A Place to Sit

It’s happened more than once.

This morning, I woke up again to the stunning sight of the eastern field thickly strewn with thousands of gossamer hammock-looking spiderwebs suspended from the dried-out stalks of last year’s ironweed, and woven with a silken morning mist, tinged pink from the rising sun. And again, the sight made me go all quiet and humble, wondering what else I could possibly want in this moment.

There’s nothing, except…I wish I could count each and every one of those webs, not for the satisfaction of a definitive number, but for the experience of walking among them and letting that be my day’s work. I know without a doubt that after about the twenty-seventh web tallied, I’d find my attention pulled toward whatever it was that moved in the short grass just a few feet from my feet, and the ratchety-sounding call of a hidden ring-necked pheasant would send my eyes darting back and forth across the field in an attempt to find out where it is nesting. The pheasant remains hidden, and I walk slowly back to the house, where a less fairy-tale project awaits.

Every spring, I make plans to have one day on the land where I just sit and observe and become part of the landscape that surrounds our daily comings and goings, and I imagine this day down to the contents of the lunch I will pack and where I will sit. The options are magically unreal: a spot on the western bank of the creek, well into the woods beyond the open meadow, where thick and twisting grapevines hang from a patient black walnut tree with its deeply-grooved bark, and the creekbank itself is sandy and warm in the dappled sunlight. In the fullness of summer, this spot is our own little Hanging Gardens of Babylon (Hanging Gardens of Homer?) where I can peer through the curtains of vines as the water gurgles and babbles over the smooth rocks just below the surface. If a deer happens to stroll by browsing among the sweetgrass, I practice the sport of extreme stillness.

Then there’s the black swamp woods to the north, where there are ample tree stumps perfect for sitting and contemplating the universe, and shallow depressions filled with inky water. In the canopy overhead, woodpeckers flit from one branch to another, and a singular mockingbird runs through its repertoire at least twice, repeating his blue jay imitation simply because it’s spectacularly spot on. If I landed here for my daylong retreat, my neck would hurt for looking up too long and I’d probably forget to eat the turkey and cheese wrap I brought with me. Such a place is totally worth the 11-acre walk required to arrive at its muscle-wood tree-framed gates.

I’ve also imagined how neat it would be to have benches built onto the sides of the bridge that grants us passage into the peopled world, where we punch our timecards each week and collect a living wage. From these benches, we could soak up the view into the creek as it winds past towering sycamores that know more than I ever will, and random stands of wild purple phlox that watch carefully as schools of minnows tease the water’s surface with their little shiny backs. The sound of the water is more concentrated here, echoing off of the metal I-beams we trust to hold the weight of our trucks, as it drifts upward and into our ears, which are hungry for something more soothing than the rumbling hum of weekday commuters on the two-lane highway just a mile past the tree line to the west. If such benches existed, I’d sit there and lose track of time more than once, I promise you.

So far, all of these places are outside the walls of our humble 1914 farmhouse. But in the downstairs guestroom is a sturdy mahogany platform rocking chair that Patrick scored from a Columbus thrift store for just $5, and I could easily see myself parked and rhythmically gliding back and forth with a book by the late Barbara Holland or the still-living Michael Perry in my hands, and a contented kitten sleeping in my lap, a cup of steaming amber-colored rooibos or dragonwell tea near my right hand. Even though my springtime goal is to be part of All Things Outside, I can also appreciate the peace that comes from settling into a well-lit room like this as a southern breeze pushes the sheer curtains gently forward over the low mosaic coffee table just below the windowsill. The chair sits just to the west of that open window, so the breeze doesn’t blow the pages of my book to the next chapter. From this gentle self-care command post, I can let go of yesterday’s lingering anxiety about the VISA bill, and set aside the useless ruminations about my current aging process. In this rocking chair, the worries of my heart dissolve into nothing. And because it’s fun to do so, I close my eyes and imagine myself small enough to stretch out in one of those hammock-looking spider webs in the eastern field, cradled rather than trapped, and swinging quietly in the slightest breeze, nowhere to go, and not a single request made of my time or my intellect.

We all need somewhere to sit, to rest our bones and our ever-employed muscles and tendons, and float above the perpetual agendas of our lives. Time spent suspended between the past we cannot change and the future that may never come (no matter how anxiously we call it down upon our heads) is deliciously necessary for strengthening the resilience of our souls. No matter where we choose to park ourselves, it requires some travel to get there, and stillness when we arrive.

A cup of tea, and a kitten in the lap are optional, of course, but I highly recommend them.

Things My Mom Taught Me

Bumper joined the family last Monday, after a rough start to his little kitten life. At four weeks old, he was thrown from a moving car, hit the asphalt, and degloved the lower half of his mouth. Patrick’s kind and quick-thinking coworker scooped him up, took him to the vet, and sent photos to a few folks. Patrick texted those to me with “Do you want a new kitty?”, and now Bumper sleeps safely in a too-large animal taxi at the foot of the bed in the guestroom. He happily takes antibiotics twice a day, licking the business end of the syringe like it’s ice cream (some kitten version of it). I can hold him in one hand and still carry eggs from the coop in the other.

I’ve never had children. Lots of reasons, not the least of which is the absence of a deep-rooted calling or desire to fill those important shoes. Without that, it feels like an experiment that could go bad, and then what—give the little one back to the hospital? No. I bequeath the responsibility of raising young humans to those who have dreamt of it since their doll-playing days. I’ll aunt their offspring with great joy, babysit for free, and follow the rules called out as the parents head out the door on a much-needed date night. So far, that’s been appreciated and enough.

My own mom was a font of wisdom and instructions that I eagerly soaked up as each life event and circumstance presented itself, until I skidded into adolescence and figured I knew pretty much all I needed to know. She still taught me, but I spent the better part of nine years as the reluctant student in the back row of the classroom, doodling in the margins of my life’s notebook, and looking up only when called upon. Mom was a teacher in the formal sense as well, and knew how to handle such impertinence. She raised five young humans through the hilly landscape of infancy-to-adolescence and beyond, letting go when it was necessary, and holding on with a love that still teaches me. She died in 2015, surrounded by a context of details too complex and painful to go into here. It’s enough to say that when my time comes, I look forward to connecting with her again, to fill in the gaps and answer those questions that any loss leaves behind in its wake.

Taking care of a discarded kitten feels a poor comparison to parenting, and so I proceed cautiously in front of any of you who have set your shoulders and hearts squarely to that task. But right now, it’s as close as I’ll ever come. When he’s awake and bumbling around the vast living room space, looking like an animated exclamation point on the end of a perpetual energetic sentence, I laugh effortlessly and feel pieces of my heart slip away. When I’m at work and there’s a pause in the action, I wish I was home holding him as he plays with my dangling fingers. In a week’s time, I’ve grown solicitous and overprotective; I get up to check on him during the night, even when he’s not mewling for food or company. The house has gone a bit more dusty, and I glaze over the piles of projects that, two weeks ago, were at the top of my to-do list. It’s far more necessary to put in his eye drop medication, refill his water dish, and let him explore the kitchen. Or just sit on the old red wide-armed chair in the corner with him in my lap, or purring into my shoulder. As I write this, he’s stretched out, all eight inches of him, next to my leg, sleeping.

Though we didn’t have pets growing up (both mom AND dad insisted the house was full enough already, with five of us bumbling around and climbing everywhere), when we did bring home the baby bird or injured bunny, mom guided us through what to do next, teaching us the care continuum that started with a cardboard box filled with grass clippings and eventually led to the inevitable release back into the wild, or, sometimes, how deep to dig the grave and lay one of God’s creatures to rest. We trusted her, and she didn’t disappoint.

In 2015, as it became clear that mom was dying, I started writing a stream-of-consciousness list of what I learned from her, how her influence shaped the person I continue to become. I formatted it into a booklet and placed copies around the funeral home for folks to page through as they stood in line waiting to comfort us and express their sympathy. I haven’t looked at it in a while, found it in the upstairs office/guestroom, and want to share it with you. If it sparks memories of your own mother’s lessons, tucked safely away in your life’s toolkit, I’m glad. What mom knew and taught me has remained part of my daily routine. She was a woman of quiet power and prayer, an embodiment of hospitality and forgiveness, and the reason music is such a source of joy for me. I still fold towels and make no-bake oatmeal cookies the way she did, and hum Gershwin tunes unprompted.

Here’s some of what I know, some of what I am, because of her:

—How to sew on a button, fix a hem, use a sewing machine

—How to make “Sunday chicken”

—How to fold towels, socks, underwear, t-shirts, pants, shorts, and sheets. Even the fitted ones

—How to dust and sweep

—How to play Bingo, Crazy Eights, King’s Corners, Gin, Go Fish

—How to read

—How to sing

—How to put on a life jacket, and why

—How to trim my fingernails

—How to forgive

—How to pack a boat for a 2-week vacation at the lake

—How to say “please” and “thank you”, and “you’re welcome”

—How to dress for special occasions

—All about Rogers and Hammerstein musicals

—How to put together a creative Halloween costume

—How to fill out a check

—How to make tuna salad

—What a G clef and an F clef look like

—The difference between pennies, nickels, dimes and quarters

—How to use glue

—How to address an envelope

—How to write a thank you note

—How to tell someone who’s lost a loved one that you’re sorry for her loss

—How to care for houseplants

—How to load the dishwasher

—Basic math

—That it’s ok to cry at movies

—How to get through the gross or scary parts of movies, like the chariot races in Ben-Hur

—How to slam open a can of Pillsbury crescent rolls on the edge of the kitchen counter

—That saying “shut up” is as bad as dropping the F-bomb

—How to work a crossword puzzle

—Why soaking dirty dishes matters

—How to put a wet bathing suit back on after going to the restroom at the Northland Swim Club when you’re five years old

—How to imitate a cardinal

—How to make Jell-O Jigglers

—That dark chocolate is the best

—What to do when an ambulance comes to your neighbor’s house

—How to make the bed

—Why to make the bed

—How to measure and pack brown sugar for cookies

—How to make a phone call

—How to use and carry scissors

—How and what to pack in the “go bag” that sits at your feet in the car on a long road trip

—That people can change their minds. More than once

Meister Eckhart, 13th century mystic, once said “If the only prayer you say in your entire life is ‘thank you’, that would suffice”.

Thanks, Mom.

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?