Wake Up Laughing. That's Step One.

It’s late afternoon, around 4:15, and my prism rainbow-colored canvas tennis shoes are making these farting noises as I walk from my office down the hallway past the IT department’s offices and the kitchen to the copy room. I work in a healthcare setting, so the sound isn’t startling to my colleagues, but clearly, it’s time to stop wearing socks and switch to a quieter shoe. After six and a half hours, and multiple laps around the office, my feet become “dewey” in my socks and rub rhythmically—and audibly—against the insides of my shoes. The increasingly warmer weather is affecting the very footgear I wear. Switching over to socks-free sandals by May, I should be able to sneak up on my coworkers like a ninja. But for now, I announce my arrival to every occupied cubicle. There’s nowhere to hide, and trying to tiptoe is an impossible posture to maintain for very long. Someone snickers (wasn’t it George Carlin who said that suppressed laughter is the best?), and I try slowing my walk to a slightly labyrinth-like meditative pace and rehearse my explanation in case my boss comes around the corner in her always-dignified quiet heels.

I realize some of you are still stuck at the word “farting”. I’ll wait.

I come by my love of physical humor honestly and perhaps genetically. Dad would laugh himself to tears at those precious M*A*S*H episodes where Colonel Blake was chasing a stray dog (that bit Radar and was thought to be rabid) around the mess tent, his huge floppy feet splayed left and right, cigar tucked firmly between his teeth, or when all of the officers had to cram into one tent to conserve heat during a blizzard, and Trapper John discovered that Frank was wearing battery-operated hunting socks, which led to a fraternity-style ruckus to try and remove them from Frank’s feet as he swung in a hammock above Hawkeye’s cot. Even as dementia stole what remained of Dad’s mind, he could still let loose with that wonderfully cheerful chortle that seemed to echo and return before finally settling into a broad smile on his face. I regret not recording it at one of my many after-work visits with him. I’d have used it as my phone’s ringtone and kept the ringer turned on permanently.

Finding one’s humor tribe is a noble pursuit in life. Not everyone has the same funny bone triggers, and speaking only for myself, it’s been a trial-and-error journey with more than a few humbling red-faced moments. As a child, I managed to drop a few bon mots into the adults’ conversations without really meaning to, and grinned somewhat uncertainly at what I’d done, wondering how I might repeat myself and obtain the same results (few things send a child’s self-esteem soaring than the delighted laughter of adults whose opinions matter to said child more than they will ever fully grasp). I continued to grow up in a circle of folks for whom jokes and laughter and silliness were not merely an undercurrent, but a primary influence of our character development; making people laugh was a great way to start a friendship. Mom and Dad were both quick-witted, and saturated us with their ability to find something humorous in just about every situation. Certain TV shows helped hone our vocabulary and timing—Carol Burnett, The Dick Van Dyke Show, The Smothers Brothers, Bob Newhart, Mary Tyler Moore—until we were introduced to the granddaddy of them all, M*A*S*H, and carry that brand of humor with us to this day.

As much as I portray our land and home as idyllic and retreat center-peaceful, there’s plenty to laugh at here, and I don’t know that I expected that benefit when we arrived. In the physical humor genre, chickens are masters at the glance, the Monty Python-esque silly walk, and a broad range of vocables to round out the show. Letting them out of their coop in the morning, I start my day laughing as they tumble over each other toward the scattering of fresh powdery scratch, heads bobbing, rear ends up in the air without the slightest touch of self-consciousness, cackling admonishments and advice in that secret language only chickens can understand. It’s both privilege and tonic to me, and I climb into the truck to go to work, with no desire to spoil the moment by turning on the radio news.

When the month of May brings around all manner of new life and baby everything here, it’s impossible not to smile. One year, I watched from a safe distance as a mother skunk took her twins for a stroll down the driveway, away from the house. She was all purpose and stride, and behind her, the little ones tumbled and bounced along, bumping into each other intentionally and goofing off instead of trying to keep up with her. They invented a game where one would walk in a diagonal line to the right, and the other would walk diagonally to the left until they met in the middle behind mama’s steady gait, giggling and snuffling in the gravel. They kept this up all the way across the bridge, and I clapped with delight for the sheer joy of getting to see such a display of play unfold on the land where I lived and ate most of my meals.

Another summer, when Mom had come to visit for the weekend, a family of deer—doe and buck, and two offspring, their tawny fur still bearing the spots of their youth—picked its way across the neighbor’s mown field to the south, and we watched as the young ones chased each other back and forth, sprinting then stopping short as their noses touched, then jumping excitedly around in circles. Mom was enchanted and I was so grateful; it’s pure gift when the land performs like this and the people I love are within arm’s reach to share the moment.

And isn’t that the point of humor, to bring joy? A good belly laugh centers us in the moment, and refills our reservoir of goodwill, making it possible to face the more serious situations in our lives without completely crumbling into dust. It also connects us to each other in easy and pleasant ways, ways that we hope to repeat the next time we meet, and if this all continues, we’ll have a new friend before long.

I do have my sock-less sandals ready to go as the spring meshes into summer. But I’ll keep my farting shoes handy just in case. Some of the members of my humor tribe work right down the hallway from me, and I’d hate to disappoint them.

When Spring Sets the Table

The wild garlic chives are up, which means the garlic mustard won’t be far behind. I’m also keeping an eye out for ramps, though I’ve not recognized these pungent harbingers of spring yet. There are also dandelion greens, and in a few more weeks, purslane, plantain, and stinging nettles. Soon we’ll be putting napkins ‘round our necks and poking silverware into our back pockets before setting off for a meadow walk. We apologize in advance for the smell of our breath these next several weeks.

The best time to pick dandelion greens for eating is before their flat yellow disk-like blooms open up (they lean toward bitter after that). I try to remember that as I walk the distance from the front porch to the truck, or head out the back door, eyes focused on the fresh new grass at my feet on my way to feed the rabbits. One must be able to distinguish between so many shades of edible green, and pick carefully. When we harvest the first nettles of spring, to use in soups or in place of spinach in our lasagna, we smartly wear gloves, plunge them into boiling water for a minute or two, and then get on with the rest of the recipe. There’s just nothing like the taste of fresh spring nettles, cooked to remove the sting, and sprinkled with a bit of vinegar and salt.

My maternal grandmother, Opoe (pronounced “oh-poo”. It’s Dutch. I know. Stop laughing—she was a respectable woman), showed us kids what wild purslane looked like and sautéed some for us once when we were visiting her in Tiffin, OH. I remember it's tanginess and how she didn’t skimp on the butter. I saw some growing in between the cracks in the sidewalk in front of our house a few years later, and tried to copy her recipe. Came pretty darn close, and to this day, the look of its oval leaves on thick but tender stems reminds me of her, standing in her kitchen with the sweetest faded apron around her short torso.

With every step, the land we take care of offers up a buffet that unfolds along with the leaves on the yellow maple behind the house from now until, well, year-round really. When we first got here, we weren’t thinking in that direction, planning instead an extensive network of garden plots, indoor seed-starting and coddling of fragile broccoli and cabbage seedlings until it was warm enough to tuck them into the ground we’d just turned up and over. We pretty much trusted anything we planted ourselves, but not what this Grandmother was giving us for free (well, for the price of a monthly mortgage payment and the effort to bend down and pick). Then, one year, don’t know why or what prompted me, I found a book on edible wild plants that was arranged in chapters by season, with pictures and everything, that showed us what we could harvest safely. It even included which plants had poisonous look a-likes, so we could ease into this meadow grazing practice with the caution of beginners, and gently nudge the boundaries of our comfort zone. Patrick was more hesitant than I (not sure what, if any, purslane featured in his childhood), and looked skeptical when I took over the kitchen one afternoon with my gloved hands pushing nettles into the colander for a quick rinse before their two-minute hot bath. But that apprehension fell away when he sat in front of a plate of vegetable lasagna, the bright green pieces of safe-to-eat-now nettles layered with all that ricotta and homemade sauce. I knew I could put garlic mustard in front of him soon, and he’d be fine.

Spring greens are just the beginning. Our sweet and humble layers are in full egg production now, and those garlic chives are mighty tasty chopped and sprinkled on top of this morning’s omelette. As the weeks continue to unfold, we’ll pluck dark purple mulberries from the trees out in the front yard and in the meadow. Sometimes all it takes is a good shake of the branch and the small grape-like clustered berries fall into our mouths and on our heads. Mulberries are the rabbits of the fruit tree world—they multiply with enthusiasm and quite rapidly, and are also rather fragile; several older trees on the land have been knocked down by the strong spring and autumn winds we get here, and the wood is fibrous and splintery. Patrick puts it on the lathe and makes gorgeous little boxes with lids, and when I store my rings or other trinkets there, I remember my purple-stained fingers in mid-May. The birds adore the mulberries too, as evidenced by the purple splotches they leave behind on our front deck. I’m happy to share (and keep a bucket of sudsy water and a scrub mop handy through October). Last count, there were at least twenty-three of these trees on the property. There’s no way we can eat that much.

Then come the red and black raspberries, their silver-backed leaves and thin, graceful vines bending down along both sides of the driveway and brushing the gravel lightly, and thickets of them randomly sprinkled throughout the meadow, mostly beneath the arms of a black walnut by the creek. Their fruits are tiny and in a good season with the right mix of sun and rain, taste delicately sweet rather than bitter. Of course we have balsa wood and pressed cardboard half-pint berry baskets aplenty in the mud room, but even when I remember to grab one on my way out the back door for a walk, I barely cover the bottom with what I pick. Fresh wild raspberries with the occasional dewdrop clinging to them never make it to the basket, and my hands (and teeth) are purple-stained once more.

It’s a sign of our ignorance that we tend to relegate the word “harvest” to autumn only, when our generous land is giving us food all the time. We could gather at least a salad every day, and with additional studying, add the cooked and mashed roots of spring beauties to our plates (harvested with extreme care, and not all from one patch; once the roots are out of the ground, they’re gone and not coming back in that particular spot), as well as wild asparagus, the coveted and elusive morel mushroom, and an entire family of tea-friendly plants that extend beyond the sturdy mint to include strawberry and blackberry leaf, sassafras root, red clover, may apple, mullein, and yellow goat’s beard. For all kinds of sensible reasons, I’ll not venture down the path of medicinal plant recommendations today. It’s not my area of expertise, and I’d rather you all be alive and well to read next week’s post.

Instead, I’ll encourage you, and myself, to rediscover the re-emerging art and practice of foraging, which is essentially the original Mindful Eating movement of our ancestors who were simply trying to survive, and hope you'll share recipes. Though not exactly bears awakening from hibernation, we are hungry for the life-giving tonics that spring so graciously sets upon her table, in full view of our rumbling stomachs, eager taste buds, and grateful hearts.

Napkins tucked under our chins or draped on our laps, it’s time to eat. Who’d like to say grace?

You're Welcome

There was a clear glass carafe on the armoire that stood to the left of the bed, and it was filled with cool water. The small glass drinking cup fit neatly on top. A metal three-bar towel rack hanging on the closet door held three white fluffy towels, in progressive size order—washcloth, face towel, and bath sheet.

The tiny daffodils on the nightstand to the right of the bed were thoughtfully cut from the garden in front of the house and arranged in a clear glass vase, a gentle and convincing yellow affirmation that spring was indeed here; we needn’t look over our shoulders with weary apprehension into the shrinking winter chill anymore. And the windows above the headboard-less bed framed a treetop view, where branches bore the unmistakable signs of new life in search of the warmer days we’ve all been dreaming of as March faded away into our collective seasonal memory.

When I arrived, before I’d even turned off the truck’s engine, my host had come down the steep front steps of her home, smiling and asking what luggage she could carry for me. A warm embrace and kindly exchanged pleasantries carried us back up those steps into her living room, where I met a new friend and another warm embrace. Behind her in the dining room, a Napa Valley Pinot Noir was breathing on the table, and the aroma of a turkey stuffing bake wafted its way into the living room where I’d just taken off my shoes.

I stood drenched in their hospitality, full-hearted and content.

I was scheduled to facilitate a learning session for a group of fellow volunteer managers, and their monthly meeting started around 8:30a.m. To get there on time from my home would have meant leaving somewhere between 3:00 and 4:00a.m., so did something I rarely do—asked my friend if I could come down the night before and stay with her and her wife. I’d be much more coherent with a full seven hours of sleep behind me instead of a dark-to-dawn journey culminating in the best rush hour traffic Cincinnati had to offer.

The road trip to their home was just shy of four hours, and the phone app that guided me there had made it clear this was the best route to take—no highways. And it didn’t lie. I was treated to acres of open and just-planted fields, a pale blue sky with random thin clouds on the horizon, and freedom of thought in any direction I looked. It didn’t register at the time, but upon reflection, the land was extending her hospitality to me as I traveled those two-lane county and township roads, soothing my senses with color and comfort I didn’t know I needed. Isn’t that usually what hospitality does?

In my short and experience-packed life, I’ve been delighted and humbled and rendered speechless by the generosity of spirit extended to me by others. Freshly-washed sheets, deliciously-prepared and presented meals, cheerful introductions, and sincere “make yourself at home” directives are lovingly tucked away in my elastic memory, teaching me how to carve out an even deeper place for gratitude in my soul, and all I really needed to do was show up. I’ve also recalibrated my view of our home as a place where those “others” would find the color and comfort they need, and provide the necessary details to ensure their safe arrival down the gravel driveway and over the bridge then past the two chicken coops and up the remaining gradual slope that ends where our front porch begins. In this final leg of a friend’s journey, we’re watching from the kitchen window for a few seconds, then crossing the living room floor to fling open the front door and our hearts before they even get out of their cars. That they want to spend time in our company is gift enough, even as they unpack side dishes and Cabernet and a small handmade candle from a crafter in their hometown. Any visit that begins with that sort of reckless abundance is going to be a keeper.

Of course, I initially go to that dark place of unworthiness, that someone—a friend, or an acquaintance, or a friendly stranger—would “go to all that trouble just for me”, and such an automatic response takes time to unlearn. But take the time I must, because even unspoken, this feeling of not being worthy is the emotional equivalent of leaving the gift unwrapped, or worse, taking off the bow, lifting the lid from the box, and smashing the contents in front of the giver. Hospitality feeds itself and is not dependent upon any recipient’s sense of self in order to be genuine or plentiful. Doesn’t that just mess up our balanced ledger tendencies?? Of course it does. And that’s the whole point. So we are taught and encouraged from toddlerhood to say “thank you” each and every time we’re on the receiving end of someone’s generosity, no matter what the size or depth, and we quickly learn that our gratitude won’t have the last word. “You’re welcome” finishes the encounter, and we’re left to ponder what that really means.

It means come again. I enjoyed our time together. Thank you for the Cabernet.

The daffodils were just for you.

Mom Never Did Drywall

The first eight eggs of the new season are washed and tucked away in the fridge; I collected two of those eight this morning after driving the trash down to the bin at the end of our driveway. On the way back I let out the layers, and checked the fluffed-up pine shavings in the far corner of their coop—two light brown unfertilized ova encased in smooth hard shells were resting in a chicken belly-shaped nest. I scooped them up and put them in the right side pocket of my hooded flannel jacket, with some encouraging words for the other layers to match or surpass their co-workers’ morning donation to our breakfast menu. I climbed back in the front seat of the truck (no easy trick with two fresh eggs in that pocket), and finished the short trip up to the house. We’re well on our way to quiche and scrambled season, a stretch of time that lasts through November. Another reason to love spring.

The mud room renovation continues to chug along, with setbacks that include but are not limited to old house bones and the previous owners’ attempts to fix them, and our own old bones that aren’t used to 10-hour physical labor jobs. I’ve renewed my ability to mud and tape, using that necessary feathering technique with the joint compound 6” knife blade, and am noticing that my wrists hurt more than they did when I was doing this in my 20’s. Go figure. Patrick and I have both remarked this past week how nice it will be to go back to our day jobs where we can sit for a few hours at a time, and nothing we put our hands to will require feathering or ladders or a three-Advil slam dunk as our after-dinner cocktail. I’m not looking forward to all the emails that await me at the office, but my desk chair? It has all the anticipation of a first date with Sting.

During this whole renovation, whenever I could catch a few 15-minute breaks, I’d wander into the downstairs guestroom which doubles as an art studio, and put my hands to gentler work that had guaranteed faster results. The projects awaiting me there involved colorful cardstock and book board, permanent double-sided tape, decorative-edged scissors, old bits of sparkly vintage costume jewelry, and unlimited imagination. I went easy on myself this week, nothing as elaborate as a full-size Lakota star quilt, and found great delight making little jackets for sticky note pads (a volunteer at a recent training made some and gave them as gifts to all the participants and us trainers too). I embellished them with the appropriate bauble from my stash and sat back to admire the growing pile of accomplishment. It’s an easy craft, and a great excuse to visit both the office supplies store AND the closest Michael’s, a rare nirvanic treat I don’t experience that often in one day. So now I have twelve newly-encased sticky note pads, and am deciding what I’ll do with them.

That seems to be the way with the art I create—what next, after the production line stops and the factory lights are turned off for the day? I tend to give my creations away rather than arrange a scheme to sell them (though I have no values-based objections to doing so. It’s a selling setup and maintenance issue; having an online store is work, as eBay has taught us these past two years), and enjoy amassing a tidy supply of hostess and birthday gifts to have on hand when the occasion arises. But even without that as an outcome, I would still make sticky note covers, handmade journals, bed quilts and table runners, and small canvas paintings to rest on small wooden easels because I get lost in the process of creating. It’s neat to turn an idea into something tangible albeit frivolous or without practical purpose. I have Frasier or Downton Abbey reruns going in the background, or an 80’s playlist with me on vocals, and I know that heaven is real and the mud room can wait another fifteen minutes. Call it economical therapy, or meditation, or your other favorite nurturing word. The outcome drinks from the same river of possibility and satisfaction.

I grew up with the arts within arm’s reach. My mom was a music teacher before she had the first of her five children, dad loved listening to classical music and opera while he paid the bills in his den, and my siblings and I can all sing. On key. Between us, we can play the guitar, drums, mandolin, piano, and if pushed, a rather dicey-sounding harmonica. Almost Ohio’s answer to the von Trapps (almost). Dad was also a huge PBS fan, and mom would sketch in the margins of her crossword puzzle books while her mind wandered around hoping to find that six letter word for “stays away from” (it’s “avoids”, in case you’re working that same puzzle). Mom never claimed her sketches as art, or even talent, and it made no sense to me, as I needed tracing paper most of my childhood to get my version of a horse to actually look like a horse (you should also know that I can’t read a note of music. I learned everything I know on the guitar by ear and hand position observation and copying).

But mom was special and other-worldly, guided by muses I have yet to meet. She could draw on demand or from boredom with equally-stunning results. Once, during one of his many rebellious streaks to vex his more conservative father, Patrick asked mom to create a tattoo template that captured his high school nickname “Running Fish” (don’t ask), and she delivered in spades. In fact, one entire crossword puzzle book seemed to be a study of the many variations of “Running Fish”, with a range of detail from coloring book-simple to stained glass window complexity (Patrick never did get that tattoo, but how nice to know that we have the sketches if he ever changes his mind). What joy it was to find a stack of her artwork after she passed, drawn randomly and with gorgeous precision on the back of an old phone book, or on a scrap of grocery list paper, or an envelope containing a birthday card. On the latter, she would take the first letter of our names and morph them into the most fantastical creatures, then finish the rest of our names with a flourish. We saved the envelopes in addition to the cards; we knew what treasures they were. As I grew older, I spent more time looking at the envelope than what it contained. I think she was fine with that.

Looking back, I realize that creativity was the fertile soil in which I was raised and coached through life. The hand-held lessons were just as meaningful as the more abstract ones (dad was a brilliant psychologist and employed his creative juices toward the rebuilding of someone’s confidence or emotional agility), and there wasn’t much, if any, focus on perfect results. We got the occasional parental lecture on “hard work = satisfaction”, but my folks were just as comfortable with art as play for its own sake. On those occasions when I wanted perfection, I’m sure I was frustrated by my limitations, but thankfully, no one raising me let me dwell in that place for long. It was “climb up and sit next to me at the piano while we go through the Reader’s Digest book of songs”, or watching through the cracked open den door as dad conducted his own private symphony using his check-writing pen as a baton. Those are the memories that fortify my creative impulses, and pull me into the downstairs guestroom/art studio in between snapping scored drywall sections and sanding down the edges.

I’ve honed my mud-and-tape feathering skills this week, and I feel good about that.

And I have an impressive stack of jazzed-up sticky notes if you’re interested.