Lazy W Marie

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

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Archives for 2023

an autumn afternoon in the garden with Kindergarten

We sat in the shade with half a dozen bright eyed Kindergarteners, just three women and six children that day. The October afternoon was warm and breezy, still more summer than fall, and I found myself wishing I had brought cold drinks for everyone.

The day’s lesson was about seeds and how they relate to flowers and, ultimately, the foods they become. I passed around a huge, heavy, bright orange pumpkin and several pumpkin blossoms, deep yellow and frilly, impossibly related to that massive fruit. The kids touched and sniffed and made sweet, cooing, observant sounds, their immense brown eyes fixed alternately on everything they held and then on me. I passed around stems of tomato plants, each loaded with tiny, yellow, star shaped flowers. I sliced open a few juicy tomatoes and showed them the almost imperceptible white seeds inside. We examined purple, leathery hyacinth bean pods, which they needed some encouragement to tear. The beans inside were reliably glossy black with perfect white spines. Gorgeous tuxedo gifts. I watched to make sure no one ate one, ha! But they only rolled the treasures around in their curious hands.

We scrunched the papery crumples of zinnia seed heads and shared a bouquet of those Technicolor flowers then moved on to tomatillos, which are so fun to de-husk. Tiny fingers are adept at peeling quietly, and they had fun doing it. One brave little boy volunteered to manage the Tithonia seed heads, which our fair reader may already know are famously stout and prickly when dried.

((autumn garden collection, 2023))

As the kids explored and absorbed the many details of seeing, touching, smelling, and weighing the various seeds and flowers and their final growing products, their teacher encouraged them to more fully describe everything. She asked them beautifully precise but open ended questions that produced long, effusive answers in broken, cheerful English. I almost cried a few times, and I am not sure why. Maybe it was just the pure joy of seeing such young, innocent children enjoying nature. Maybe it was the simple intimacy of so few people sitting quietly in the shade. Maybe it was the memory of being in the garden with my own girls, now twenty years past, or the possible future thrill of sitting with bilingual grandchildren, in the garden, talking about food and flowers and watching them learn everything about this immense, gorgeous world.

After a little while in the shade, we wandered over to a collection of raised beds to plant new seeds. The students used wooden Popsicle sticks to carve little furrows in the soil. They scattered the miniscule seeds, sometimes with impressive focus and sometimes with understandable abandon. Then they watered. Oh my heart. If we thought that trading roly-polies and earthworms was their favorite garden activity last week, it is only because last week we didn’t have time to do the watering. The plastic watering cans are almost half as big as many of their five year old selves. And filled with water, those had to be some of the heaviest burdens these cuties had ever carried. But not one of the kids shrank from the task. They heaved and tottered and limped from hose to bed, sploshing and sprinkling as they went. A few exclaimed and squealed about their wet school uniforms, but overall the soundtrack was giggling. Soft laughter backed by sunshine and new experiences.

We made our way through the tasks at hand and talked about how important water is for the plants and seeds to grow and be happy. The kids connected easily with the idea of being thirsty then feeling refreshed by a glass of water. One little girl named Stephanie promptly refilled her plastic can and struggled over to a kale leftover from last season. She said affectionately, almost in a whisper, “There now she’s having a drink.” The kale was taller than her, yet she insisted on watering it from as high up the green, ruffled tower as she could manage, not at ground level. She walked away soaking wet and smiling ear to ear.

We had time to marvel at some expired sunflowers, towering toward the clouds and nodding like they were asleep, dried stalks as thick as my wrist. I had the kids hold their hands out like bowls and scraped my thumbnails against the sunflowers’ sky bound faces. Dusty seeds poured out like a spell into their waiting hands, and because the lesson was all about seeds and seed planting, they knew exactly what to do. “I need my little stick!” Amy said with some urgency, her long black braids flying as she looked left and right, and when she found her tool she got right to work carving a place for those seeds. Then Stephanie watered them.

How beautiful it all is. The huge squash blossoms that become massive, flavorful, vitamin rich pumpkins. The clusters of tiny yellow flowers that, with some water and sunshine and time, become a string of versatile, delicious tomatoes. Beans! All that protein and beauty wrapped in such dense, hard little packages. Flowers for beautifying and feeding. Children for teaching and nurturing and loving.

I have been thinking more and more about the world of flowers and vegetables, all the same, fascinating photosynthesis and so much beauty and purpose. Food for the birds and pollinators, definitely, but also, beauty as a purpose in and of itself.

All kinds of flowers use their multi-faceted beauty to draw in their needed audiences. We know about the birds and the bees and how they are attracted to colors and flavors that suit them so they can get on with the business of pollination and propagation, etcetera. But this lovely afternoon with the Kindergarteners reminded me that people are included in this symbiosis, too. Plants draw us in with their beauty, whether we are conscious of it or not. Their colors and fragrances, the never ending variety of shapes and patterns and textures, all of it woos us and bring us close enough to see them face to face. Close enough to understand them better and tend to their needs so they can tend ours. What a miraculous relationship.

I believe that every time a young child experiences nature up close like that, the world is made better, safer, more aligned with its original design. Life for that boy or girl instantly gains potential for greater enjoyment, better mental and physical health, and deeper artistic experiences. And life for their entire future purview might now hold more balance, more attention, and saner systematic choices. They could grow into better stewards than we will ever be.

((circa 1978))

We take care of what we love, after all, and it is so easy to fall in love with Nature. She sees to that.

martha and henry

A funny song from my childhood has become a pretty good descriptor of two-person farm maintenance. Usually it’s still funny; sometimes it makes me, us, feel one half step away from crazy.

It’s a sing-songy conversation between husband and wife as they navigate never ending tasks:

“There’s a hole in the bucket, dear Martha dear Martha, there’s a hole in the bucket, dear Martha, a hole.
Well fix it, dear Henry, dear Henry, well fix it dear Henry, dear Henry fix it.
With what shall I fix it, dear Martha?
…
With a cork, dear Henry…
The cork is dry, dear Martha…
Well wet it, dear Henry…
With what shall I wet it, dear Martha?
With water! (her rage building)…
How shall I fetch it? …
With a bucket…
(extra long pause while Henry takes a deep breath, because we all know what’s coming)
There’s a hole in the bucket…”

So you see, of course, the never ending loop of repair and provision and discovery, and then repair and frustration and connection-between-all-things-broken and, again, discovery and repair. The ongoing consultation between husband and wife kills me.

Truthfully? I have always felt like Dear Martha was a bit cruel to her Dear Henry, with her exasperation at his inability to grasp obvious solutions, just as he seemed helpless and maybe vapid, not very manly traits to a girl who grew up with a Bob Vila Dad and then married Clark Griswold who is fond of chain-sawing all the newel posts.

After some years on these nine acres, though, I see Martha through a slightly more compassionate lens. She is just insane from all the never ending work, that’s all. She probably used to be a softer, sweeter, more helpful wife. The conveyor belt of projects that are never singular and independent of several other mandatory projects, well, they take their toll. That’s all. I also see Henry through a more protective lens. Maybe he always saw clearly the next five steps but was so overwhelmed he could barely speak it. All he could do was reach out to his Dear Martha and hope she would not kill the messenger.

In this house, for the song’s purposes, I am Henry and he is Martha.

Also, worth noting, for some weird reason, I remember being ten years old in Fort Towson, Oklahoma, and singing this song, imagining Martha and Henry living under water. All the way under water, like at the bottom of the ocean. In the blue-green dark. I get the symbolism now. Somehow, my little girl self knew.

One day I said to Handsome, hey babe let’s re-grout the upstairs bathroom. He said sure. I was probably ovulating, which bodes well for my powers of persuasion. That led to a full on shower stall redo in our master suite, which meant we needed to move our hygiene operations downstairs for a few days. This revealed some needed repair to that guest bath, and it seemed like a good time to also paint those walls and rearrange artwork and, sure, a new shower curtain and support bar and area rug. Also, man, we want a true piece of furniture in there, not rickety shelves, so let’s see what gorgeous sets we can find that would bring us some tables that look good with the leather couches. A month later, we have re-grouted the upstairs shower and do not recognize the formerly pink guest bath.

Similarly but much more dramatically, once upon a time something near our chimney was struck by lightning, which blah-blah-blah caused a serious water leak. It flooded our downstairs carpets and foam padded laminate flooring, inspiring us to rip it all up and live on concrete. Which we painted blue but did not seal. This caused a tidal wave (in keeping with the water theme) of interrelated projects, none of them small.

((walk through upon buying our farm, an unbelievable 16 years ago))

Then there was the time at the peak of summer heat and humidity when I needed one skinny little garden gate adjusted because it wasn’t shutting smoothly. Well, that turned into relocating a clothesline, reconfiguring the surrounding fences, eliminating one other wide gate, and, you know what? We need more concrete for parties.

New concrete means ripping up the decking, and that wood can be repurposed, so let’s sort it out into piles. Burn what is unusable. When the ashes are cool they go in the compost. But only once the compost bins have space. So empty those as soon as possible! And also make use of the contents, don’t waste it. Balance it all with green materials and manure, so it’s good for the gardens. Not pure ash. But if you add to the piles while the bachelors are watching, they will eat your okra so put up a protective rope or something. Quick.

And no, giving them a round bale of free choice hay will not, actually, keep them from breaking into the hay loft. So be ready to fix that gate soon.

Also, my sprinkler died (more with the water theme, in case you are keeping score).

Schedule some time for a pipe to burst in the attic (another score for the water gods). Because I secretly wanted the kitchen pantry a different color anyway, and this is an excellent time to repaint. But only after his stitches get removed from sitting on a power saw while making plumbing repairs. And, obviously, we can do all of this more easily once the pickup is working again, because we probably need something huge and unwieldy form Home Depot anyway. Or more hay. Or, something. It should work out just fine.

Babe, do we want goats?

Just fix it, Dear Henry, Dear Henry.
Just fix it, Dear Henry, Dear Henry fix it.

Whatever type of property you manage, I am confident you experience your own version of the hole in the bucket song, and I sincerely hope that most of the time you, together with your corresponding Martha or Henry, find ways to tackle it all. Peacefully.

Hang in there.
Please be kind to the messengers in your life.
Say no to goats.
XOXOXO

happy 28th birthday to my girl

You are twenty eight tomorrow. Twenty eight!

I remember your twenty first birthday. And before that, the day you first left for Colorado. I thought it would only be a few months, a seasonal internship.

Even earlier, the day you called me from Target. “I’m free,” you said. Your year of cross country. Your driver’s license and graduation. Your emergency appendectomy and volleyball games and love of horses and dogs and iguanas. Your Australian Outback birthday party. Your favorite pajamas and the way you loved to smell like vanilla bath products and how tireless you were in the pool. My little bronze fish. The summer you made a habitat for roly polys and wrote a care schedule that included “freedom time.” How precisely and imaginatively you played Pokemon and Zoo Tycoon. How fiercely protective you have always been of your little sister. Your first day of Kindergarten. Your first wobbly steps on that red carpet in our second apartment.

.

Of course I remember so vividly first seeing your delicate self and holding you and nursing you. That first night was perfect. You were perfect.

I remember the terrifying day I first learned I was pregnant and then the thrilling night a few months later when I had that vivid dream of your beautiful face, yet unseen. That dream was accurate; you were soon born looking exactly as it showed me, and it was only the beginning of vivid dreams about you. I have dreamt of you more than anyone in my life. Just a few weeks ago I had a very specific and encouraging dream about you that I have only told one person. I would love to tell you about it. The details have been shimmering in my body.

I also remember every separation, both small and brief like the first day of school or a difficult drop off  at day care or your Dad’s house. Certainly the longer, more traumatic goodbyes are etched in my memory.

I remember how it felt to hope and pray and worry all those years. I still feel these in cycles but have learned to worry less, to instead trust and imagine you as happy as possible.

I have so many beautiful memories of reuniting with you. I will forever be buoyed by the immense, overwhelming joy of seeing you happy and in your element.

On Trail Ridge Road, June 2015.

Many years ago I glanced at a belief system which holds that not only are human souls eternal, which means that each of us has always existed somewhere and could be born to anyone, at any time; but also that children choose their parents. I don’t know how to reconcile that.

a Christmas memory from during the Colorado years

Occasionally someone will ask me how long it has been since I have seen you, and I have to really think. Not because I don’t care or keep track, but because in a very literal sense you are always with me. I probably think about you more than anyone in my life.

You are the first person I pray for every day. You are the first person my thoughts find in a quiet moment. Alone with our animals all day long, I talk to them about you. I make sure that Dusty and Chanta especially hear your name plenty, for when you come home.

I still listen to music you shared with me in Colorado, mostly Skrillex while running. If I cook something you might like, your slim body and enormous brown eyes are with me in the kitchen. I imagine you getting all worked up about the ingredients and aroma but getting full after barely half a plate, ha!

grinning up a storm while campaigning for me
to drink some Gatorade rife with chia seeds.

Anything with a spiral shape belongs to you because you were once so passionate about the beauty of the Fibonacci Sequence.

When I hear anyone tell stories of Colorado, I think possessively, that is hers. You will always be Colorado to me. Snowball fights in April, under moonlight on Trail Ridge Road, hiking to Gem Lake and Angel Pass, through wildflowers and innumerable trees. Living with bears but not worrying because Bridget has it under control.  Remodeling your first cabin. It was tiny and perfect and strong, just like you.

I keep photos of you close as well as childhood toys and clothes. I use your patchwork twin quilt all the time but might need to stop, because it is threadbare now. I stopped buying gifts for you at holidays only because I think rationally of where you are in life now and realize I have no idea what you need anymore. A stack of gifts sits unopened in the Apartment closet. But I still have the urge to shower you with gifts every Christmas and every birthday. A basketful of treats at Easter. I would so truly love to watch movies with you and cook daal again and let you paint the Apartment for me this winter. A mural of your own imagining.

You occupy so much space in my heart, and have so constantly for more than twenty eight years, that the cold hard “fact” of not being in your life right now feels bizarre and unreal. So when people ask me, I fish for the answer and add up the months. I feel the nausea.  Sometimes shame too, because how could a mother survive being apart from her firstborn this long? Sometimes fear, both that you are better off without me and that you are not. Two awful possibilities. I always return to Love and Hope.

Is time elastic for you?

I believe firmly that it is, and that Love stretches and fills the space, the calendar, in weird ways I can barely comprehend, let alone explain.

Had someone told me when I first dreamed of your face that a time would come that I didn’t see you in the flesh for this long, I… Well I cannot say what I would have done, but it would have been incomprehensible to me. It still is, and yet.

You have proven your independence and your inner fire so many times, in ever more daring and beautiful ways. You have survived more pain, abuse, close calls, and disappointment than most people know, and I am sure there is much no one knows at all. But there is also a wealth of Joy and experiences we would all love to hear about.

Jocelyn, you are finally past so much. You are so loved, not just me but by a big family who misses you. You are so filled with talent and strength and beauty. This world was made infinitely better when you joined it. You have a terrifying life force for which I have always been grateful. Now more than ever.

I trust that you have made a beautiful and genuine home for yourself. I trust that if you are dating anyone, you feel like you can be yourself with them and are receiving all the love and respect in the world. You are so good at making friends and maintaining community. I trust that your friends appreciate that they have in their midst one of this world’s finest artists, most loyal companions, and smartest adventurers. I trust that you are doing work that brings you more money than you need so you can play and explore and enjoy your life. I trust that Bridget still loves to hike and that she still fetches rocks. I miss her too.

If your thoughts turn to me, to home, to anyone here, may they be warm and strong and feel good. A woman should always feel most at home with herself, of course, but I pray that you feel at home here again too, in your own time. May your memories and curiosities about Home assure you that you are safe here, that you are only loved, and that a lot has happened in the past few years to bring peace, healing, and understanding. Room for life to grow for everyone.

I hope someone is helping your birthday feel extra special this year. You deserve it.

I love you so much, baby.
Happy 28th birthday!
XOXOXO

another year, a thousand more love notes

Twenty two years! Handsome is off work for a nice stretch while we celebrate our anniversary, and we are hitting the reset button HARD. Last night, just two days deep into the appointed retreat, we both commented on how much better we already feel. It seems like we have been “off” for much longer, and that is a luscious feeling.

I have been reflecting on these many milestones in our life and on the pillars or qualities that seem to uphold them. Every marriage is unique. I love to look around at our friends and family and see the different ways people thrive. It’s beautiful. It all inspires and challenges me. So what follows is not meant as a how-to or should-be post. I am very aware that what works for us may spell disaster for another couple, ha!

One thing I see is that while some couples start with the machinery or on-paper compatibility of the two people then build up their chemistry (like an arranged marriage or people who meet on a compatibility app), others do exactly the opposite (maybe they start with how they feel around each other then see what they can do to survive). We are in the latter camp. We started with chemistry and have discovered and worked on the machinery of really good living along the way.

We kind of launched straight into the deep end with big, choppy waves. Now we are at such a smooth operating level that it almost feels like we planned it this way.

We absolutely did not, ha!

We have just loved each other on purpose and lived with intention as often as possible. For us, the chemistry has made it fun and possible. The machinery and structure have built up steadily over time, with lots and lots of mistakes and restarts along the way.

How wonderful that grace and time have been on our side. That Love has been here all along.

Again, I have no idea which approach is better, easier, longer lasting, more fun, more sensible, etc… I don’t even think that is answerable. Life seems to offer up infinite ways to be happy and fulfilled! I would never say to anyone or any couple that their approach is wrong. I will just say that for us, our approach has been rich with lessons and deeply textured memories. Our love story has been messy, chaotic, restful, growth oriented, fun, wild, sweet, hilarious, bitter, scary, and sweet again. As so many poems and love songs declare, I would not trade any of it because it all brought us to this moment.

One day soon I will share an experience we had last winter in our friend Dr. Kelly Roberts’ college classroom. We sat for her students so they could practice a therapy modality that kind of visually maps your family tree and shared history. It was fascinating. And a great way to reflect on how you are operating as a couple.

Another note on seeing how other couples thrive and build their happiness: I do heartily endorse surrounding your marriage with a variety of personalities and histories, but yes, the happier and livelier the better. We create environments for our relationships, you know? Our relationships breath in the air we give them, feed on the nutrients available. And gosh I want ours to be well fed. I want ours to be energized for longevity and vitality. Chosen friends do this. Solid family marriages do this. Whether brand new or well aged, all kinds of unions can lend to the environments that feed us. I think it’s wise to keep an eye on this ever shifting part of life.

When we renewed our vows two summers ago, we repeated the original promises then each made new ones. We did not orchestrate it ahead of time.

“The best is yet to come,” summer 2021…xoxo

Handsome promised to continue surprising me, which he certainly does all the time. He always has. Since the very beginning of our love story, he has surprised me with huge and momentary gifts. What’s interesting is that once he promised to do that, I started noticing more. For these past two years I have been paying better attention and can see the effort he makes to be full of surprises. It’s pretty magical, to see such a hard working, analytical, foundation-and-fortress kind of guy make such an effort to also be full of surprises. Of course, this necessarily means lots and lots and lots of jump scares and screams. But. I’ll take it.

My new promise at our twentieth vow renewal was to stop seeing him as my competition and to embrace him as my teammate, which has meant I have had to show as his teammate more. Back to fortifying the machinery, you know? Friends, let me tell you, this has been a steep climb for me, but also of course a source of serious growth and great joy. He is a hard act to follow, and our God given gifts are very different. Trying to match his every step and measuring myself against his unique contributions was keeping me in a state of frustration and staleness. It took a series of reminders and lessons about individuality for me to really get that we are different people and are meant to contribute differently to our shared life. Anyway. That is a work in progress but is going well.

Just a little encouragement, to take a deep breath and dive into whatever area of your relationship you feel you could improve upon. I will write more, soon, on the immense value of strength-based harmony. This internal adjustment on my part has yielded lots of peace and smoother waters for us. It also seems to afford him more space for surprises, which is cool.

These are good changes.

But lots is the same twenty two years in.

We still write secret grievances throughout the year and read them to each other on New Year’s Day. We still have simple, regular weekly meals and several daily rituals that ground us and tether us, no matter what is happening outside the farm. Though church is not part of life right now, we still try to pray together regularly, holding hands and giving thanks for blessings big and small. We still cling to promises about our family and the future, still remind each other what is true and lasting. We still check in with each other about where we are headed, knowing that mindset matters. We still fiercely protect our time off together then dive into hospitality as often as possible. We still allow each other time and space to do the things we enjoy individually, like gardening and book discussions and car collecting and costumes, though we also help each other and participate in each other’s hobbies plenty.

We have gotten much better at resolving little conflicts and about directly addressing big ones.

As Jessica and Alex approach their second wedding anniversary, we are more aware than ever of how we might be modeling marriage. At the same time, because life is amazing, my parents are approaching their fiftieth wedding anniversary, and we are humbled by the scope of life and survival and the depth of love available to people.

Okay, friends. If you have made it this far, gold star, ha! Thank you for reading. I could write all day and all night about the beauty and intricacies of life with this man. I am so grateful for the ongoing adventure, for the ever increasing sense of safety, and for all the surprises. I could write volumes about the benefits of showing up as his teammate, not his competition. Mostly, I am just so happy that we get to continue writing our own love story. I hope you are writing yours, too.

Happy anniversary, Handsome.
I love you always, now and forever.
XOXOXO

sir romulus, 2010-2023

I have delayed writing this because it is just so hard to accept as real. Early this past Friday morning, we unexpectedly lost a long time and much beloved farmily member, Sir Romulus, the King of Llamas.

Romulus, King of the Snow. Emperor of Ice. Purveyor of the Cold.

Just before daybreak on June 30, I walked to his pen to say good morning and offer breakfast to him and the cats. I found him already passed away, presumably in his sleep.

He had not been sick and was up to date on his wormer medication. He had a great appetite and was drinking lots of fresh water, and he had been as sociable and sweet as ever. The only irregularity I had noticed lately was that he was uninterested in the water sprinkler, even on the hottest afternoons. Llamas can handle almost any amount of cold, even ice, but they are susceptible to extreme heat; and Romulus in particular was opposed to being sheared. So I am worried that the heat was too much last week. I am also worried that he was heartbroken over losing Little Lady Marigold back in January. They were so bonded, after all, and we wondered then how much her death would affect him.

This unexpected loss has rocked us. I still can’t believe it.

We have known Romulus since before he came to live with us in 2011, and even during a short chapter when he lived again with Dean and Maribeth (during a season of particularly dangerous horse conflict) we visited him periodically and loved him entirely. We feel so lucky to have lived alongside this majestic creature for most of his life.

As a solitary male, Romulus was incredibly chill. He coexisted with the Bachelors beautifully.

But then he fell in love with a gorgeous white and caramel-colored llama named Yoko, who would come to be known as Seraphine, and they blessed our menagerie with gorgeous babies. Who remembers Dulcinea? She was her father’s spitting image, though neither of them was much for casual spitting, thank goodness. And of course, the indomitable Meh. Romulus produced this incredibly personable, scrappy little son who has spent the last nine years trying to impress and out-llama his dad.

Once Romulus became a family man, he tapped into his impressive protective nature. One day everything just flipped. He regularly tried to murder the horses if they grazed too close to his woman or their babies, and he even challenged the bison a few times for unknown trespasses. He would pin his ears back, bare his slobbery teeth, vocalize in a deep, guttural, grunting way, and charge forward, mostly on only two hind legs, his sharp front hooves flayed out like knives. It was, and this is no exaggeration, terrifying.

It was hard to be mad at him for these offenses, though, because he was so nobly engaging with perceived threats.

It also bears mentioning here that in the natural pecking order of powerful animals, Seraphine outranked her mate by plenty and had no problem putting him in his place.

Dulcie is annoyed at no longer being the darling of the farm. Seraphine is fussing with Romulus, who is easily cowed down by her. Meh is bright and chipper, oblivious to the conflict.

Despite his dangerous behavior toward the Bachelors, Romulus never once hurt a smaller animal or a person. In fact, he was serenely curious about children, puppies, chickens, and squirrels. Often while gardening I would notice him and Klaus watching squirrels like Wimbledon in the oak trees. And of course, he had the sweetest disposition toward LLM.

I love this photo of a first meeting with baby Laika, two summers ago.

“Hello, peasant.”

Because of his overall calm with us, we will never forget the day he almost accidentally tossed my husband. One day in the big barn, when Handsome had all the bachelors lined up for shots, he casually looped a lead rope around Rom’s shoulders, attempted to pierce the syringe needle into his massive neck, and experienced firsthand the explosive power of a full grown llama suddenly thrust upright onto his hind legs. Romulus yanked Handsome right up off the dirt floor, like a ragdoll into midair, one slack lead rope connecting them, and made his anti-vaccine wishes known in an instant.

That was the end of that.

Romulus was the very first animal who let me experience the sweet rewards of a long, slow acquaintance. The first few days he lived here, he had free range of the entire farm. He wandered anywhere he wanted and politely declined all attempts to touch him. He nibbled everything. He was quiet and studious and extremely stand offish.

I vividly remember the afternoon I took the photo below. Handsome was at work. I was alone at the farm, work caught up, doing very little except learning this new creature. He and I sat on the grass, about fifteen feet apart, just staring at each other. Staring and staring, Both of us sitting still with our legs crossed. He would tilt his enormous ears in twisty satellite directions, collecting data of his new surroundings, evaluating everything. I remember smiling or breathing in a new way and causing him to twitch, tense, and soften again.

Romulus could hold eye contact without blinking like it was his God given super power. Gradually I could scoot across the grass, just a few inches closer, every few minutes. That was not the day he let me touch him, but it was the day he stopped avoiding me.

Eventually, Romulus grew to love face petting and throat strokes, and of course he was never not hungry for graham crackers, chocolate chip cookies, etcetera. He had a special bond with Handsome and would come faithfully to his voice.

Unless he was holding a syringe.

I love that we never had to worry about Romulus hurting a guest. I love that so many people got to experience his strength and his gentleness.

Who remembers the llama soccer game with Rom, Seraphine, Dulcie, Meh, and all the twenty somethings who were visiting one day?

I will forever be grateful that just a few days before his passing, Romulus enjoyed lots of sweet visitors. Our big family was here for a reunion and anniversary party, and they showered him with attention and treats. Mellowed greatly in retirement, Rom was known as “the nice llama.” He always seemed content with just us over the years, but gosh he became beautifully social and thrived on face time even more than the horses.

We already miss seeing his elegant silhouette in the morning gloom. A few times since Friday, I thought I did see him. I miss scooping his sweet grain over the red gate and sometimes feeding him a little extra through an open cottage window. I miss how he could not resist a graham cracker or similar sweet treat. I miss his tip toe walking, his impossibly long, broomy eyelashes, and his eagle-like brow. I miss his shiny toe-talons and his dark brown, woolly fur. I miss the perfect white mask on his handsome face.

We chose to memorialize Romulus and Little Lady Marigold together.

One more heart felt thank you to Dean and Maribeth for entrusting him to us, and for so much advice and encouragement along the way. Romulus was a gift, a lesson, and a blessing in thousands of beautiful ways.

Goodbye Rom-Diddle,
our sweet Llama in the Middle,
XOXO