Lazy W Marie

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

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

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

fathers day 2023

For a man whose nature demands that he take action and responsibility for every problem that enters his periphery, for a man who sees the world’s threats and pitfalls a split second before he sees its beauty, fatherhood is a natural fit. He is protective to a fault, and he is the most vicious troubleshooter you will meet. Anyone who lives under the wings of his protective reach is safe and well provided for.

I look at the examples of fatherhood in his life and see strength, a love of family and tradition, an immovable sense of responsibility, and passionate streaks. He exudes all these qualities and more.

I also see severe exhaustion, dutifulness that can lead to martyrdom, and maybe disappointment. He has experienced the richest gifts fatherhood can offer as well as some of the bitterest hurts. I worry about this. I already see these shadows casting long and dark in his legacy.

Life is like this, the brackish water always flowing. Sweet and bitter, mixed together, and every day we do our best to side with hope, live with Love, and choose joy.

He is completely trustworthy. He is perfectly reliable, able to foresee solutions to complex crises, able to maximize resources, and willing to take the back seat. Over and over again.

Since he agreed to take on the role of stepfather more than two decades ago, he accepted never being in the spotlight but always being the foundation, the back stop, the pillar.

He places a high price on fun and has over the years tried to carve out family adventures and daily silliness to lighten the heaviness of routine life. He has a desire to make dreams come true if possible, and he is painfully aware of how quickly time slips through our grasp. Sometimes it breaks my heart to watch him fight against the elements. It makes me want to protect him, for all the protecting he does.

His paternal instincts reach far beyond our home. Animals are always the first to enjoy his gifts. Then children in need. Children of friends. Employees and their children. Strangers. If someone crosses his path and activates his sense of guardianship, then nothing can stop him. I love this. I love that he is fulfilled by meeting the most fundamental needs in others.

((scarlett resting near the earliest daffodils))

I hope that in time his heart heals from these last several years’ shocks and injuries. I hope he begins to see his private fatherly investments yielding beauty and growth and absolute joy. I know he misses his dad. I know he misses Jocelyn. I know he loves every minute he gets with Jessica but wants something more. I know he wonders about other family relationships but keeps a light touch. I did not expect fatherhood at this stage in life to be so fraught with stormy emotions. But gosh it is. Fatherhood bears the weight of so much in this world. And it is embattled. Challenged. Watered down. Our best men are asked to do more and more with less and less acknowledgment and support.

Happy Father’s Day to the man who has more than earned celebration. May your resources be refilled. May your hope be renewed. May your own dreams come into focus and then come true. I love you always now and forever.

God knows everything
XOXOXO

friday 5 at the farm, life lately

  1. Near Miss: Yesterday the weather forecast called for widespread, destructive storms all across Oklahoma. We expected thunder and lightning, flooding rain, and, I kid your not, hail the size of DVDs. That was a new one. I messaged Jessica mid-afternoon to remind her to park her car beneath their carport and to surrender her garden. As big and exposed as her vegetable garden is, there would not be much she could do to protect it. I gave her, “We’re all in the same boat,” kind of assurances as I gulped against worry for my own gardens. Her calm response shocked me. She recounted the last hail storm and the minimal damage they sustained then, and she described her voluptuous, unruly cucurbit vines, then said, “Honestly? Those pumpkins need to be put in their place anyway.” I died laughing. I am dead as I write this. The storm fell apart and neither of our gardens were pummeled. Her unruly pumpkin vines still rule the day. Cheers to wild Oklahoma weather, wild pumpkin vines, and even wilder daughters.
  2. Our Dance Card is Full: Handsome is working from home today while I wrap up a solid farm week. Then we will throw ourselves into party mode. Tonight we are hosting about a dozen friends for a little summertime kickoff. Saturday we will take the Batmobile to Edmond for a Touch- a-Truck event. And Sunday we will convene at Mom and Dad’s with local family for Father’s Day. Next weekend all of my siblings will be in the same city for a few days, and we have some big fun planned for that rare occasion! And summertime in general promises lots of cookouts, swim parties, outdoor movies, and adventures.
  3. Farm Improvements: We are so happy with how some house renovations went this spring, and we are now turning our imaginations and resources toward the south deck and the chicken coop, separately. While it may happen in stages, we hope to dismantle the warped wooden boardwalk near the herb garden and the decking around the pool. We want to replace it with concrete patio, sidewalks, etc. The vision is connect the kitchen door all the way to the bonfire area with concrete and rock, then to partly surround the pool too. We might in the near future sink the pool a few feet underground and replace the liner. On the other side of the farm, the chicken coop will soon get a power washing, some fresh nesting boxes, and maybe a coat of paint. That project is much smaller but perhaps more meaningful. I crave to let the flock free range again, but I shudder at the thought of what they could to my gardens. Light a candle or seven hundred for me.
  4. Garden Update: Bonkers. Everything is bonkers. I have a big metal trough full of salmon colored daylilies blooming and sunflowers about to bloom, also in that trough. Downhill, basil is growing thick and low like a pesto carpet. Tomatoes, peppers, squash and cucumbers, well, according to Jessica they need to be in their place. Salad greens absolutely refuse to stop. Nothing has bolted yet, thanks to this luxurious June weather. Potatoes were okay, and I managed to grow a basketful of onions, all of which get donated because we are not onion eaters. I am happier than ever with the shade garden. Perennials are really filling in this year, and I made decent choices for annual color. The Mural Garden at the top of our driveway is where I am growing my version of a Four Sisters combo (four, not three, because we have four sisters in our family), and maybe soon I will grab some photos of that. It is so lush and colorful. Filled with both food and flowers. Honorable mention to the Color Wheel garden, friends, because it has kept me on my toes. What a fun experiment!
  5. Reading Lately: I have a proper book review brewing, but please make time in your life for a novel called The Midnight Library. Also, are you subscribed to Joe Jacobi’s newsletter in Medium? He has fantastic daily journal prompts.

Happy Friday, friends, and happy Father’s Day weekend! However you are able to mark the occasion, I hope your days are filled with abundant Love and that you make some good memories.

One more thing, thank you so much for your kind comments and messages about my first set of people sketches! I am blown away by the richness of personalities in the world (in my life!) and will continue to try and capture them. I wonder if people want to be named or tagged publicly when they are the subject? Please vote.

Carpe this Diem
xoxo

sketches of people I admire, part 1

There is a woman who runs marathons and hikes fourteeners and lifts heavy weights, just because she likes it. She is a doe eyed vision of classic feminine beauty who clothes herself in artful tattoos and feasts on decadent food. She buys birthday cakes at grocery store bakeries for no reason, grows tulips by the hundreds, and plants native trees between boulders on purpose. She is devastatingly smart. Retired at a young age from the Air Force, she now works for a company that builds and maintains space stations. She raised her very own woman child who is blazing her own trails in life. This woman is a world traveler and book worm and a self taught carpenter. She is married to the love of her life and secretly has Frida Kahlo as the patron saint of her home office.

A man writes his musings and observations of life and family and community from his deep woods home. He is a hunter and musician and friend to everyone. He once had an almost human beagle whose death broke our hearts. After a decades-long career in the production and sale of electricity, he uses his unmatched gifts of storytelling and insight to lure his audience, connect them to broader scenes and overlapping ideas, and then drill them snugly to his own reality with details of his daily life. We all feel like we belong on his Arkansas mountaintop with him and his bride.

A younger man roams our small town, sometimes on foot and sometimes on his bicycle, occasionally with his aging service dog. She is plump and shimmery, with a silver-gold velveteen coat, cloudy eyes, and a pink harness. She is largely uninterested, or maybe too tired, to meet strangers. But her boy makes up for this. He knows everyone, and everyone knows him. He waves with his entire arm and shoulder, twisting at the waist as he does. He has huge blue eyes and an electrifying, joyful smile that is easily seen from a hundred yards away. He wanders and explores all year long regardless of how stifling hot or frigid cold the weather. His smile is unmistakable even from within his parka and insulated hunter’s cap. Seeing him sometimes puts me in the mood for a family reunion. Sometimes it makes me cry.

A woman floats gently in my imagination and lives concretely in my husband’s world. She is terrifyingly smart with a brilliant, crisp intellect, and she is an insightful writer and scrupulous editor. She is too accomplished for her young age and is ethereally beautiful. She proves, year after year, that motherhood can extend to our little brothers and our grown nephews and even, in the way that life is circular and treacherous, to our fathers. She could be my sister or my friend if we all had more time. She represents so many ways I once thought I could be or become. She has no idea how much I once feared her or how much I now admire and appreciate her.

Once upon a time there was a man who spent his youth enforcing the law, solving vice crimes, and running with a motorcycle gang in order to save young girls from being trafficked. He was an avid house remodeler, a craftsman and gardener long before everyone took those ideas from television. He raised a young family, lost his marriage, and spent that long middle chapter of life on a series of beautiful, tragic romances. He was a first responder at the Oklahoma City Bombing, a tragedy which fully altered the trajectory of his life and mental health. He retreated. Became almost a hermit. Healed a little, enough to reopen his life to old friends and new lovers. He immersed himself in Native American culture. In need of rescuing himself, he stayed in touch with two of the children he had pulled from the rubble of the Murrah building, now grown, perhaps more his than his own children. He bought a herd of bison and repaired fencing as a form of meditation. He applied his considerable talents to renovating his beautiful, private retreat. This man, having already lived twenty different lives of his own and filled with the wisdom from all those mistakes and experiences, showed us as newlyweds how life could be for us, too. After a long stretch, he died alone but within his paradise. He is forever in the fabric of our family’s collective memory, a much loved and unforgettable personality.