2 snippets of "here" 

Dusk

The house begins to darken, the sun slides low, switches are flipped to “on”, the wood stove is stoked and glowing.   I ask, like the little red hen, “Who will help me care for our creatures?”  Instead of a unified cry of “NOT I!”  I receive a sweet offer.   “I’ll come with you Mom,” says my oldest son, his big blue eyes so earnest.  

We dress in barn-gear, brace ourselves for the transition from home dweller to barn resident.  Cold air hitchhikes on a steady breeze jumping into the neck of my oldest son’s over-sized coat.  Whoo hoo!” He lets out.  His falsetto bubbles me over and I am giggling at his misfortune.  Me, dressed in the barn coat that we both love.  The one that seems to weigh 20 pounds, but wraps around and buttons up efficiently keeping all of the warmth nestled inside.  My boy is in his Dad’s coat fitting him like a bell and he the clapper-the exclamations fairly donging out of him.

Working alongside another is warmth tonight as we put the farm animals to bed.  The goats get hot water from the kitchen tap.  We carry 10 gallons in 2 buckets, trying not to slosh as we make our way out to the barnyard.   Willow, the aloof goat, sees us coming and immediately drinks when the buckets are set down.  She pushes her herd mates away with grunts and head butts claiming a bucket as her own.  Her lips purse goofily as she sucks the water in, the meniscus of the water floating down, down, down.  I wait, mesmerized, just to see how much she will take in, wondering what she would do if the bucket held Earl Grey tea.  Yes, I am going to make her tea soon.   Perhaps she and I can make it a regular routine, tea for two, a doe for tea?  Doe ray mi fa so la tea?

The chickens are already roosting, heads nodding.  I look for Tenacious, the white hen who begs for cat food each morning and evening. She has settled down for the night next to a tired old rooster.   The knot of worry releases.  The hawks have been active.  This is their time of year to attack the easy prey- our flock.
A few years ago, hawks took 8 in one dusk.  The next morning I found the carnage.  Eight of our youngest fowl were lying about the garden strewn and slumped, pecked deeply.  Two were still breathing-barely.  I picked them up so gently and lectured myself not to get hopes up.  They will surely die, I said.  I placed them under a heat lamp and gave them permission to die.  “You have been good roosters and it’s ok to go,” I whispered.  Every day, they refused to die.  Every day, I fed them watered-down yogurt from the blunt end of a syringe.  The injured roosters lived.  Crippled and determined, they make their own way daily.  If a being wants to live that badly, we allow it here, efficiency always losing out to some courageous soul. 

Ducks quack quietly in the corner a little like snores, a little like raspy whispers- a lullaby for certain. My son dumps the ducks' murky bowl, fills it with clean water, then feeds the eager barn cats while shooing away the chickens and the obese porch cat.  I shut all of the doors locking in the fowl and the goats for the night.   The sheeps’ water is topped off and we check the hay supply.  Spanky, my favorite sheep begs for grain.  “Not tonight, I call back.”  He stops begging immediately and walks into the lower barn joining the other sheep and putting himself to bed.  

We turn and face the barns.  “Everyone has food and water and the barn doors are shut,” I say quietly and really only to myself.  We turn towards the house and enjoy the cold air knowing that it is temporary, knowing that our comforts await.  We talk easily, walk slowly, feel the moonlight on our backs
gently pressing us home.

Tucked in.

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Unexpected lightness

We wake to snow

Still on the ground 

Snow!!!

Weightless powder fluffs feathery over boots

 My limbs obey the rhythm, the swoosh, the glide of cross country skiing. 

Right leg slide, left arm pole propel,

Left leg slide, right arm pole propel. 

Whoosh, thud, whoosh thud. 

Gravity is freed and it is flight!  

The cold wind slaps wintery insults,

 But the layers are shed in defiance

 so much heat emitted from the exuberant effort

Required  to stop only by legs rubberized and wiggly

Euphoria betrayed by a muscle’s reality

Whoosh, thud beating more slowly

Layers added

Winter’s embrace sharp, unforgiving

Skis detached, a metallic release

boots walking, foreign, clumsy

Still soul gliding...

Why Not?

Have you ever decided not to do something, but then, as if on “automatic,” the thing you are avoiding happens anyway?  For instance, you vow that you are not going to forget what you went all the way down the stairs to get, but you get there and some basement dwelling leprechaun has sucked all thoughts from your brain!  

I vowed, perhaps resolved, not to make a resolution this year.   “What’s the point?  Who needs more pressure to achieve?”   Not even 14 hours into the New Year, there it was, typed out and sent via text.   The resolution seemed to fumble from my fingers unplanned, an accident really.  Accidents have consequences.

“I resolve to be adventuresome.” 

One line, written on the first day.  “Adventuresome,” knocked around, aired out embedded fears, and shook me into the wind, the dust flying off.  Ah!  Fresh “Why not’s?”  replaced the chattering,  lint-filled doubts:  “You’re never going to finish. Your small contributions won’t help.  If you can’t fix it, then forget it.”

The first adventure began at 5:30 pm, only hours after the accidental resolution. Surprisingly, it seemed that the resolution had been conceived weeks earlier when a friend and I had challenged each other to spend the night at the warming shelter.  Our church was hosting.  Chaperones were needed.  We signed up.

At 5:00 pm, the commitment was heavy, water in my boots, slogging.  The warmth of our wood stove hissed, crackled, and whispered,“sssstay”. The lounging dogs, with worry-filled eyes shining wet, asked “You’re leaving us?”  My Carhart clad, rosy cheeked husband returned from hauling hot water to the goats then asked me softly, “When do you need to leave?” All of me wanted to remain there, in a warm house, with the people and creatures that are my purpose.  

The clock skipped ahead, procrastination had turned to urgency, my hands grabbed for last minute comforts, chapstick and tissues.  Our car accelerated through a green light.  “Adventure” blipped across the backs of my blinking eyelids.  I think I know who will be there….because I’ve watched TV.  Guilt crept in through the heat vents. Our large farmhouse, full refrigerator, and reliable vehicles accused. They, the ones in need, would dismiss me, see right into this hypocrite’s heart, see the divided country of my heart simultaneously aching to give everything away, yet grasping tightly to at all that was “mine.”  Doubts shaken by the thrill of adventure returned- static cling in this frigid air.

Leaving all baggage in the car, I arrived to see church friends preparing dinner.  We exchanged signs of belonging - hugs and earnest wishes for a happy new year.  I walked into the dining hall shaking off doubt and comfort to enter into this commitment.  Looking out across the tables, trying not stare, I realized that I couldn’t tell who was homeless.  Sure, there were more than a few missing teeth but that was hardly an occasion for notice in this small southern town.

Sitting near me was a woman. The lenses of her glasses were yellowed, and her unwashed grey and brown hair was pulled into a knot.  Her elbows rested on the tablecloth next to a shallow vase holding two tired flowers leftover from Sunday breakfast.   She commented that the flowers had seen better days, and peeled away the wrinkled bits, discarding them onto the tablecloth.  “Better,” I commented and extended my hand.  We smiled and exchanged names and a handshake.  She was Rose. 

Another woman joined us, and I assumed that this blonde, bright-eyed woman in a vibrant green sweater was a shelter coordinator.  She spoke boldly about who was supposed to be where and who was not coming.  We shook hands and started chatting.  Our conversation was interrupted by, “Lord, bless this food.  We pray for jobs (“Amen” escaped more than one mouth) and good health.  We thank you for a warm place to be tonight. In your Son’s precious name we pray. Amen.” 

The crowd was still, unmoving.  One of the kitchen staff encouraged the reluctant crowd.  “Go ahead. Eat!” she fairly shrieked.

Hungry men shuffled towards the food, all reluctant to be first.  These men, were they so used to being last?  Slowly, they piled turkey, mashed potatoes, green beans, dinner rolls, and baked apples onto their plates.

I wondered where all of the women were - so many men and only two women.  I encouraged Rose to eat.  She wanted me to go first, but I insisted that she should eat first.  The other woman, Vera, stated that we had to go before her, because she always ate last.  It was an awkward race, vying for last position.

The food was excellent.  Rose finished, then returned with a second helping, this time only mashed potatoes and gravy.  I asked her if potatoes were her favorite.  She said, “easier to eat,” and I realized that she was missing most, if not all, of her teeth.  She quipped, “I've never met a potato I didn't like!”  She smiled and closed her eyes. A cough escaped her, the tell-tale catch of phlegm, deep and aching. “Are you sick?”  I asked.  She said a cold “got her” last week and wouldn't let go.

I asked Vera how many women usually came to the shelter.  She said, “Well tonight it’s only Rose and I, unless Teresa shows up.”  Vera was homeless.  Initially, I was surprised, but as the night went on, there was a tattering in her speech, stories worn through with holes told in a faltering voice, and a smile that turned distant in the pauses.

Rose showed signs of wear as well.  Her intelligence was obvious.  By her own account, Rose’s life was full of responsibility and importance working with high ranking personnel.  She had many stories that would start clear then slide muddy.  Mid-sentence, she would stop as if she’d never begun.

Rose and Vera adjourned to our quarters for the night.  My friend Sara and I left the warmth to get our overnight provisions.  The outside air was unkind, slapping us both with gusts, inspiring us to move quickly back inside. 

The cots were lined up in the Ladies Parlor, the warmest room (occasionally hot-flash warm) in the church.  I was glad for it that night. Glad that those ladies would be too warm instead of too cold. Glad that that cold night would not steal into their reserves grasping.

Even before we arrived with our things, Rose had put a movie into the DVD player and turned up the volume.  Vera rifled through her belongings, got ready for bed, then laid on her bed and stared dreamily up at the ceiling.  My friend Sara and I chatted and attempted to include Vera.  Rose increased the TV’s volume, blocking us out.  We chatted more quietly in awkward whispers until finally, the movie was finished, and we turned the lights out.

The cots were rock-hard.  My limbs buzzed with the dull ache of nerve pain.  “They sleep like this every night,” I thought, “and I am younger than they are.”  At last, sleep visited me…. briefly. 

Haltingly and muffled, Rose stifled her cough.  She struggled quietly to be free of the phlegmy blockage, but finally got up and walked the cough out.  She lay down again and slept.  “Make her well,” I prayed.  Again and again, I slept, awoke, heard the struggle, and prayed mostly unintelligible words of healing for Rose. 

At 5:15 am Sara stood up and, relieved to give over the effort, so did I.  We left the two women sleeping, and went to the kitchen to help out with breakfast.  Speaking to the men’s chaperone, we compared tales of sleeplessness, and also assessed the needs of our charges.  We reached a consensus, Rose really needed medical care. Thankfully, when we spoke to Rose, she informed us that she had a doctor and Medicaid, and she agreed to make an appointment. 

Breakfast came to a close.  The warming shelter was locked up as the guests went on their way for the day.  Some shuffled to a bus that would drop them off in town, and some, like Vera and Rose, went to their own cars piled deeply with their belongings.  Vera would spend the day at a local church helping out with any job she could.  Rose was heading to the library and hopefully to the doctor.

All day Rose and Vera flashed through my thoughts.  All day, I voiced thanks, “Thank you for showers, and privacy, and choices, and commitments. “   “Thank you for dog hair, and dirty toilets, and bad hair days.”  I enjoyed the familiar sighs of our dogs as they followed me throughout the house.   I remembered that during dinner, Rose had noticed a dog pictured on the front of another person’s sweatshirt and had wistfully stated,   “I would very much like to have a dog again.”  Life without dogs was pure torture in my book.

My youngest son came into the kitchen where I was washing dishes enthusiastically and singing loudly.  Thankfulness was on overdrive, and I was just so happy for dirty dishes!  He looked at me sideways and reported in a reserved voice (one reserved for, “I think my Mom needs an intervention”), that he had guitar lessons at church that evening.  Immediately I thought of Rose and Vera.  I had a plan.

We drove to church, Hannah, our Springer Spaniel, regal in the front seat.  I smiled ear to ear with excitement at this one thing that I could do for Rose.  My son sat in the back seat wondering again about my level of sanity.

Hannah clopped ahead of me into the church. Wild eyed with adventure, she tugged hard on the leash.  She was 15 with the eagerness of a pup.  We found Rose eating at her table.  “I’m sorry to interrupt your meal,” I began, but Rose was already reaching out to Hannah, fluffing her loppy  brown ears.  Rose announced that Springer Spaniels had no mean bones in their bodies.  Hannah sat at her feet, happy for every kind touch, and proved that each and every bone in her body was indeed filled with love.

Rose coughed.  It was sharp and chunky.  Her cheeks were the pink of oxygen deprivation.   She saw the worried look on the faces at her table. “I have an appointment for Monday.  They couldn’t get me in.” reported Rose.  The whisper of “last in line” swirled through the dining hall.

Rose, another church member, and I discussed her health, brainstormed ideas, and finally agreed on Vick’s and cough drops as a temporary relief.

Hannah and I drove to the store in the snow.  The roads crunched thick and sticky.  The tires balled up and tossed clods of white in the spinning.  The dog and I both were excited by the evening. We beamed in the wintry weather and fishtailed with confidence.

Rose was still in her seat when I returned to her.  She smiled thankfully as I handed her the intended relief.  She laughed then coughed deeply when I told her that the jar of Vick’s might only last her 10 years.  A church member went to the kitchen and returned with a towel worn soft and gentle to use as a scarf to seal in the healing vapors.  I told Rose that I would be praying for her.  She said nothing.  Doubt welled up in me that either Rose didn’t trust my prayers, or God, or both.  I started to wonder whether the doubt only belonged to me.  Who was I  really trusting?

I drove home, entered a warm house, hugged a loving man, and two sweet sons.  Had this adventure of sorts, the shedding of fears, only shown me how privileged I was?  At the expense of the last in line, I got to see?   I thought of the Altoid’s commercial where a pompous man chanted loudly, “It’s great to be me, and even better not to be any of you!”  Was that how I felt?  I walked away from the warming shelter intensely thankful for all of the souls in my everyday care – from the crickets and spiders in the basement to the chickens, goats, ducks and sheep in the barn, the cats and dogs, my help-mate husband and almost-men children. 

What of Rose and Vera?  Had my thankfulness diminished their discomfort?  Had the small kindnesses made a difference to them? 

I slept that night in a safe, soft bed, next to my husband’s warm heart, always beating out kindness for me.  I sank perfectly into the sheets and slept quick-sand deep.  “Adventure” was still written on the backs of my eyelids, and I sighed slowly.  “Perhaps I will get the next one right?”

I awakened to a blanket of snow, and all the world was sacred, pure.   “Why nots?” filled me again.  If tiny fragile bits of crystal, seeded with the dirt of nature could one by one by one add up to this, then the small acts of kindness, the wild whirl of thankfulness, the floppy ears of a dog, and a sleepless night of prayer might add up to something bigger, warmer, hope-filled.   

Adventure.  

There was just so much to get right.