. And I can see the newness of our downstairs rooms after rearranging some beloved artwork. The indulgence of an afternoon cup of very good coffee suddenly has me thinking of New Orleans. But then it usually does.

   What have we been up to…

   A few days ago my wonderful parents, my little brother Philip, and our Grandpa Rex joined us for dinner at the farm and also a chocolate-chip cookie taste test. That was fun! The six of us sampled three different recipes and then cast our votes. Do you know what happened? An even split! No kidding. Each of the three recipes received precisely two votes, so while there was no loser, there also was no winner.

   Soooo… in order to pursue a slightly more scientific model and to rid our freezer of the very tempting raw cookie dough, on Monday morning I’ll be sending little taste test kits to Handsome’s office for our friends and cohorts there to break the tie. And odd number of kits this time. Surely by Tuesday we’ll have some results worth sharing! And you’ll get to see the three amazing recipes too.

   A few days before that, I was very happy to welcome to the farm two young women who were interested in looking at textiles for sale. Jaimee and Rebekah visited on a particularly gorgeous evening, and we spent as much time playing with the animals as we did chatting about aprons. Turns out that Rebekah has discovered her “spirit animal” is a buffalo, so she and Chunk-hi spent several minutes bonding. It was really special. Not everyone gets why we love buffalo so much, but when someone does it feels so very good.

   A few days before that, last weekend in fact, we ventured about an hour from the farm to celebrate the twentieth anniversary of a local landmark’s renovation. In Arcadia, Oklahoma, sits a very old wooden barn, all red, and perfectly cylindrical. And domed. Lots of people are fascinated by this structure, as well they should be. And over the years it has gained a bit of a cult following for all its owners’ interesting stories and restoration efforts.

   Anyway, the day we visited was also the day of the predicted storms and tornadoes, so we were on high alert. You can see in the photo below that our skies were anything but blue that day.

This post is dedicated to my drop-dead-gorgeous cousin Jen, who is actually my second cousin, but who feels like a sister in many ways. She and her husband Gabe recently moved to Colorado and are starting all kinds of wonderful new adventures there! They have four equally gorgeous and lovable children, two of whom are still in the “little kids” category. She is starting a new garden in their brand new back yard this spring.

A NEW GARDEN, YOU GUYS! WITH KIDDOS!

Can you even imagine my sympathy excitement? Is that a thing, like sympathy labor or sympathy pain? Not sure, but anyway, I am excited for her sake and I am excited because it brings back so many wonderful memories of starting new gardens myself and of growing things with my own little chickens. My own little human chickens.

Jen and I had the chance to chat on the phone yesterday about how to start. What tools to buy, which supplies are really necessary, selecting edibles versus flowers, etc. Compost, even! We touched on everything except insects. And for the next two hours gardening was all I could think about. I kept wanting to call her back and tell her more things I have tried and learned over the handful of years I’ve been sort of doing this, but life goes on. We both had things to do.

So here ya go, Jen! Here is the sum total of what I would tell you if we could spend the day together in the dirt:

• Have fun! Have so much fun. Let yourself fall in love with the magic and pleasures of gardening before you seek out the worry or overabundance of detail that is out there. Do NOT get your soil tested yet. Just touch it with your bare hands. A lot. Get dirt manicures regularly.

• Find your favorite times of day to be in the garden, ideally one time when you can regularly be with the kiddos and Gabe and another when you can regularly be there alone. The garden is different in the morning than it is as night. Explore. Be there often. Watch it evolve, fall in love. Try visualizing how it might look in a week, a month, a year… Decorate it if you want to. Have a comfy chair nearby, take meals and drinks out there… Live there a little bit. Lend yourself to the garden and it will be yours.

• Get really, really dirty and if possible be barefoot anytime you’re outside. Hose yourselves off instead of tiptoeing to the shower! Once it’s warm enough let Louie & Riley shampoo their hair outside, and take pictures.

A backyard beauty shop, post AWESOME mud monster party, in Oklahoma City. Circa 2001.

• Read about other gardens for inspiration more than for science. The science will come, as will the wisdom of plain old trial and error. I mean, mostly what plants need are soil, sun, and water. Bam.

• Buy cheap seeds and lots of them. In fact, I might send you some. No need to start them indoors; I only do that because my chickens are ill mannered. My chicken-chickens, not my human-chickens. My human-chickens have great manners!

• Do that composting thing we talked about, it will make a big difference AND you will feel extra cool and hipsterish for sending less trash to the curb every week. Let Louie be in charge of that if he wants to. Take pictures.

• There is such a thing as worm farming, and I bet you have somewhere in town that knows about it. Get a little carton of earthworms or maybe ladybugs for the kiddos and let them be “farmers.” It’s good for the garden, but mostly it is so much fun. Take pictures.

• There are more easy-to-grow things than not, and you’ll gradually find your favorites and shape your own garden style. Most stuff is cheap, and there is no shame in buying a flat of bright, cheerful annuals for instant gratification!

• Make friends with other gardeners.

• But don’t take them too seriously or let anyone discourage you; just enjoy their company and trade plants now and then.

• Pull weeds after a good rain or a deep watering, and remember that one good, slow, deep watering per week is a lot healthier than a quick, shallow watering every day.

• Teach the kids to eat veggies straight out of the garden, just knocking the dirt off on their jeans or rinsing them under the hose. Joc had eaten one thousand sugar snap peas this way, and Jess has eaten as many baby carrots. They seemed to like snacking on what thy had personally planted and tended. Coming home from school on springtime afternoons or taking swim breaks in the summer, they were always eager to see what was ripe for picking.

• Plant all kinds of lettuce seeds between your plants instead of using store-bought mulch. It’s cheaper, healthier, edible, and (in my humble opinion, but you should you decide for yourself) prettier. Plus, if Miss One Year Old takes a tumble, she won’t skin her little pink knee on a bed of lettuce. Cutie. xoxo

• Let the kiddos plant something they want, no matter what it is. Even consider designating a little spot “Louie’s Mud Garden” or “Riley’s Wildflowers” or something. Take pictures.

The girls learned how to trim lettuce with scissors and watch it grow back thicker each time. We were never low on salad with them on patrol! Look how professionally they crouch in the garden… It’s in their blood for sure.

French Breakfast radishes, long and white, more mild then the red ones, really delicious.

• Straight lines and perfect rows are optional. Let the kids decide your shapes if you are brave. Take pictures.

Spicy red radishes harvested after school.

On the far left are young sugar snap pea vines about to explode into growth and yumminess. Then lettuces, spinach, and arugula. All planted and maintained by those pretty little ladies.

Proof that a veggie garden does not need to be big or fancy to be productive and memorable.

• These things are almost guaranteed charmers, plus they’re quick: sunflowers, zinnias, carrots, hyacinth beans vines, morning glories, radishes, lettuces, strawberries, green beans, pansies, and cannas.

• These things are worth every little bit of work and wait: Tomatoes, sugar snap peas, all melons and gourds, all peppers, roses, and cucumbers.

• Do not plan to sow seeds one weekend then walk away. Allow yourself the luxury of an ongoing affair with your garden… Work on it a little here, a little there… Enjoy it, have fun, let your plans change along the way, add color, edit plants, move things, eliminate things, let your kids learn with you and let yourself learn from them… Plant continuously, grabbing a packet of seed every time you visit the grocery store! You don’t need a big budget. Those ten for $1 seeds are awesome, as are the 75-cent flower babies. Let the kids fall in love with gardening, too. They will never forget it. xoxo

   Early in the week I received a text from our neighbor with details about the funeral. It would be that Thursday. Handsome and I both wanted to attend, but when that morning rolled around it was clear he could not. He was tethered hopelessly to his office.

   The man’s services were held at a large, modern funeral home just about twenty-five minutes from the farm. The parking lot was filled beyond capacity, cars, trucks, and motorcycles parked in concentric curves, filling not only every designated space but also every square foot of concrete, designated or not. I barely found room for mine. People were filing into the building quickly and in large numbers. Holding hands, clapping each other’s shoulders, smiling weakly. The sun was fiercely bright that day. Warm and windy, one of the early spring days we had all been celebrating.

   Inside the building several hundred people were pacing around, finding their seats and maybe reuniting with friends or loved ones the way people do at funerals and weddings. I was offered the last open seat in an annex room with a clear view to the podium and flowers. There was no casket.

   The officiant of the service was a brother of the deceased. He was tall and solid, had a strong local accent that dressed his lumbering voice perfectly. He reminded me a little of Sam Elliott and was the sort of man who deserved the word gentleman, not guy. He led us in prayer and read scriptures with so much passion, you might think he had just discovered their truth and beauty that very day! He was urgently pressing in our hearts a message of God’s love, hope for the mansions of heaven, and comfort. Deep comfort.

   As is customary with such personal services, we got to hear some of the man’s favorite songs from his life. They played Dust in the Wind, Stairway to Heaven, and Whiskey Lullaby. The music piped in crystal clear, especially the Led Zeppelin guitar notes I remember, and every single lyric fell on the crowd like a deliberate weight. They pressed tears out of all our hearts. I wondered about Whiskey Lullaby, wondered if the family was still worried about alcohol having played a part in the wreck. What a burden, what a warning.

   Usually a funeral service is a time to say goodbye. This service, for me, was a chance to become acquainted with the man we met under such awful circumstances. As it progressed, I was increasingly frustrated that my husband couldn’t attend. He was the one who had stayed there that night in the rain. He had the most grief to release.

   I saw this man come to life in a room filled to the brim with his loved ones. Just a few days before that, the most I had seen was his white cotton t-shirt and belted jeans. Now I saw his face, smiling. Eyes literally twinkling. I saw him as a suntanned little boy in mid-century Oklahoma, often barefoot, always surrounded by his brothers and a sister. I saw him as a good looking high school football player. Then as a young adult with a magnificent white man’s Afro! When photos of that hair era slid onscreen, the room warmed with laughter. So much laughter! His most recent years seemed to be spent holding babies who were presumably his grand babies. I got to see his barrel chest draped with sleeping infants. He was always smiling.

    A girl not much younger than my own fourteen year old baby spoke at the microphone. She read her own remarks from two handwritten pages. Her dark hair was just growing back in from chemotherapy. She had a voice as soft and muted as talcum powder, and it faltered into tears at almost every sentence. Though the congregation could barely decipher her quiet words, we all cried along with her. The emotion was palpable. She barely seemed strong enough to hold the microphone and doubled over in sobs at least twice. Even as a perfect stranger I ached with this beautiful little girl, everybody did. 


   When she finished reading, the man’s brother wiped his own tears and took both her pages and the microphone then read every sentence again. His booming, affectionate voice delivered what she was trying to tell us. That we should trust God’s plans, even when they hurt. That we should be thankful for each other and what we have. That we can do amazing things. There was much more, and I hope the family kept her written pages. I wished I could be taking notes myself. So beautiful. If the congregation was weeping a moment ago, now there was widespread sobbing. From the mouths of babes, is all I could think.


   The services continued with more wonderfully loving, personal speakers. Every person held this man in such genuine affection, so much love. I keep using that word, I know, but it’s how that day felt. This man we never got to know in life must have understood how to love people. His memory seemed to braid the room together in humor, love, and affection. Even from a distance, what a worthwhile legacy.


   As the funeral concluded, some of the family members stood along the front of the room accepting a parade of mourners. I debated joining the line of people and felt completely out of place, even though we had been invited by the man’s friends. Since I knew in my heart my being there was not for spectatorship but to say goodbye, to offer condolensces, I crept up to the front with everyone else and along the way tried to think of what to say.


   By the time I reached the front, enough hugs and kisses and handshakes had been distributed to sort of relax the outward grief. The man who officiated the service was smiling. More of those funny, affectionate stories were clearly being shared, and at the last minbute I almost turned to go. But he smiled warmly at me so I shook his hand.

   “Thank you for coming,” he said. He didn’t know me, of course. He folded my hand together with both of his hands.


   “Your brother was obviously such a wonderful and loved person, and what a beautiful family you have. My husband and I live on — Road…” I thought that naming the road would be sufficient, no need to spell it our further. It was. His expression changed in a second.


   “Oh… Thank you,” but his smile faltered and his grip strengthened, then he looked away. I honestly was very worried it had been a huge mistake in attending. When we released the handshake I smiled a tiny bit at the woman to his right and left the funeral home as quietly as I could.

Epilogue:
   In the days immediately following the funeral, we noticed a large collection of flower sprays placed on the shoulder of our road, weighted down by a cinder block. Roses, white gladiolus, lots of greenery. We couldn’t help but notice they were on the opposite side of the road and about twenty feet off from the site of the crash. We will probably never forget exactly that spot. I know I think about it every time we drive past.
   Handsome and I only one time verbally considered moving the flowers to the correct location, in honor of the deceased man, but of course understood that was not our place. So they are still there now. Withered and brown and weighted by that cinder block.

   On Easter Sunday, in the late afternoon, Handsome was outside moving animals around when he saw a car parked at our front gate. This is not normal, and we weren’t expecting company, so after a moment he went down the gravel driveway. He found the brother,  the gentleman who had reminded me of Sam Elliott. They traded introductions and talked more about the wreck. Knowing my husband and having briefly met this gentleman, I can only imagine how much poise and calm was between them. The brother gave thanks for coming to the funeral and shared that yes, there had been lingering concerns about alcohol. This was a wonderful opportunity for Handsome to encourage him with the fact that he did not smell any alcohol on his brother’s breath that night and that deer are thick in this area, especially on dark rainy nights like that. It had to be a deer he was avoiding.


   I am so thankful that they met. I think it’s even better than if we had gone to the funeral together. And I am also thankful he met the brother alone, because that night he had stayed with the man alone. 


   Sometimes life draws these perfect little circles. Painful and unwanted, sure, but still full of love, lessons, promises, and even poetry.


Drive safely, loved your people, trust God. 
xoxoxoxo