Shhhhhh…

Perched on the front deck of a house that sits at least a quarter mile from a barely-traveled two-lane rural road that was mostly gravel until seventeen years ago, there’s just enough early dawn silence to soothe my chatter-weary ears. The blue jays are at it again this morning, arguing over whose turn it is at the feeder while the goldfinches cut in line with their swooping arcs.

Yesterday was unusually loud and filled with all manner of sounds, from the rumble of distant trucks hauling who knows what on a Saturday morning, to the crinkling of the reusable blue IKEA tote bags we packed with wax-lined food-grade resealable bags of granola to sell at our local farmer’s market, to the happy and friendly banter with our customers. As we made our way to town, the Tundra’s motory vibrations set a plastic water bottle rattling ever so slightly until I moved it to the quieter floor mat behind the passenger seat while Patrick drummed his fingers on the console between us.

I’ve been a morning person pretty much all my years, even in college, where mornings were often just the remnants of the previous long night before with friends and roommates out in the unclaimed field behind the soccer pitch, trying to remember the chord progression to the bridge of “A Horse With No Name”. What has pulled me out of bed since, for the past 12,000+ mornings is less a sense of purpose—though that’s certainly still there in the mix—and more a craving for the near-silence that only a fresh sunrise, with or without dew and blue jays, offers up in its golden-fingered hands. It’s having the living room all to myself, a kitten in my lap, and the hot pot about to give me that sacred first sip of tea. It’s no voices asking or demanding anything of me, not even Xena’s mewling squeaks as she turns her tiny head upward into my face. She knows that I know where the dry food is kept, that it’s not going anywhere, and that I’ll get up from the couch eventually and she won’t go hungry.

Mornings and silence. Better than the best therapist or latest wonder drug.

So relentlessly noisy was our Saturday that on the way home from the Market, Patrick and I both expressed the need for quiet time, alone, space to ourselves and our jumbled thoughts. We ate lunch—he on the couch and I at the kitchen table—generous and respectful space between us, and no hard feelings. We’ve each recently discovered and full-body embraced our latent introverts, a surprising revelation given our backgrounds in sales, networking, and event planning. Coaxed forth like timid rabbits from a warren, this aspect of our psyches now unfolds its legs and claims just the right amount of space in our lives without apology; we are learning its schedule and its needs.

A meal uninterrupted wasn’t enough to reset my inner calm, so I took my introvert, three blankets and as many throw pillows and set myself up beneath the stand of volunteer maples out back (Patrick chose the cheap therapy of giving the trees along the driveway a good trimming). I stretched out full length on my side, my left hand and right foot buried in the grass, and felt every sound that clung to my overloaded central nervous system unhinge itself and sink deep into the soil below. Out of reach and not coming back, I gave in to an afternoon nap that ought to be written up in a medical journal.

Somewhere in that space between jangled nerves and reclaimed peace, I wonder what noise I’m missing—does the blood coursing through my veins make a sound? Besides the snuffling of a raccoon on the edge of the field that I’ll never hear because I wasn’t close enough at the time he made his trek from the woods, what other sounds are just too quiet to hear?

In 2004 and six months later in 2005, I had surgery to replace the stapes bones in each ear. Best not to do them both at the same time, as it would have been all too disturbing to go from hard-of-hearing to deaf, albeit temporary, in just one day. I’d struggled with progressive hearing loss for fifteen years prior, and finally summoned the courage to explore my options. The news was better than I’d anticipated, and the first outpatient procedure took place the week before Christmas. So did the Great Ice Storm of 2004. The barn roof collapsed on seven of our expectant Boer goat does (who survived by moving to either end of the barn safe from the now swayback and sagging roof, where they delivered a total of nine kids in 16 hours), the power went out for nearly a week, and I padded around the house with one good ear, keeping the wood stove full and making oatmeal atop the kerosene heater. I only heard half of any sounds the house might have been making, and nothing at all when I slept on my good ear.

After the second surgery and the subsequent recovery period, I stood on the front deck facing west, and registered the clear and rhythmical knocking sound of a dedicated woodpecker somewhere in the tree line down by the creek. Just beyond her was the hum of traffic on the busier two-lane road a mile away. Traffic I’d never heard since we’d moved here was now annoying and competing with the gentler sounds of nature getting about its workday, a hidden but audible woodpecker taking center stage. Tears tracked the length of my cheeks as I stood unaware of time or place, drinking in only that sound.

I remember one summer maybe six years ago, while Patrick was out west at Sundance, I got all ambitious and decided to redo the master bedroom, from painting the floors and walls to finally, finally, getting the king size bed and box springs up off the floor and into a grown-up bed frame. My sister, Jane and niece Felicia offered to help and I let them. They camped out on the living room floor, windows open to pull in whatever night breeze was available beneath the stars. I got up as I usually do, tiptoeing around the air mattress they shared, and tried to be quiet, but the birds outside the walls and windows weren’t having it. Finches and cardinals and those arguing blue jays insisted we’d slept long enough, and with her face still in the pillow, Jane let loose with a “Shut UP!” that still shakes me with laughter at the memory.

Not a morning person…nope, not at all.

But, someone who appreciates silence. She’s welcome here anytime.

Another Sunrise

Do not fear growing older. It is a privilege denied to many.

Through a sudden and thick fog east of the athletic center at Kenyon College I could just make out the shape of my red Tacoma, parked on the flattened grass with a handful of other cars, some with bike racks bolted securely on their tailgates. My niece Andi and I had been up well before dawn; I had the honor of driving her to the starting chute for the second half of her 200-mile fundraising ride for cancer research, and after a cheerful disembodied voice counted down the start, I watched her pedal slowly into a mist-shrouded sunrise, her cycling posture at once relaxed and determined. She and her fellow 300 or so cyclists selflessly greeted the promise of another grueling and satisfying day.

My shoes were dewy wet when I climbed into the truck. I pulled out my phone to send a text message to her ride support group and reassure her mother, my sister, that she’d gotten up and on her way just fine when I noticed the news alert about yet another mass shooting in less than 24 hours—the first in El Paso, Texas and the most recent in Dayton, Ohio. 9 people killed, several wounded; it was too early to know exact numbers, or if there was a second shooter. Headlines started rapidly doing the casualty/victim math for both shootings as I bounced from one news source to another, scrolling for more details. Behind me, 300 or so cyclists might or might not know the what had happened as they pumped their way up a steep and tree-lined hill, cancer survivors and departed loved ones riding tandem in their minds, heavy on their hearts.

Another sunrise. Another chance to do something right and good. Another day unfolding the worst nightmare for the ones left behind with unanswerable questions and now-stinging memories.

As I drove home through the deserted morning streets with the sun burning off the fog, I prayed for the safety—emotional and physical—of the people on those bicycles. My mind hung onto the families and friends of those shot in Dayton who were just learning how bad their loved ones’ injuries were, and I thought of the collective psyches and souls of my fellow human beings, wondering how much more our violence-weary spirits could bear. I know what’s coming: thoughts and prayers from elected officials, social media posts and comments arguing about the Best Way to put an end to this madness, vigils scheduled at local faith communities, the word “enough” forcing its way to the front line of our vocabulary. Again.

I’m writing this, so I was given another day to fill with accomplishments both remarkable and mundane, and as the west glows a burnished gold, I’m redefining “remarkable” in the new and tragic light of this morning’s horrible news. Remarkable now means walking out to fill the busy birdfeeders, making three batches of granola before lunch, and keeping the kitchen clean. I made it to and from my niece’s post-ride celebratory lunch safely, where I sat next to my brother, whom I haven’t seen in over a year. My husband has been outside working with heavy lumber and power tools, and his limbs and digits are still attached and functioning just fine (no surprises there; he’s our household’s self-appointed safety director, which is why I’ve not been on any bike rides in our two-lane curvy-road neighborhood in years).

At this exact moment, I feel deeply the need to renew my inner commitment to take nothing—Nothing—for granted. I’ve seen hard times, scary cliff’s-edge moments and near-misses. There are scars that hide the details of my life’s stories, which I’ll disclose (or not) someday. Yet here I stand, or sit, with another sunrise in my ledger (if I were even keeping track), and another sunset about to be added with humble gratitude. Somewhere out there, a philanthropic cyclist is icing down her muscles and putting away her “in honor of” jersey until next year’s ride. And somewhere out there, an exhausted father is looking for that one photo of his son, the one with the two of them mugging for the camera on that fishing trip, to add to the collage that will grace a table at the funeral home’s calling hours, once the body is released by the local authorities after their investigation and evidence-gathering is finished. Some will know the triumph of crossing a finish line, and some will realize that every good thing they’ve ever imagined and dreamt of has been turned upside down and shaken violently forever.

My niece finished and made us all proud. She rode for those who couldn’t. She cares, like so many of us do. Together we will find our way through this latest darkness. And if the sun rises again tomorrow, we’ll have another chance at the starting chute, poised and ready, and willing to do what we can do.

Get a good night’s sleep, dear ones. We’re gonna need it.

The Bridge to Everywhere

Twenty-two concrete pier blocks were unloaded on the west side of the driveway last week, on the house side of the bridge, and two 24’ steel I-beams sit on the slope between the house and the old old goat barn, scrubbed and painted painstakingly with four coats of rust-proof liquid magic that promises to extend their life into our 80’s. Reflecting on a lifetime of dental appointments in my own rear view mirror, it’s a relief to experience a different kind of bridgework. It’s also a relief to have hired out this latest Big Project to a crew of experts instead of trying to tackle it ourselves (still chipping the excess dried joint compound from the door frame in the mudroom…).

The current bridge is not the original, entirely. Fifteen years ago in the final days of a sunny October, Patrick rebuilt the deck with 6x6’s and rented a Bobcat with a forklift attachment to remove the rotting moss-covered railroad ties that grudgingly received the weight of our trucks for too many years. He let me maneuver it solo as I positioned the pointy ends of the forklift underneath a section of decking closest to the bank, and I felt all accomplished and tough until the machine slid too close the creek’s edge, the now-freed plank teetering precariously in the gap between the forklift’s blades. White-knuckled, I shifted the gears and inched it slowing backwards while Patrick called out encouraging “atta girl!” words from ten feet away—he could do little else, since the cab of this Bobcat was single occupancy only. I climbed out and gratefully registered the feeling of solid ground beneath my feet and well away from the steep creek bank, taking off my gloves (a sure sign that this gig was over). I was glad to relinquish my seat behind the wheel and head back to the house to make pulled pork sliders and coleslaw. If that pushed the women’s movement back a few years, I apologize.

Patrick’s re-build took about two weeks, and I remember how we parked our vehicles on the street side of the bridge so we could still make a living Monday through Friday. I’d wear my farm boots to walk across the make-shift bridge of plywood he’d put down over the sub-deck slats, and change into something slightly more stylish and office-appropriate when I got to work, then reverse the process after I’d backed my truck down the driveway at the end of the day’s commute. It felt cool and inconvenient at the same time.

For this new re-build, the logistics are much more involved (hence the crew of experts who own their backhoes and bucket attachments), and I’ll be wearing taller wading boots as I climb down the creek bank on the north side, traverse the now-shallow run of babbling waters to the slightly-steeper south bank and dodge the poison ivy that clings to the towering black walnuts, change my shoes in the car, and head out to shuffle paper, answer phones and make decisions at the office 18 miles away. When I asked Patrick to run a guide rope across the creek so I’d have something to hold onto, he smiled and didn’t promise anything. Summer being as far along as it is, and the weeds on both sides of the creek well-established, I’m hoping he’ll at least cut a path, but I’ve got my rusted antique scythe propped up by the front door next to the walking stick Jeannie gave me for my birthday (just need to remember where I put my Hello Kitty backpack, and I’ll be all set). We’ll re-purpose those 6x6’s because they’ve got plenty of use still left in them.

In the twenty some years we’ve been here, that short stretch of steel and wood and labor has kept us connected in both directions to aspects of our world that both feed and try our souls on a daily basis. Yesterday as I was helping Patrick take apart the side rails (saving the crew about two hours’ worth of work, and us a couple hundred dollars), I felt my bones and muscles relax into our immediate surroundings: lush leafy tree branches overhead in random crisscross patterns, the local catbirds and finches flitting about taking care of their own feathery to-do lists, and the curves of the creekbanks framing it all like a summer vacation postcard. I realized just how little time we spend actually standing on the bridge as opposed to slowly driving over it to arrive somewhere else. It was pure contemplative luxury to give our hands over to a project that required us to linger on the bridge’s deck for more than a few minutes and gaze more deeply into the narrow wooded waterway that still held so many secrets. Sitting on the tailgate of the Tacoma for a well-deserved break, we traded memories and it felt like being on a date. Sweet.

In previous posts, I’ve described the flooding we’ve witnessed in recent years and so won’t fill space by repeating myself, but in my mind’s eye, those indelible images of not being able to see the bridge deck at all are hard to ignore as we stand securely on those 6x6’s with unconscious trust. These lengths of solid wood were under water, fiercely rushing water that carried all manner of silt and rocks and fallen tree trunks, battered by the force of it all, and yet, here we stand without a wobble. As we unscrewed bolts and carried rail posts to rest for now on either side of the pock-marked gravel driveway, we spoke the words aloud and with amazement. It was at once testament to Patrick’s engineering and construction skills, and unexplainable phenomenon wrapped in a physics we don’t quite understand and magical thinking that makes the story that much more fun to tell.

This humble bridge has taken us places and welcomed us home. From the first few moments of apprehension-turned-wonder when we drove across in the real estate agent’s SUV, to our travels to the grocery store for apples and water softener salt, and longer road trips that involved truck stops in seven states, those wooden planks and steel supports remained in place, offering safe passage to those who cared for our animals while we were gone. It willingly received the weight and wheels of the propane truck in the fall and mid-winter, the grass truck when the barn burned down last summer, and the occasional errant motorcycle driven by a lost tourist who thought our driveway was a secret path to some hidden paradise (he was right, of course, but politely turned around and sped off, leaving behind apologies for disturbing our privacy). I’m sure I could tally them up, but for now let’s say that nearly countless baby chicks made their way in cardboard mailing boxes across that bridge to take up temporary or permanent residence (depending on their purpose) in the field behind the house, and precisely 47 Boer goats made it across at least twice before we closed the book on that livestock enterprise ten years ago. It brought us city friends, siblings and their children, new UPS drivers who didn’t know to leave our packages in large billowy plastic bags tied to the electric pole at the end of the driveway, and our neighbor Jean with a plateful of her peanut butter fudge that we savored for as along as we could make it last. Whatever the flood waters may have washed across that deck, the wood is still saturated with the rich and flowing memories of our comings and goings, twenty years’ worth and counting.

When we christen the new bridge later this week, we’ll do it up right with some carefully-selected adult beverages and well-chosen words of gratitude. There are more journeys to come, we know, and as we cross over those concrete piers, rust-proofed 24’ I-beams and repurposed 6 x 6 planks, the connection between what lies ahead and what waits for us at home will go on, we hope, well into our 80’s.

There’s Something About Summer

I think it’s the blueberries.

Or the way lightning strobe-lights the sky on a humid night.

It could be the almost shapeless sense of time that is July, yawning and suspended in between the radishes we ate in June and the spiral notebooks and backpacks waiting to go on sale in August.

Or days when we’re one gill away from being fish—the ground below us is wet, the air is thick with moisture, and the rain keeps coming down. We’re inhaling water, walking through water, becoming water.

Then there are the fireflies…glittery diamonds on the tall grass, or the newly-mown grass, only slightly diminished in numbers but just as determined to find a date before dawn.

It’s squeezing in another week-long trip with the children in tow, passing plastic cups of juice and Cheerios to the back seat and pointing out a rare galloping horse when most of the cows just stand amidst the scenery in perfect stillness as you drive by.

It’s farmer’s markets in full tomato-y bloom, with Bull’s Blood beets and basil on the heels of a late crop of rhubarb and the promise of sweet corn.

And what about those towering and billowy clouds, defying gravity and unfolding from some secret place within, changing from dragons to bunnies in the blink of a 4-year-old’s watchful and delighted eye.

It’s feet on the grass and the soil, not a flip-flop anywhere in sight.

It’s pool noodles and block parties and yard sales and people being neighborly.

It’s the perfectly-timed breeze that brushes the sweat from a highway worker’s forehead and makes her smile as rush hour traffic crawls by.

And it’s ice rattling in the tumblers that hold colorful blackberry mojitos, or cucumbers and mint floating in a gallon-sized glass jar of chilled water, a silver spout at the ready to offer relief.

Spring’s baby bunnies are now fully-grown and gamboling about the lettuce rows on the other side of the chicken wire fence we thought was rabbit-proof.

Equine and dairy and goat princesses stroll the dirt paths at county fairs in between the Tilt-a-Whirl and the ring toss game stand, in sleeveless sundresses, wave from hay wagons and spoon snow cones into smiling mouths.

It’s toddler and adolescent heads bobbing in the public swimming pool down the street from where you live, munching on pretzel rods during the 15-minute breaks when the grown-ups get the deep end all to themselves.

It’s setting the table at 9:30 and eating dinner at 10:30 because heck, the sun just went down forty-five minutes ago and who cares if we leave the dishes soaking in the sink until morning? What’s the rush?

What summer gives us unrestrainedly is permission to slow down our gait, to dawdle and trail our fingers in the lake of utter relaxation, all entitled and guilt-free after a hard winter and a non-stop spring. The invitation to bare our shoulders to the sun is irresistible and so we do just that, and keep the bottle of aloe gel in the fridge in case we forget to come in before sunset. Surrounded by everything green, and riots of floral colors, we sink in up to our chins and float, watching as our more industrious agendas blur at the edges. They’ll return soon enough, just as soon as we get lunches packed and the kids on the bus.

For now, eat the blueberries and go barefoot. You won’t regret it.

I promise.