Old Friends

Old Friends

GRAYCE

Each morning I see grace.  The kids named the cat Grace, really Grayce. 

It's comforting to know that grace is on our farm on this frigid day when I come out too late and the roosters are complaining. There is Grayce circling the corner of the barn rubbing out her desires like furry Morse code.  "Feed me," she demands.  

That grace would be a color, I wonder.  It is fitting, the color gray. We certainly wouldn't need grace in a black and white world.  Grace in the muddy mixes where right and wrong, wise and unwise are all so mingled like hairs, matted, now that's where grace lives.

TIGER

I feed Grayce and Tiger, our faithful mousers.  They are the "barn cats," part wild, part pet.  Really they are only pets for the 5 minute meals in the morning, and then again, for 5 minutes at dusk.  These are the moments I am forced to be still.  If someone doesn't stand here guarding them as they eat, a chicken, or rooster will flap and peck and demand cat food , chasing off the                                                                    skittish scaredy cats.

So I stand guard, a little impatiently, and tidy up the perimeter that I guard, smooth out the hay, look for pretty feathers, and shiny things- yes, too much time spent with chickens!   Then a breeze, and I smell chicken, oil really, the smell of injury and discontent.  Hmm, the dogs haven't chased the flock this morning, but I wonder what might have gotten into the holey barn last night.  The cats finish, finally, and skitter out like the wild creatures they are.

I follow the oily scent over dusty half-walls, under hay mangers, through piled up feed sacks, and finally see him propped up, claws curled in the dark corner of the barn.  Oh my. You are not long for this life, I think, but tell him instead, "You're going to be just fine.  Let's warm you up old man. Let's find the sunshine Longbeak.  You are going to feel better soon."

I didn't plan to spend the morning with a rooster, didn't think I'd be sitting with him while he suffered and shivered, didn't suppose that I would get to see what I saw. The crooked neck rooster choosing to preen Longbeak’s feathers gently as he lay shivering on my lap, no pecking his eyes out, only

lovingly preening him. This affection shortly after I admonished the relatively healthy rooster, "It was not that long ago that you lay here like this on the edge of death. Remember how you suffered?  Don't you dare peck at him." The tenderness between friends, old friends, reflected in chickens.  How is this?  Oh, I cannot ignore this glimpse, pretend it didn’t happen, suppose that my flock is not connected more deeply than I imagined.

Our social Mr. Crooked Neck

 I cared for Crooked Neck too, warm water, syringes of yogurt fed drop by drop into his unwilling beak. Yet, he refused to die.  Now here is Longbeak on the edge, and so much older.  Just let go, I think.  Move on and stop the madness.  He had struggled with a non-compliant crooked beak that grew longer than it should, and the use of only one eye.  As I was lobbying for death and thinking of all of the liabilities, what was Crooked Neck saying to him?

Some mornings, before this injury and after the weather turned bitter, Longbeak would search me out once the flock had run roadrunner style to the bushes to scrounge up grub. He would walk as if on his tip toes towards me politely asking, "Sorry to bother you, but I'm starving. Spare some cat food? " I would fill cupped hands and offer it to his good eye. He pecked gingerly as if afraid to insult me with his greed. A gentle soul, patient and unassuming. Yes, all this in a rooster.

Poor Frozen Boy

We call him Longbeak which makes us all laugh since a friend pointed out that it sounded like a pirate name. This name funnier still, when you figure in the one eye. Wonder if he'd keep a patch on? He already looked like he was wearing a puffy white shirt. 

Poor, sweet creature, his wattles frozen. They hang purple-black and swollen.  The once crimson and delicate wattles now torn like tissue paper and weighted like water balloons.  I rub salve on every surface and finally leave him in a spare wire cage underneath a heat lamp.  He can barely stand and it seems the cold had damaged his equilibrium as well.  I walk away not hoping for life, but instead a merciful death.

Why can’t I extend mercy?  Is this the time to end his suffering and perform the tailpipe maneuver?  The tailpipe maneuver is when you place a near death creature in a feed sack, bind the end of the feed sack to the tailpipe of your car and run the engine for about 5 minutes.  They go to sleep.  There is no neck wringing or room for missed gunshots, there is simply sleep for a soul that just cannot suffer another minute.  And why not mercy now for Longbeak?  He is at least 8 years old.  We raised him from a chick.  He has survived and survived.  Why not help him to a peace that he                                                                                                 deserves?  

I can’t answer that, except that today is a day try to save and today is not a day to count losses.  Sometimes, you feel deep in your gut that you just have to try.  Sometimes there is frozen black stuff in the muddy and matted, and in your teasing it out you just hope that grace wins…and you really hope that you will know what it looks like when you see it.

The above snippet was written several weeks ago.  Today this is Longbeak.

Our boy Longbeak is a survivor!   He goes to bed each night near the heat lamp (his choice).  He still begs politely for cat food, and once in a while he allows me to pick him up and stroke his feathers- as long as none of the other roosters are watching of course.  He continues to hang out with his friend Crooked Neck.

Not That You Are Asking For My Advice....

Not that you are asking for my advice…

On a routine basis someone will say to me.  “I’ve always want to farm-to dig deep into fertile soil-to grow things.”  I could just break into song, a Dixie Chick classic.  ”I wanna touch the earth, wanna break it in my hands, wanna grow something wild and unruly.  Cowboy ta-aa-ake me away.”  

On days like today-cold, clean, grace-filled days where the dust caked cob webs look like planned art and the barn dust itself glitters gold in the sun-shot crystal air, the beauty exceeds the losses.  These days are “to the brim,” hope-filled! 

The brain cells fairly pop with anticipation. Maybe in the Spring I’ll get a few more sheep, and maybe I’ll try to breed the goats AGAIN just to prove to myself that I believe in miracles.  Perhaps if I change the goats’ names to Elizabeth and Sarah, God will bless them in their old age with kids.  Maybe a few more chickens and ducks.  A burro would be fun right?  I need one just so I can say “ass.”  My kids are cautioned against swearing on this farm, but there is something cleansing about hauling off and calling a stubborn creature an ass! 

“More,” and “new,” look beautiful on a day like this when nobody is sick, or maimed, or looking puny.  But, I know fully that there are too many snapshots of the lost pinned onto this heart.  Tragedy is a constant on this parcel of dirt.  I can’t walk 50 paces without recalling which animal is buried where, or thinking. “Here is where I held that sweet hen, Timon, who died in my arms, or here is where the rusty feathered wing of my favorite rooster, Squarky, lay, or there is where all of the cows lined up to mourn when the baby calf, Mo-Mo, died.

If you were asking for my advice, I might tell you to “Stick with plants. Be happy with their wild and unruly.  Be happy that you don’t have to force yourself to think happy thoughts every time you look into a cow’s face just to keep yourself from bursting into sobs.”   But, if you only contented yourself with plants, you might miss out.

You would never hear the rooster’s low coo and watch his chivalry as he brings choice insects to the hens, never eating first, always giving the hens the first fruits, the juiciest grubs.  You wouldn't notice the two roosters who wrapped their necks together tenderly for warmth just this morning.  You wouldn't feel yourself giggle at the goats running and jumping on an unseasonably warm day looking like Santa’s reindeer attempting flight.  And you wouldn't see those same goats pirouetting to eat the too-tall privet hedge carving it into a tunnel.   You wouldn’t hear the emphatic glee in the duck’s quacks on the cold days-the dreary puddle filled days.  You know, those days where you want to live in sweat pants, curl up in a blanket, and not face the bleak.  Those are the days that ducks live for!  I find myself eager to go out on those days now, just to hear their enthusiasm!  If you stayed safe, only raised greens and flowers and fruit, you would miss it!

So if indeed you are asking for my advice- DO IT!  Buy the farm. Dig in the dirt until your nails won’t come clean again. Raise some chickens.  Name all of the animals.  Rejoice in the first egg and also in the last breath.  Know that we are connected to what we eat and invariable whom we eat (Clucky, or Bessie, or Foghorn Leghorn).  In fact, we are connected by the souls to the creatures in our care. 

If you choose to live risky, then know that the losses will come, and the money will utterly fly from your hands like a game of 52 pick up.  However, the  joys, the joys will change you, soften you, harden you, mold you into a wrinkled and creased being wise to life's unfolding. Wise to behold the sparkle in the hatching of a new life all downy and tissue covered and wise to embrace also the dull marrow-aching departure of a friend. The gains? The losses? No spreadsheet can contain the truth-the truth that being close to the dirt, caring for creatures, succeeding, and even suffering makes you feel whole. 

  

“Cowboy ta-aa-ke me away.  Fly this girl as high as you can into the wild blue.  Set me free-ee.  Oh, I pray.  Closer to Heaven above, and closer to you.” –Dixie Chicks

 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. 

I Can't Believe It's Not Butter

Sorting through papers and notebooks, I found this would-be Christmas Letter-one of 8 that I never sent.  Why weren’t they sent?  Well, it’s complicated, but this one made me smile.  

Christmas letters typically do not contain the ugly, the brokenness of a year, the trials, and failures.  They contain the shiny, the beautiful, and sometimes the nauseatingly paraphrased lives of our loved ones, seemingly with no flaws, and no cobwebs in the corners.  We have cobwebs here, and sometimes more.

Unsent letter #6, 12/26/11

I really thought that this year we’d be on time.  OK, I hoped we would at least get them out, the cards.  I fantasized about learning to scan or download pictures in “the Letter.” I am writing low-tech on a notepad given as a stocking stuffer to my boys last year, the chaff of Christmas past.

The Holiday season began with cleaning the hutch.  

The kitchen has been under deconstruction since last year.  Two thirds of the floor is torn up.  The cupboards have been stripped and repainted.  A half wall seemingly attached to the very foundation of our home was sledge-hammered out by my burly and determined hubby.  

We hired an electrician and a plumber and moved, then replaced the (original to the house) broken electric stove with a new one with gas burners--ooh aah.  We also installed a plank ceiling to hide and hold up the cracking plaster that had started to lose its battle with gravity.

Dust is everywhere, hence the hutch cleaning.

The silver was dingy, the crystal smudgy, the candle sticks tilted awkwardly- perhaps from the earthquake in August, or perhaps from burly guy and I pounding and scraping and cursing at the floor.  

The somewhat brittle 50 year old linoleum 4 inch tiles pried off in pieces to expose a 1/8 inch layer of tar which had to be melted with a heat gun, and then scraped off quickly while still hot.  I am convinced we are headed toward cancer due to the volatilized toxins from the tar.  

Next is a layer of glue all swirly over the virgin red oak floor.  The glue was removed using a stripper (of the chemical kind).  After that I scrubbed the floor over and over and over to remove the sticky slimy feeling of deconstruction.  Someday, it will be lovely.  Today it is not.

tarnished and smudged

So…dust…hutch…and oh, what did I find during the deep clean?  I opened our smudgy tarnished silver butter dish, an heirloom from my hubby’s grandmother, and what to my wondering eyes did appear but a bright yellow rectangular object, without even a smear.  This bar of disturbingly bright yellow matter did not smell and held its’ shape disturbingly well.  I had two thoughts: 

butter or margarine? 

I reasoned that it had only been there since Easter, because somehow, I thought that should make me feel better!  No, I remembered we stopped eating margarine from January through June when our youngest son went on a wheat, egg, soy, and banana free diet.   This was supposed to cure him of repetitive behaviors, whining, and lapses in memory.  Instead he obsessed about the foods he couldn’t have, whined more, and I lost my mind.  Since margarine is made with soy, it was banned. 

That leaves last Christmas and almost a year in limbo in the hutch.

The mass was not even compost worthy.  I am a bit of a compost fanatic, but this was more like plastic than food. Besides, the wonderful, deaf, and old Springer that we adopted 3 years ago would absolutely consume it.  Lyme disease almost killed Hannah this year, and the plasticized margarine would be sure to do her in.  

Aside from protecting our compost eating 3 dogs and 4 cats, we have to look out for our 18 chickens.  Thankfully, the ducks stay out of the compost, mainly because their waddling impedes their ability to climb the pile.  It is comical to see them try.

The trash was the plastic yellow bar’s destiny, although, I was curious enough to think, “What would it look like in another year?”  How about 50 years?  Could this be the inspiration for a time capsule?  I didn’t voice my thought, because I knew that my sons and husband would insist on furthering the experiment.  I threw the mass in the trash and returned to cleaning, wondering what else was lurking...

Forward to 2013: 

shiny shiny

It is that time again for giving and receiving, but also for cleaning out, sorting, and parting with bits of us that have lingered too long to be useful.  It’s odd how Winter’s light can show the smudges everywhere.  Perhaps it’s simply the light of reflection that shows the wear and tear.  It’s also the light of reflection that reveals the sturdiness of a life, and the surety of all that is still standing.  

For us the light exposes a still unfinished kitchen, and yet a marriage that pushes forward and enjoys the projects even if they move slowly.  We see the lives of 2 teenaged boys who make us laugh, and spur us on to learn and understand their worlds.  My oldest son has helped me understand how to import photos and upload documents.  My youngest has helped me to be patient and loving especially when I don’t understand. 

"Mild He lay his glory by, born that man no more may die."

Of course, the light of reflection steadily shows the unseen and increases the value of it each year.  There are no smudges on God, no spots to clean.  In His eyes, through the gift of an infant, His precious Son, we are smudgeless as well.  

smudge-proofing

As long as we reflect on Him, we never lose our purpose, never get lost, never turn into a plasticized version of the real thing, and never get tossed in a trash can.   And most importantly, if we keep focused, nobody, including ourselves, will wonder what we are.

Merry Christmas!

In the Fall, the Birds Come

In the Fall, the Birds Come

 

The coldest morning so far this Fall greets me, and I answer back with smoky breath coming from my hooded head.  Fingers stiff in the leather gloves frozen in the shape of clenched hands.  Trees stoic and creaking, a slow ratcheting in the wind. 

The 3 dogs follow me closely waiting to see which path we will take to the barns.  We go the middle route,  through the fenced garden, still hairy and unkempt from August’s heated and aggressive growth.  It is a monument to the struggle to keep up, this farmer slowing in the heat and the weeds seemingly sprinting ahead and lapping me.  The frost evens the race, both weeds and farmer slow.

the barn "door"

We turn the corner and see the 8 barn doors latched closed, hear the ducks complaining, demanding to be released.  Pushing the low loose cinderblock into the barn, our liability turned door, the chickens and ducks pour out as if in a pressurized system.   The ducks quack happily looking for puddles, or bugs, or both.  The chickens mill about, curious and blinking in the daylight.

I open the top toors of the chicken barn only to close them again after seeing the shifting wind battering the wood.  It  is then that the wind squawks and flaps a rhythmic beating.  Above, a wave of birds ebb and flow, swirling, climbing and falling; the sky eddies made visible.  Thousands of starlings overhead charge South blocking daylight and casting an eerie shadow.

At once, my Son’s Fall art project from 10 years prior flutters to memory.  It says at the top:  “In the Fall______.”  My son writes “the birds come.”  I see it in indents and broken erased lines.  Written over his erased work is the teacher’s handwriting, “The leaves fall.”  This one memory, still wounding.  He always sees things differently.  He was right.  In the Fall, the birds come.

I fight regret, casting it aside as unproductive, but my heart aches from the scrape.  That battered part of me unsettled; the years of fighting for my son, the years of being treated as if I wanted him to be different, the doubts that always surfaced.  Am I a good parent?  Do I love my child enough?  Why can’t I fix this?  Please God, help me fix him.  Over and over this mantra resounded.

My son is different.  School, and grades, and expectations that he could not meet (ours included) almost kept him in the pit of depression.  It laid us low too.  As we tried to pull him out of that pit, we’d get suck there as well.  Worse yet, trying to escape the pit in our angered struggle, we would lash out at the one clinging to our legs trying deliberately, it seemed, to pull us back down.

By age 9, our insightful, quiet, and exceptionally introverted boy was repeatedly telling us, “I hate myself.  I hate my life.”  He started to fixate on dying asking me repeatedly whether he could live with God if he killed himself.  I always assured him that God is merciful and would love him no matter what, but that I felt strongly that God wanted him to stay here with us.  

One cold Winter’s day, he locked himself in our minivan announcing that he would freeze himself so that he could die.  The pit so deep, and I completely unprepared for this small boy’s spiraling despair, I called the doctor.

Our pediatrician prescribes Prozac.  I cried angry tears.  How could I put my 9 year old on Prozac?  How could I not?  My own pit whispered “Bad mother” over and over so softly and steadily, another heartbeat, my self doubt alive.  The shadow of that time still so present, but I shake myself back to farm work.

The birds, their dark cloud once enveloping, lighted in the near orchard.  Their language happy and flitting. Urgency gone for only seconds, they leave in a whoosh as quickly as they descended.  The only evidence of their arrival and departure are these words.

I stand in awe, wiping away a tear and give thanks to the God of bright clouds, and bird clouds.  I thank Him that today, my son lives well and I don’t wonder at how I can fix him.  That deep pit he lived in is being remade.  Fluffy pillows of self-confidence raise him up enough so that he, himself can climb out.  We cheer him on!

It took 6 years of fighting, 2 years of homeschooling, and 1 diagnosis of Autism to get here.

Where is here?

 

Here is a place of thankfulness for every place we went and for every place we are going.  Here is a place where “Bad Mother” has been erased and overwritten by faithful mother, thankful mother, hopeful mother.  My son is different, there is no doubt.  Now, I am fortunate to be that mother that wants him to be so.

 Note:  My son no longer takes Prozac but is on Zoloft.  According to our doctor, Prozac is a stimulant and many people on the autism spectrum have mood swings when given a stimulant.  We definitely experienced mood swings, but now are sailing at a much more even keel.