Lazy W Marie

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

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a harrowing week

Last Monday, late morning, I was in line at the grocery store when our neighbor Lisa texted me. She was just celebrating the beautiful sound of our new cows mooing. We chatted briefly about planning a visit for her granddaughter to meet them, I paid for my groceries, and I walked to my car. About a mile down the road, a vague anxiety bloomed all throughout my body, and it took me a moment to recognize why: Our cows were not given to much vocalizing. In the few weeks since these girls had lived at the Lazy W, Shelby mooed only a handful of times, and Frosty Rose even fewer times, and then only in squeaks. Shelby’s calf due date was that coming Saturday. I drove the remaining eight miles home well above the speed limit.

Sure enough, Shelby was tucked inside her cozy little cabin, mooing passionately and in intervals, her calf halfway out of her. A silvery membrane was still netted around his face, his pink tongue barely showing against his gums, two perfectly straight front legs raised up ahead of his entry to the world. I texted my husband first then called our neighbor Rex, who had already offered to help deliver the calf if she went into labor when he was home.

I knelt behind Shelby’s shoulders and petted her enormous head and fuzzy ears, stroked her face and belly and hips, kissed her all over between pushes. She craned backwards to accept the love, laying on my lap, and she was sweaty, just like a horse in summertime, despite the crisp temperatures outside.

With each natural urge to push, she bellowed and let her body flex and extend and follow the shape of her pain. Her baby slipped several more inches but then got hung up around his midsection. Rex arrived so quickly I thought he had teleported. He shoved his big hands into leather gloves and immediately knelt down, whispering with authority and urgency, “Marie we have got to pull this calf.” He took one skinny leg tenderly in his hands and worked to find purchase. Then he took the other. Gradually, we shared the task, pulling in unison and wiggling the baby firmly and gently, until all at once he was loose and Shelby heaved with relief. A great whoosh of pinkish clear liquid spilled onto the oak leaves and straw of her cabin floor, and Shelby was suddenly so still and quiet I checked her before I checked the baby. She was ok, just stunned and, I can only imagine, relieved. She looked directly into my eyes and just exhaled. Rex was already wiping down the calf, massaging him and checking his little body all over. He was red and white, just like his mama, with that precious angry-sweet cow face and four of the most perfect, narrow little hooves you have ever seen. Smooth edges and glowy white, like they were carved from ivory.

Our other neighbor, Jerry, walked up outside the fence just as Rex and I took the calf out to the sunshine to try and warm him up and revive him. “Jerry, we have a baby!” I still felt like it was good news.

“I know,” he said calmly, like an assurance, “Brandy called me.”

Jerry found his way through the vegetable garden and joined us. Shelby was alert but still laying down. He checked her to make sure all the placenta was vacated or removed.

This entire time, Rex laid his fatherly body across the small, cold calf, embracing him and using a towel to dry him off and try to stimulate breath and blood flow.

My husband arrived soon, as did Jerry’s girlfriend (it was a small miracle that Meh allowed her to traverse the middle field, unharmed). All of us weaved through each other in the little makeshift birthing center, hoping for signs of life with the calf and watching for signs of health for mama.

Time stood still, so I have no idea how long we were actually there, but eventually we all agreed the calf was stillborn. It was a surreal moment. For a few weeks, we had been watching for signs of labor so closely, and we had made so many changes to the paddock in anticipation of having a newborn so close to winter, just everything. All the disappointments and then all the immediate worry of, “What’s next?”

Jerry generously offered to remove the calf for Shelby’s benefit and bury him on his property. That was a hard choice but a quick one, not overthought. All of our wonderful helpers went home brokenhearted.

Shelby was up on her feet within about twenty minutes, greedily feasting on hay and fresh water. She stayed up the rest of that afternoon, and we watched to see that the bleeding did stop.

The next two days were crushing, just watching Shelby search for her baby. I had heard of this before, of mother cows in a dairy setting panicking when their babies are forcibly removed. We hadn’t done that, of course, but she had no way of understanding. At some point she caught sight of Klaus from about forty feet away and charged him with her head low and straight. He was safe on the other side of the fence, but it got his attention.

We were sad to lose the calf, but our overarching emotion that week was gratitude that Shelby was ok. So thankful that a difficult delivery didn’t appear to hurt her.

These hard days happened to run parallel to a separate heartbreaking drama on the farm. Crises so often come in threes. Meh, our nine and half year old llama, had recently tapped into an unprecedented depth of aggression towards the horses. His seasonal hormones seem to have been exacerbated by several circumstances outside of our control. He had been out of control and, honestly, scary at times. We no longer felt safe allowing dogs or visitors anywhere near him, and more and more we agreed that the horses, though they can defend themselves, should absolutely not have to.

So we were in that deep, dark belly of making the excruciating choice to rehome him before he truly hurt anyone. We found a livestock ranch in Texas where he could possibly live out his life in the midst of a full herd of llamas, male and female. We even told Jessica and Alex they might want to come say goodbye.

Then Thursday came.

Just two days before her official due date, Shelby had a perfectly normal morning. She came up for breakfast right at daybreak, accepted scruffins and cuddles, then dismissed both Klaus and Frosty Rose, as was her habit.

Around lunchtime I strolled outside to check on her and found her laying on her side, her head facing downhill. From the patio I could see her big, fuzzy red belly moving slowly with even breath, so I jumped over the red gate and ran to her. The dirt and oak leaves around her legs were all fanned out like a snow angel, signaling that she had been struggling to get up. She woke up readily, again looked me straight and deep in my eyes, and mooed in a pitch I had not heard before. It sounded like pleading.

I called my husband, skipping text, and he got home faster than I knew was possible. In the waiting minutes, Shelby accepted my hands and arms and love. I prayed hard and felt a sharp, nasty fear rise up. She was bleeding now, more than on the day she lost the calf, and her utters were full and (in my unprofessional opinion) pretty warm. No other obvious or outward signs like bloating or injury. Her eyes looked clear, just panicked.

I am hardly a veterinarian. I was struggling to assess her situation, and really all I could do when I spoke with helpers was describe what I was seeing. But it was obvious she was in trouble.

We called country vets and animal hospitals in Choctaw, Shawnee, Harrah, Lexington, and more. No one was available to come help us, but a few doctors managed to text and talk us through the ordeal over the phone. We conferred with ranching friends and colleagues and asked all our friends to pray. Thanks to these trickling conversations, we felt less alone and slightly less powerless to help her.

My husband was incredible. He always pounces into action, but this night he was called to tasks far beyond what we expected when we brought these girls here to live out their lives. He fought to hold her up as much as possible. And friends, even “mini” cows weigh several hundred pounds. He fought to locate her appropriate veins. He fought to discern shifting medical advice. And he fought full body cramps of his own, all of his muscles seizing up throughout the ordeal of supporting her weight while trying to be gentle.

We administered an antibiotic to start, still hoping we could find a vet. Then gradually, the consensus was that she could have something commonly referred to as Milk Fever, which is in short a calcium deficiency brought on by calving. This is treatable with a certain medication. One ninety minute high speed drive later, and a huge thank you to our friends at Tractor Supply Co, we had two bottles of the needed medication plus fresh needles and syringes. I learned how to fill syringes on the fly.

Thursday night was long and cold and gut wrenching. We worked in the dark, with the sad glow of patio lights that had just recently been strung across the cow paddock to celebrate the new baby.

The wind kicked leaves in spirals and had us pulling our jackets tight. As the hours passed, when Shelby did not respond to the medicine as we were told she should if it was simply milk fever, our hope drained away. We prayed and begged God and cried, and honestly it was pretty raw and ugly. She was supposed to live here, not die here.

We had fallen in love with her, plain and simple. And she had allowed us into her lovely gaze profoundly and by choice, like a person.

I think sometimes we make the mistake of loving our animals so much we think they are human. Even worse, sometimes we make the mistake of believing they are immortal, safe from death because of their immense beauty and goodness. When they do die, because all creatures die, we are wildly unprepared.

Early Friday morning, still in the gloomy purple before daybreak, my husband walked outside alone and came back inside shaking. She did not make it through the night.

I don’t know what more to share, but this next part is important.

Shelby was too big to safely bury here, so we contacted a local service. This is the same kind woman who helped when we lost Romulus, and she remembered Meh vividly.

I foraged a huge bouquet of dried hydrangeas, pine branches, cedar, and oak leaves to be buried with her. I sat with her a long time, until the woman arrived to take her. When she began her work, Meh lost all composure. We suspect he remembers her removing Romulus.

Meh laid over Shelby’s body and protected her, pawing at her, crying hard and whipping his head around. It was a screaming, wailing, purring noise that we had only ever heard once before. We had to ease him away, which was not easy because of his strength. The woman remarked about how many people do not believe animals grieve and how they would change their minds if they witnessed this.

Once Shelby was gone, Meh ran like a freight train after the horses, who were eating hay at the far side of the middle field. He started rearing and kicking and chest slamming them wildly. But then out of the blue he quieted himself and returned to us, wrapping his long fuzzy neck around our people necks. Mewing. We had been missing this tender side of him during his raging weeks. My husband and I looked at each other through tears and just shook our heads. It is all so confusing and difficult, and every little development makes it moreso. I think we silently agreed in that moment that maybe God was showing us a way to not give up on Meh.

It took us all of Friday and most of Saturday to stop crying. Working outside helped, as did playing with Klaus and his two buddies, Max and Sadie. Some sunshine, some normalcy, and some natural joy.

By Saturday night we dusted ourselves off and gathered enough energy to attend a much anticipated and nearby “Friendsgiving” party at our friends’ David and Keri’s. We almost skipped it but love this couple very much and also really did not want to surrender to sadness. It was a couple of hours of much needed laughter and silliness, and it was really truly good to be around a handful of solid gold people. It also yielded an un expected blessing.

The group that night was small, and we already knew everyone except one couple. As our conversation with them grew, we stumbled onto the fact that they are cattle ranchers in nearby Tecumseh. And they just happen to specialize in, would you even believe it, miniature Herefords. Just like Shelby and Frosty Rose. On top of that, they are in real life best friends with the couple who brought us these beautiful girls. We shared the basics of our harrowing week, being careful to not talk about it so much we stated crying again. It was helpful, at least, to talk to people who understood how things like that can happen so quickly, and how devastating it is.

The Universe has a way of leading us where we need to be. Hopefully we listen for whispers and watch for signs. Sometimes like a mother giving birth, allowing her body to follow the curving shape of pain, and sometimes like seasons and cycles of life and death and grief and joy which somehow manage to coexist beautifully. Often, we can’t perfectly explain our reasons, but we can sense that familiar pull or instinct.

I am glad we chose not to shrink away from that gathering with friends, no matter how fresh our grief was. I am glad we are listening now to God’s leading about Meh. I am grateful for all the other animals here, who continue to live their lives, needing us and loving us, allowing us to love them. I am also deeply thankful for our remaining cow’s health and personality. She runs and chases and jumps, just like Scarlett did before her frostbitten legs failed her. But that is a story for another day. The point is, there are other days coming and they can be filled with glittering, pulsing joy, if we keep going.

I really do not know what else to say. There are several big questions that still need answers. But I trust that we will find them together.

XOXOXO

fifty years xoxoxo

Tomorrow my parents reach their Golden Anniversary. What a milestone! What an increasingly rare and beautiful thing.

((from when they renewed their vows in the Church))

Every year, it seems our age difference, already relatively small, shrinks a little more. Their nearness both to retirement and now this incredible moment in marriage are overwhelming to me. Joyful. Inspiring. Most of all, it’s humbling, because I know these fifty years have not been easy. Life itself has been hard won for them, and health and peace and family have been an ongoing art project for them together. Constantly evolving. Constantly responding to changes on the outside, changes on the inside.

I remember interviewing them, together with my youngest brother, for the Pandemic Stories project. Mom shared that she was prepared to give Dad his favorite meal (liver and onions) in case they were not going to survive. A last meal, allow me stress, like they were on Death Row. She was unbelievably stoic about this. And Dad said that the overall shut down proved to him that everyone is “an essential worker.” He expounded that the whole world operates on the premise that everyone’s contribution matters in a crucial way. They shared these two insights so matter of factly, so devoid of humor or sheen, that I thought, maybe for the first time in my life, that Joe and Alison are actual mortal people with unique world views.

So weird. I have always thought they were just Mom and Dad.

((Mom, baby me, and Dad, circa 1974))
((Mom and Dad with Muddles, my replacement))

I try hard to look over these past fifty years to take an inventory of marital joys and sorrows and accomplishments, of highs and lows and favorite memories they might have, maybe also of worst fears they overcame together. I try, now knowing they are fully formed people, to see their individual evolution, their arcs. But even with my insider scoop I barely know their hearts. I only recently learned they are human, you see, so this is a new thought process.

Even with a limited perspective, there is so much available to admire. I see decades of efforts to be not just good neighbors but the best. Our house and back yard were exactly where the entire neighborhood wanted to be. Our front porch is where people felt safe and welcomed to stop by and talk or share a pizza if they were locked out. Mom has always gone out of her way to be friendly to everyone, even if they were not so friendly in return. We always had holiday decorations and pretty gardens and just general, simple hospitality.

I look back and see innumerable home improvements over time, most of which Dad did by himself or with help from one or two of his skilled brothers, everyone teaching themselves and each other as they went. I wish I could show you everything he has created over the years. Beautiful stuff. Same with Mom’s gardens. Lush and cheerful and ahead of her time with health and environmental concerns, just like Grandpa. And she grew everything on a shoestring.

((Thousands of prayers for these kids who are growing so fast…xoxo))
((Our Dad built this swing set for us when I was still in middle school. Now the little kids love it, and I bet they don’t even know that once I fell from and busted my head open and got stitches.))

I see all those holiday dinners and traditions that should have been impossible for so many reasons, but they are some of my happiest and most glittering memories. Easter baskets and new lacy dresses, hand dyed eggs, handmade Christmas stockings, evergreens from the Knights of Columbus tree lot, Advent candles and tray after tray of symbolic fruits and nuts. Private school for years. Music lessons and sports and so many clubs and proms and vehicles for five children. Good grief. And now grandkids! How they keep up with everyone is a mystery, but I do really like our group texts, ha!

When I reinterpret childhood memories from the perspective of a married woman, especially with my complicated story, I see that somehow Mom and Dad navigated in-law relationships like professional diplomats. Our house was like Switzerland, bright and neutral in the best ways. We fully loved every single person everywhere, never sensing hostility or competition or anything. They just made peace and warmth available to anyone who wanted to be part of it. And as a result, both sides of our big family mingled together very naturally. True, it might have helped that Mom and Dad essentially grew up together and therefore embraced each other’s families of origin and theirs, not his and hers. But still. People are people, and it is sometimes complicated. Just not with them. Mom and Dad both have ceaselessly shown us how to welcome everybody to the table, to the party, to the family. We have sure tried to follow this lead. We have not always done so perfectly; but the example stands, and the spirit inspires.

I look back and can easily count way more family traditions they helped us cultivate than couple traditions they held privately. Unless maybe they kept those to themselves? They did for a while have Christopher’s Steak House on their short list of date night destinations. It is a very real pleasure for me to now see them enjoying each other’s company so much. They have more time now, with fewer needy people circling their tired legs. Although something tells me they miss it a tiny bit?

((from their 40th anniversary party!!))

I will get this wrong, but by my estimation Mom and Dad have cared for about eight dogs through the years, plus at least three cats that I remember. That has to be wrong; it feels like it should be a much higher number. We had parakeets briefly. Also one ferret that nobody remembers except me. That’s a whole thing. Do not get me started.

In fifty years, as far as I know, Dad has only driven two trucks. The original yellow Chevy was practically a family member. An ill- fated frog once got stuck inside it, in the hollow vertical steel frame behind the seat. I still get a pang of nostalgia if I see a similar Chevy truck in the wild. It is so irreplaceable that at this moment I could not, not for a million dollars, describe to you what he currently drives. We will pull up to a family event and I’ll say, “I wonder if Dad’s here yet,” and my husband will look at me like I’m nuts and say, “That’s his truck. It is right there.” Then I shrug. It’s like my brain refuses to accept this new vehicle. Same for Mom. I still think she drives that tan-with-blue-velvet-interior passenger van with seven hundred bench seats. That van was primo for class field trips and even better for family road trips to Florida during which I could lure my little sister into using permanent marker for eyeliner.

Industry comes to mind. Reflecting on all the many jobs our parents have held over the years, I am awed at all the skills they have learned and humbled by their unrelenting work ethic. From offices to food service and retail, accounting, warehouses, lumber yards (when I was four I thought Dad owned 84 Lumber in Texas), corporate property management and much more, they have carved and polished, built and repaired, constantly improved the world just by showing up to work. This doesn’t even cover Village Art Lamps, the family business they built together with our grandparents. It sustained not just our young family but hundreds of others, for almost my entire childhood. It is still bizarre to me that the building on south Walker is gone, but those amazing memories are forever. Nobody on earth can outwork my Dad. Nobody is more gracious and flexible, more accommodating, that my Mom. They outdo each other constantly with humility and humor.

In fifty years there have been so many storms and shifting seasons. How they have stayed sane through five children’s overlapping life crises is amazing. How they braved our adolescent years when they were barely healed from their own is an even greater one. Now, with the original five plus our expansion teams spinning in so many various orbits around the world, they must wake up every day and just take a panicky inventory of where all the pieces of their hearts are scattered. I hope that is more often a good feeling than a sad one. They deserve, more than anyone I know, to feel as happy as possible for as long as possible.

I recently had a heart to heart with a dear friend and was able to say, “I think it is rare that I have a great Mom and Dad. Nobody else seems to like theirs.” This has always been true, but what is even truer now is that I have my parents at all. None of us has to look very far from where we sit to see fatherless or motherless children, old and young. To have both of our parents not just alive but healthy and engaged and very interested in all of our ever-changing worlds, what a blessing. Things could have been so different. And it can always change in one phone call, so I love to savor it.

((Mom and Dad with our entire family, missing only three of the grand kids. Baby Connor was asleep and my two girls were back in Oklahoma. ))
((reunion summer 2023, we are growing again!!))

No doubt, there have been times they put on a happy face for everyone else’s benefit. And no doubt they have at times felt disappointed and hurt; maybe feeling like the return on their lifetime investment has come up a little short. I for one have been excruciatingly hard on them from time to time, before I learned they are human people just like me. I try to be nicer now, because being human I hard and they are doing great.

They have suffered plain old loss, too, like anyone. My Dad was just 32 when he lost his Mom and 43 when he lost his Dad. I had no concept in those years, how young this was. How rudderless a person might feel. I just missed my grandparents. I didn’t even think about my Dad missing his parents. Mom was 59 when Grandpa Stubbs passed, but we lost Grandma much earlier. Mom was just 38, and they were very close. These are momentous life changes that I really have not considered until recently.

The following is not mine to say, not really, but I’ll risk it: Vividly knowing all four of my grandparents’ personalities and living so happily as Joe and Alison’s firstborn, I feel like Rex & Mary Jo and Jack & Louise would all be so proud of all the intense parenting and grand parenting their children have done in the years since they left. From where I stand, all of my grandparents’ wonderful values live on, and they live on, and they live on. Because of my parents.

This past summer at a preemptive anniversary party while the whole crew was in Oklahoma, we all played the Newlywed Game. Mom and Dad sat up front, each with a small white board. We all took turns firing a wide variety of questions at them then had lots of fun watching them compare their answers. Turns out they know each other pretty dang well. One exchange sticks out. Someone asked, “If money were no object, where would you go for your fiftieth anniversary?” Mom’s answer was, “An Alaskan cruise!” Dad, being Dad, literally wrote a list of about 9 places around the globe, ha! He said placidly, “You said money was no object.” We exploded in laughter, but now just typing this I feel like crying. We all have had so many opportunities to see the world, and they have happily forfeited most of theirs for us.

One of my most vivid hopes in life is that they soon reach a moment where they will not just retire comfortably but also pursue fully some of the cravings and impulses they have quieted for five decades. Their lives have been about everyone else for so long. I hope they can put themselves first more, and soon. We all do.

The older I get, the more I realize that I joke around the most when I am in pain, and being a lot like my Dad in other ways (casual compliment to myself there) I wonder if this is true for him, too. If so, then he has been in pain for most of his life but never said so outright. This familial language of teasing and taunting has made our character fabric a little more like good denim than silk, which is fine by me. Better, actually. But I do hope he is ok. And I am amazed by how many years he has managed to keep pushing through family emergencies and health scares and financial roller coasters and splintered relationships, all the time just speed walking, whistling, power napping, and throwing zingers.

Having a young Mom is wonderful, and as I mentioned, the older we both get, the closer in age we feel. But there is a downside. When I was in middle school I had a crush on a boy who lived down the street from us. He was several years older than me and had a crush on Mom, who by his estimation was not much older than him. She had Farrah Fawcett hair right when Farrah Fawcett hair was the coolest thing on the planet, and she was a beautiful, energetic young woman who made everyone feel welcome. So that was wildly annoying. I am pretty sure he gave up, got his braces removed, and joined the military. Other than that, having young parents is the best, from the child’s perspective.

It is obvious to me that they both chose this path consciously, not just once before I was born, but repeatedly since then, when Ego or Ambition or Exhaustion, or some raging social norm, might have veered them way off course, getting them to pursue other goals or lifestyles. Both Mom and Dad could have pursued and achieved anything else with their life, but we are all so lucky that they have chosen, week after week and year after year after year, to devote themselves to their marriage and their family. It all sure did grow. That cute little wedding in October of 1973 sure did firm up into an establishment.  An acorn into an oak tree.

Happy fiftieth wedding anniversary, Mom and Dad. We are all forever in your debt. And we love you so much!

XOXOXOXO

friday 5 at the farm, oct 20, 2023

Hooowwwww is it already Friday again? This week has been another one packed with joys, both big and small, just shouldered and layered together like sardines in a too small can, and I love it. But I am stunned by the passage of time. Again.

How about a quick Friday 5 post to remind our future selves that yes, life is full and beautiful even when it races past at lightspeed? Okay.

CONNECTION: We have been fortunate to spend lots Of quality time with loved ones lately. Last Friday (I know that is technically last week, but I have not documented this joy yet) I drove to the city and savored a three hour coffee date with Kellie. We had not had any appreciable time alone in probably a year, and I missed her terribly. It was a soul refresher! We also had a glorious, casual, festive weekend with our dear friends Rex and Cathy, hip-hoppin around a local fall festival and then spending an afternoon carving jack o’lanterns and eating chili by the bonfire. On Monday, I had a wonderful visit with my Aunt Marion, who I have not written much about here but who has been central to my formation. She is at a stage in life when I appreciate every hour with her and regret the ones I have avoided. The next night, Mom and I met at Oklahoma Christian University in Edmond to listen to the author of Killers of the Flower Moon. That evening has been soaking into my bones every waking minute since. So fascinating! Wednesday was my sweet Dad’s birthday, and the whole local gang descended onto one poor waitress’ table in Midwest City to celebrate. I took a batch of triple chocolate cupcakes and sparkling “66” candles, and we all had a great time. I sure hope he felt loved. Today we had surprise guests, Mickey and his new lady friend, and my running friend Jeff! This weekend we have a few more easy social plans, and our tanks will be full to overflowing. I really value packing in easy but meaningful connections like this before the holidays, before the weather turns, before chaos threatens to rush things even more.

ANIMALS: The Farm-ily is doing well. The chickens are cooped up right now, partly to give my fall seedlings a chance to establish, and partly because of recent reports of the Avian Flu. Chanta had one half day of diarrhea, but it resolved quickly, thank goodness. I hope it was as simple as eating a bit of mold or mushrooms. He is great now. Meh has been a cuddle bug this week, and Dusty thinks that every time he sees me walk outside I most likely have carrots in my pockets. We owe this development to Cathy, who got the horses hooked on carrots while they farm sat for us in September (hitherto to their treats were mostly peppermints and apples). All three of the bachelors are getting that early autumn fuzz now, and it’s beyond soft. It’s sweater weather for them too! Klaus is on a personal mission to either befriend or exterminate two particular squirrels who jet back and forth across the meditation path all day. It consumes all of his available physical stamina as well as most of his waking thoughts, I am pretty sure. An armadillo is dramatically renovating three lawns for us, no charge. Very generous. We do have a big, exciting Farm-ily announcement to make soon, but I am going to try and hold it in for a while. This will be a challenge for me.

DOMESTICITY & THOUGHTS: I spent some time in the Apartment this week, editing furniture and collections, squaring up my sewing supplies for winter projects, and generally cleaning and reordering things. I have moved my writing desk up here, too, which is both smart and luxurious. It is easier to stay focused on writing with a dedicated spot that keeps me from seeing half a million other tasks at arm’s length, or hearing the tv. We are decorated nice and spooky for Halloween and are already excited for Thanksgiving and Christmas. The whole family is going to be together again! Twice in one year, and I am so PUMPED!! My mind is buzzing, but in a calm and pleasant way. I could sit here and type out one blessing or miracle or answer to prayer and be here forever. You might not believe it all. The flow of goodness in our life right now, really always but maybe we are sometimes sloe to acknowledge it? is staggering. This flow of Love is a strong, nourishing, safe river of cold, mineral rich water that we need and love and treasure. I have been practicing a few mental exercises that keep me in the conduit frame of mind, so that I can receive and then share the goodness over and over again, letting it flow freely through me, without feeling the need to hoard any of it or reject it or let it leak out before my thirst is quenched. If this is interesting to you, message me and we will talk!

HEALTH: News on the health front here is great. Handsome’s stitches came out some time ago, and his wound is fully healed. We continue to be actively thankful for this. because that bizarre freak accident could have been life altering. Or life ending. Not to be dramatic; it’s just true. He also has been taking some chest pains seriously and sought more aggressive attention from his cardiologist. We are extremely happy to report that his physical self is thriving and safe. His mental load and overall stress levels are beyond the scope, though, so that is as serious as if we had received a scary medical report. As for me, all I can say is that a couple of days ago while running, I tripped over literally nothing and fell forward in a full speed, momentum-driven, cartwheel kind of way, straight to the sidewalk. I was so embarrassed, that I just laid there for a few seconds, hoping the ladies walking up to me would just leave me for dead and pretend they saw nothing. One hip bone, one elbow, and both knees and both hands were scraped up and bloody, and my left hand was bruised. I am thankful it was not worse, and I would like to give a shout out to the older gentlemen who witnessed my actual fall form grace, continued to speed walk past me, and called out, “SOMETIMES YOU GOTTA BLEED!” Thank you sir. Thank you indeed.

GARDENS: The farm gardens are still beautiful. Summer treasures are exhausted and changing but still producing too, which blows my mind. Tomatoes, peppers and fragrant herbs are the big show offs right now, but soon abut twenty brassica plants and several patches of salad greens will take center stage. I do not have the heart to tear out a single thing, not even the blackening Tithonia or zinnias with powdery mildew. I relish the crispy sepia shades, and I am happy to just keep things hydrated and delay the culling. We are still Grand Central Station for pollinators, anyway, so why rob them these final feasts? I have planted a few beds with fall treasures and swapped out the front door and kitchen door planters a little bit. Nothing too crazy, just small adjustments for the barely different weather and my shifting moods. I am in the market for more asparagus, two apple trees, more spring bulbs, and more wildflower seeds.

Okay friends, I hope your week was also packed with a variety of joys like sardines in a too small can. I hope you are approaching your weekend with full hearts and tired bodies and enough space for a couple of adventures, work worth doing well, and all the pleasures life can afford you. It is okay to be happy, even in the midst of tragedy. It is okay to enjoy your life. It is okay to choose to believe that the best is yet to come.

Be happy on purpose.
XOXOXO

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