Yes, for those of you who may not know it, I grew up on a farm. Now, before you minimize, let me be clear. Not a house in the country- a farm. With a capital F. I have watched them slaughter pigs on cold winter mornings, up close and personal, and can write down the steps.. I have, on more than one occasion, followed behind a tractor to pick up the potatoes as they were dug fresh from the ground. And yes, Virginia, I have milked a cow. Complete with side humor of spraying milk at the barn cats and watching them chase the milk down for a taste. So, given the evidence, let's all agree that while I may indeed be a little on the prissy side, I did indeed start out on a farm.
For approximately the first 18 years of my life, I wouldn't have even admitted this information in crowds. A farm. A freakin' farm, for heaven's sake. Does it get any more hick? Oh my God, cows and pigs and chickens, and really, how much hay do we really need to grow? That farm was the bane of my existence. I hated the garden in the back yard. Do you have any idea how many beautiful summer days were ruined by having to hoe weeds out of the rows? Or pick beans? Or pick up apples off the ground so they didn't rot? (Side note: this was particularly painful when Daddy had honeybees, because inevitably, apples did rot, and honey bees, well, they are mean. People use the term "agressive" but that is an understatement. They are ornery, and they will chase you. Trust me on this. I have the experience to prove it.). And no, the fall did not bring any respite, because just when we went back to school, and the weekend was my only free time, it was time to cut down corn stalks. If you have never had the pleasure of cutting and stacking corkstalks...thank your Lord every day. It is nasty, and those corn knives are not our friends. Exhibit A - at 42 years old, I still bear the scar on the back of my leg from an afternoon where the cornstalk and I had an altercation. I can't really say who won, given Exhibit A). And then there were the cows. Cows that were constantly needing to be fed, or moved, or corralled to take to the slaughterhouse. Or worse, cows that somehow managed to get out. Yes, escape. They would end up in all sorts of places, at the most inopportune times. Nothing better than looking out in the front yard and seeing 16 or 17 cows grazing. What???? Or worse, having Daddy wake you up in the middle of the night to go and herd them back to the correct pasture. Cows are not bright animals. Write it down. I hated the farm. I lived for the day I would go away to college, or just go away from the farm. I vowed I would never again eat anything that I could not buy at the grocery store. That I had chased my last cow. That I didn't even want bales of straw to decorate my yard at Halloween. Farm life, been there - done that. Got the scars to prove it.
And for a while, I did just that. I moved into town. I didn't even buy vegetables at the fruit stand. Nope - I'll take the tomatoes from Kroger, thank you. And at twenty one, on a retail salary, steak wasn't in my budget anyway, so I was pretty much done with cows, too. Oh, of course I went home. How else does a twenty-something get a home cooked meal? But, the farming days were done. Slowly, my Dad was stepping away from farming, too. The Saturday afternoon hay baling began to wane. One day, he sold his last beef cow. And then the milk cows were gone. And the garden started getting smaller and smaller. From a distance, I watched the farm turn into a house in the country. And still, I didn't miss it at all. Stupid cows, breaking down fences. Stupid hayfields, needing mowing. Stupid pastures with the broomstraw that needed burning every winter. Good riddence to bad news.
And then one day I noticed that the tomato on my salad didn't taste quite right...kind of bland. I bet they're better at the fruit stand. And if they're better at the fruit stand, what if I just planted a couple of plants in pots on my deck? And maybe a flower or two, to hide all the concrete. It's really not very pretty on a concrete deck without some foliage. And then there was the house. And what's a house without flowers and shrubs, and...hey, since there's a yard, why not get a dog? I mean, it's nice to have a pet around. Of course, I can't let him loose, because the houses are on top of each other around here. Wow, it's really loud on this street. I wish we could afford maybe a couple of extra acres, you know, some space. It seems so crowded around here. It would be nice to maybe have the room to plant a couple of cucumber vines, maybe some peppers, and well, of course some tomatoes. Hey wait a minute....
And then it hit me. I missed it. I missed a yard big enough to play baseball in. I missed the cows in the pasture, the barn cats, and the rows and rows of fresh corn. I missed Saturday afternoons loading hay onto a trailer, and learning to drive in a cornfield. I missed plucking tomatoes fresh off the vine and having tomato biscuits for dinner. I missed fresh sausage and eggs. I missed cold mornings sitting by the wood stove while Mom cooked breakfast. My toaster and microwave put off no warm air, no faint aroma of burning wood. I missed a basement full of canned vegetables, a freezer full of fresh beef. I missed summer days on the farm, when if it got too hot, you could just take off your shoes and wade out into the cool water of the creek. Okay, so maybe you'd occasionally kick up a snake. You'd live. I did. I missed a field full of potatoes that would last all winter, and listening to the corn being ground into feed for the cows. I never realized how nice it was to not know when your neighbors came home, for the only lights on summer nights to come from the lightning bugs in the yard, and to have dogs and cats that could lounge under the shrubs by the house. I would give anything to plant that garden again - to see rows of corn, tomatos, cabbage, and onions, out the kitchen window. To pick up a bowl full of apples out of the yard and make a batch of apple butter on the stove. Life on that farm was pretty simple. You got out what you put in. You had enough to have and share. And you could see what you had accomplished every day.
Today, I love to head downtown in the summer to the farmer's market, to indulge in the fresh fruits and vegetables there. I smile a little nostalgicly at a field full of cows, grazing on green grass, and I always look for that one cow, somewhere, who's sticking her neck through the fence as far as she can get it... And I love to smell a field of fresh cut hay, and close my eyes and remember riding on top of those bales...the straw scratching my legs, the sun shining down. A farm. What I wouldn't give for a farm.
Sunday, December 18, 2011
Thursday, December 15, 2011
Christmas Past
When I was young, I loved Christmas and everything it meant. I loved Christmas at home, with the tree and the presents and the cooking. I loved Christmas at school with the party and the making crafts. I loved Christmas at church, with beautiful singing and the story of the nativity. I loved it all. Most of all, though, I loved Christmas visits to my Aunt Mary's house.
My Aunt Mary, though, was a treat in herself. She lived in North Carolina, and for most of MY life, was a widow. I vaguely remember my Uncle Howard, but only as the man who drove Aunt Mary up for visits. Aunt Mary was my Daddy's oldest sister, and the oldest of seven kids. I think that's what made her seem motherly, even though she had no kids of her own. She always just seemed to be the one in control. Her house was always perfect, her day was always planned, and she never seemed even a little bit wrinkled. She was the best cook I have ever met, and that distinction stands to this day. She's the only person I've known who could make the Southern Living recipes even LOOK like they did in the book. She would cook even the simplest dish and make it fabulous. People all over the little town of Yancyville would come to visit, just hoping to be asked to stay for lunch. And she always did. She was a force to be reckoned with. And as a kid, it was pretty darn cool to see her telling my dad and my aunts and uncles how to act, what to do, and whether they were right or wrong.
She had this house that was always spotless (not like ours), this furniture that was grand and sophisticated (not like ours) and all these wonderful dainty trinkets that were amazing to look at (if they ever existed at our house, trust me, they were quickly broken or put away to protect). And my parents, with five kids experience under their belt, were terrified to turn us loose in her home. For years, I thought she was the one who didn't want us wandering around - reality check? Mom and Dad were horrified by the notion that we'd break HER things. So they told us, over and over, to sit quietly on the couch, and be quiet and respectful. But there were always the bathroom breaks. They were the escape route, to wander into the "other rooms" and see all the wonderful things. Like the formal livingroom, with perfect white furniture, that still had the plastic on it! And the diningroom with the beautiful picture on the wall, and the peculiar doors on all sides. And the basement, oh the wonders of the basement. Rooms and rooms that went back forever, and had things stored in every nook and cranny! What a wonderful, wonderful place. I was in sensory overload, all the time. But Christmas, good Lord, it was like a separate world.
Mind you, Aunt Mary never had a big tree, not that I can remember. Her house was decorated perfectly though, with all these little Christmas snippets. First, there was the beautiful wreath on the front door. So lovely and ornate, begging you to knock. And then there were the candle-rings and flower wreaths inside. Candle-rings? Not at our house. Too fancy for our house. And little Santa decorations scattered here and there, popping out for Christmas, fairly dancing with cheer. But the silly thing I remember most is her doorknobs. She had these adorable, cloth doorhangers, that hung down from the doorknobs, santa and elves, cloth and felt. But in my eyes, they were the most wonderful decorations in the world. I wandered from room to room looking at the door knobs, longing to have such wonderful decorations at home. I would reach out (when no one was looking of course) to touch the soft santas, hanging from the door, and think how delightful it would be to have that elf hanging from my bedroom door. How delightful to have those gorgeous candles sitting on our shelf in the livingroom. How people would be envious if WE had such a glorious wreath on our front door. What a magical Christmas she created.
As an adult, I think I try every year to re-create the magic she captured with her little door hanger elves and her pretty decorations. I trim the tree(s) (Yes, of course there are several, it's part of the magic). I set my little Santas and my snowmen all about, trying to remember what about her decorations were so eye-catching. I never seem to quite get that same wonderful feeling. Perhaps she just had the magic touch. Maybe she was just a classy lady who knew exactly how to decorate to make people happy. Or, maybe only the ten-year-old in me could ever find it. My Aunt Mary passed away about ten years ago, and even though I went to the estate auction and tried to find them, I never saw those wonderful little elves and santas. They are lost to me forever, I suppose. But I must admit, each year, when I start to pull out the boxes of decorations and carefully unwrap the dainty trinkets, I know there's a bit of her in me, and I know she'd probably approve of my efforts. She'd laugh that tinkling Aunt Mary laugh, and she'd sit down and enjoy the moment. And that's a little piece of magic for me, too.
My Aunt Mary, though, was a treat in herself. She lived in North Carolina, and for most of MY life, was a widow. I vaguely remember my Uncle Howard, but only as the man who drove Aunt Mary up for visits. Aunt Mary was my Daddy's oldest sister, and the oldest of seven kids. I think that's what made her seem motherly, even though she had no kids of her own. She always just seemed to be the one in control. Her house was always perfect, her day was always planned, and she never seemed even a little bit wrinkled. She was the best cook I have ever met, and that distinction stands to this day. She's the only person I've known who could make the Southern Living recipes even LOOK like they did in the book. She would cook even the simplest dish and make it fabulous. People all over the little town of Yancyville would come to visit, just hoping to be asked to stay for lunch. And she always did. She was a force to be reckoned with. And as a kid, it was pretty darn cool to see her telling my dad and my aunts and uncles how to act, what to do, and whether they were right or wrong.
She had this house that was always spotless (not like ours), this furniture that was grand and sophisticated (not like ours) and all these wonderful dainty trinkets that were amazing to look at (if they ever existed at our house, trust me, they were quickly broken or put away to protect). And my parents, with five kids experience under their belt, were terrified to turn us loose in her home. For years, I thought she was the one who didn't want us wandering around - reality check? Mom and Dad were horrified by the notion that we'd break HER things. So they told us, over and over, to sit quietly on the couch, and be quiet and respectful. But there were always the bathroom breaks. They were the escape route, to wander into the "other rooms" and see all the wonderful things. Like the formal livingroom, with perfect white furniture, that still had the plastic on it! And the diningroom with the beautiful picture on the wall, and the peculiar doors on all sides. And the basement, oh the wonders of the basement. Rooms and rooms that went back forever, and had things stored in every nook and cranny! What a wonderful, wonderful place. I was in sensory overload, all the time. But Christmas, good Lord, it was like a separate world.
Mind you, Aunt Mary never had a big tree, not that I can remember. Her house was decorated perfectly though, with all these little Christmas snippets. First, there was the beautiful wreath on the front door. So lovely and ornate, begging you to knock. And then there were the candle-rings and flower wreaths inside. Candle-rings? Not at our house. Too fancy for our house. And little Santa decorations scattered here and there, popping out for Christmas, fairly dancing with cheer. But the silly thing I remember most is her doorknobs. She had these adorable, cloth doorhangers, that hung down from the doorknobs, santa and elves, cloth and felt. But in my eyes, they were the most wonderful decorations in the world. I wandered from room to room looking at the door knobs, longing to have such wonderful decorations at home. I would reach out (when no one was looking of course) to touch the soft santas, hanging from the door, and think how delightful it would be to have that elf hanging from my bedroom door. How delightful to have those gorgeous candles sitting on our shelf in the livingroom. How people would be envious if WE had such a glorious wreath on our front door. What a magical Christmas she created.
As an adult, I think I try every year to re-create the magic she captured with her little door hanger elves and her pretty decorations. I trim the tree(s) (Yes, of course there are several, it's part of the magic). I set my little Santas and my snowmen all about, trying to remember what about her decorations were so eye-catching. I never seem to quite get that same wonderful feeling. Perhaps she just had the magic touch. Maybe she was just a classy lady who knew exactly how to decorate to make people happy. Or, maybe only the ten-year-old in me could ever find it. My Aunt Mary passed away about ten years ago, and even though I went to the estate auction and tried to find them, I never saw those wonderful little elves and santas. They are lost to me forever, I suppose. But I must admit, each year, when I start to pull out the boxes of decorations and carefully unwrap the dainty trinkets, I know there's a bit of her in me, and I know she'd probably approve of my efforts. She'd laugh that tinkling Aunt Mary laugh, and she'd sit down and enjoy the moment. And that's a little piece of magic for me, too.
Tuesday, December 13, 2011
A Long Walk Home
My dad is dying. I have now put those words down, and they must become real to me. So far, I have thought about it over my meals, discussed it with my family, and pondered it as I lay in bed at night unable to sleep. But I have not put it into words to make it real. My father is dying. There are words floating in the air like "Living Will" and "End of Life", heavy with meaning and thick with emotion. For some moments, I am rational, almost detached, as I think about what is the right thing to do. Others, I am a small child, walking with my Daddy through the woods in December, searching for a Christmas tree. Only this time, when I turn loose of his hand, he will be gone forever. Memories come to me at the strangest moments, of things I have not thought about in years. Snapshots in my mind of little things he said or did that somehow found a home deep inside my brain and now, of all times, are forming a slideshow. Remember? Remember?
What is it about the human mind that can turn against you and make a bad situation almost unbearable by not shutting down? Remember when I broke my arm and I was scared, and the only thing that made me feel better was when my daddy told me to wrap my arm around his neck? Remember when my Mom was diagnosed with breast cancer and my daddy was unafraid to be vulnerable and admit he couldn't make it without her? Remember the time Daddy took us to the airport in Reidsville and we got to go up on the helicopter? Remember when he told you that you had a green thumb, just like his mother, and you were so proud? Remember? Remember? Why must I remember all those moments. Why can't I shut it off at all?
The suble beauty of my father was not in his softness. He was a hard man, who worked hard his whole life, and perhaps he didn't take the time for "Disney" moments with his kids. But there was never one moment that I doubted that he loved and lived for his children, that he'd done all he'd done in life for them, and that I could count on him for whatever I truly needed. The subtle beauty, though, was in the simple way he went about living his life so that we could have a larger than life example of how to do it. Honestly, fully, and respectfully, but without regrets. Maybe I didn't understand that greatness as a child, but it didn't take long to see that my father was a great man. That I was the lucky one. That not everyone had what I had growing up. He made me who I am. I learned it all from him. Who will teach me now? Remember? Remember?
When I lie in bed at night and think painfully of the hole his death will leave with me, I try to grasp little treasures of happiness. He will be sitting on a front porch soon with his sisters who've already gone, laughing and playing referee. He will have the pleasure of talking about God with his old friend and pastor, Grady Lackey, who paved the way. And the one that makes me smile, that silly old dog, Trouble, who he loved so much, will meet him at the end of the road, and trot beside him for his long walk home.
What is it about the human mind that can turn against you and make a bad situation almost unbearable by not shutting down? Remember when I broke my arm and I was scared, and the only thing that made me feel better was when my daddy told me to wrap my arm around his neck? Remember when my Mom was diagnosed with breast cancer and my daddy was unafraid to be vulnerable and admit he couldn't make it without her? Remember the time Daddy took us to the airport in Reidsville and we got to go up on the helicopter? Remember when he told you that you had a green thumb, just like his mother, and you were so proud? Remember? Remember? Why must I remember all those moments. Why can't I shut it off at all?
The suble beauty of my father was not in his softness. He was a hard man, who worked hard his whole life, and perhaps he didn't take the time for "Disney" moments with his kids. But there was never one moment that I doubted that he loved and lived for his children, that he'd done all he'd done in life for them, and that I could count on him for whatever I truly needed. The subtle beauty, though, was in the simple way he went about living his life so that we could have a larger than life example of how to do it. Honestly, fully, and respectfully, but without regrets. Maybe I didn't understand that greatness as a child, but it didn't take long to see that my father was a great man. That I was the lucky one. That not everyone had what I had growing up. He made me who I am. I learned it all from him. Who will teach me now? Remember? Remember?
When I lie in bed at night and think painfully of the hole his death will leave with me, I try to grasp little treasures of happiness. He will be sitting on a front porch soon with his sisters who've already gone, laughing and playing referee. He will have the pleasure of talking about God with his old friend and pastor, Grady Lackey, who paved the way. And the one that makes me smile, that silly old dog, Trouble, who he loved so much, will meet him at the end of the road, and trot beside him for his long walk home.
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