Weather. Or Not.

By 4:00p.m., the top third of the dead cottonwood tree that landed on the roof of Patrick’s shed after the last big storm came sliding off, helped by a rope and a strong tug. I caught it with my left hand, or more specifically, it hit my arthritic left thumb and wrist on its way down, and now it’s Miller time. Ice or an ice cold beer, either one would make that hand feel good right about now, but I’m settling for a bowl of frozen white grapes.

We woke up today filled with ambition after yesterday’s surprise afternoon walking the grounds of Flint Ridge State Park, where the annual Knap-in was wrapping up. It’s an event that beckons flint crafters from around the country to spread our their tarps and display their art—arrowheads and spear tips and polished wire-wrapped flint dangling from thin leather strips. I’d suggested we go there to stroll through the abandoned flint pits and imagine the Early Ones digging up enough of the colorful stone to painstakingly create the tools they’d use in the years to come. But the marquees held the promise of artisans and eye candy, so we shifted gears and strolled among the booths, not a scrap of cash with us.

That wasn’t a problem when we stopped at a booth selling hammered copper wrist cuffs, knobbly polished walking sticks and fish prints painted on delicate rice paper in the Gyotaku tradition. I couldn’t decide between the bluegill or the largemouth bass, so they both came home with us, thanks to the Square swipe card on the vendor’s iPad. More artwork for the still bare-walled living room that we refreshed more than a year ago. Now all we need are frames.

It was a relaxing way to spend a Saturday afternoon; I had solo’d at the Farmer’s Market that morning with our homemade granola. Patrick woke up feeling poorly and looking pale but insisted he was good to sleep it off unsupervised, and with the truck already packed, I inhaled a quick hard boiled egg and apple breakfast and managed the whole set-up, selling, and tear-down on my own. It was lonely but strangely satisfying handling it myself, and I knew Patrick was where he most needed to be. Sales were brisk and steady, and he was feeling well enough to travel by the time I got home.

Talking about the different projects needing our attention is one of our favorite things to do on any road trip, no matter how many or few miles disappear beneath the truck tires. Weather apps ready to hand, we discuss logistics and timing, and plan our breaks accordingly. “So, when we get up tomorrow, let’s clear that cottonwood from the roof of the shed and then trim the trees down by the old chicken coops. After lunch, we’ll push back the weeds growing along the ridge by the house and then, just for fun, can we cut a path through the field behind the old old goat barn? I’d love to see what that’d look like.” And on it goes until we arrive at wherever we were planning to be.

For Sunday, the weather-guessers were predicting rain later in the day, so we wanted to time our tree removal and cutting just right; working a chainsaw is tricky enough without the added element of slippery fingers in wet gloves. It ended up being more complicated than it looked, what with a tangle of tenacious grapevines holding the fallen tree in a hammock of green leaves and sinewy thick strands. We worked with a set of lopers, a chainsaw and a pole saw just to clear away enough of the vines to see where we were headed and could safely navigate the rest of the tree trunk. The sky overhead was a moth-eaten gray cloud cover, and there was still laundry hanging from the line. Sometimes projects overlap.

Two hours later, Patrick took a break, I nursed my bruised hand a bit while making a pot of chicken soup for lunch, and had just loaded up the last contractor’s bag of trash into the bed of the red Tacoma (the leavings of other farm and miscellaneous projects collected from around the back of the shed that we needed to move in order to get at the tree) when the skies let loose with a short but intense downpour. I debated giving myself the experience of working until drenched, which can be quite exhilarating if you let go of the idea that sopping wet clothes are uncomfortable, and ended up following my nose back into the kitchen where the Dutch oven full of leeks and wine-broth and pulled chicken and potatoes was a damn sight more appealing than making myself feel all tough and accomplished (and wet). The soup was delicious. I’d chosen well.

Once the truck bed had been emptied of its load at the end of the driveway (wondering what kind and how many gift cards to leave for our beloved trash collector, bless him), a nap was in order. I had barely closed my eyes when I heard the rumble of thunder to the south, where all the best dramatic storms come from, and knew sleep was no longer on the agenda. The lightning grew bolder and less spaced out in between flashes, and within minutes the wind was whipping the black walnuts and yellow maples mercilessly. I stood at the mudroom door and watched as green leaves showed their silver undersides and water ran in rivulets off the gutters.

Halfway through our Labor Day weekend, we had a tree down and cut (we’ll stack tomorrow), homemade soup aplenty, and trash cleared. The untrimmed trees by the chicken coops are waiting patiently, and I’m ok with the tall weeds still standing along the ridge.

Not bad for a to-do list wedged in between the raindrops.

Look at Me

My friends’ Facebook pages were awash last week with photos of the young ones in their lives nervously or excitedly holding signs announcing grade-specific first days of school. They looked smart in their new clothes and I can imagine with no trouble at all the night-before dress rehearsals to make sure pants fit, tops matched, and accessories were in place, casually but carefully. I wonder what it all looked like by recess.

Not having children, except for the four-legged furry kind, the best I could have managed last week would have been a photo of Bumper and Xena in the pet taxi following their first (and only) spay and neuter appointments at the vet, trying in their woozy post-op state to hold a sign that reads “What the hell was that??”

Hey, firsts are firsts, right? At least they’re talking to us again.

Marking milestones in our lives isn’t new. Rites of passage span a broad and diverse continuum and I feel safe saying (without the hard data to back it up) we’ve all had at least one day to ourselves in the sun, to stop time and make note of a particular moment that will never repeat itself, never happen again. You’re thinking about a few of your own right now, aren’t you? I wish you were here with me so I could listen to what that first day of kindergarten was like for you, or how it felt to lose your first baby tooth after your brother convinced you that biting down on the belt to your terrycloth bathrobe while he yanked on it from three feet away wouldn’t hurt at all. Or what about the time you took to the basketball court for your first game, the other third graders towering above you and wondering why you were placed as a guard? As you look back on your two-point career, I hope you give yourself all kinds of high fives and back-slaps for even trying out in the first place.

So many of our firsts are also “onlies”(only-s?); events that can’t be repeated. Re-enacted maybe, but in the second they occur, they slide back into our personal histories and pick up speed in reverse as we move forward and into the next First. I suppose in some lovely existential way, every moment of our lives is a non-repeater, and now if I start tallying them up I’m going to get tired and blow a brain fuse from the sheer volume of them all. For the sake of our collective sanity, let’s keep this conversation to milestone firsts. I’m happy to grab a cup of tea with you at a later date and meander down that other philosophical path. I’ll bring the sandwiches.

What do you suppose it is about our need to make a deal (big or small or moderately-sized) about the stuff that we experience without precedent? Reality TV’s influence over the last couple of decades has certainly expanded the tools at our fingertips to broadcast these moments. But this desire to suspend time and give them their own spotlight predates the onset of social media by a mile.

My money’s on the rock-solid human need to be validated, on top of which we pile a mix of sentimentality, record-keeping, notoriety, evidence for the generations to come, and a little bit of the ham that resides deep within all of us (hence the photos and posts of Groomsmen’s Dances at wedding receptions, Puppy’s First Bath, and Tyler Wearing his First Football Uniform on the First Day of Practice After the First Day of School, grinding broadly to show everyone where that baby tooth used to be). When we look back at these photos, we laugh, or smile with affection and fondness for the one taking center stage, and then tell the story with good-natured and generous embellishments. We’re right back in the place where it started and someone had the presence of mind to snap a picture.

I think we also don’t trust our own memories to recall the important details of such events as our days unfold into decades. Red dress or blue? Was Aunt Jeannie there? Yes, she was behind the camera, I know, because she’d always make us say “Bees!!” instead of “cheese!” before taking at least four pictures as insurance against closed eyes and a cousin’s hand reaching up to smooth his hair. Not important then but the stuff of storytelling legend twelve years later when accuracy counts as evidence that we’re not really growing more forgetful.

As the fourth of five children raised in the unplugged and non-digitally saturated 70’s, I can’t show you any First-Day-of-School-With-a-Sign photos. And that’s ok. I tended toward anxiety more than calm in those days and I don’t think I’d want a photo of that moment in my scrapbook now. Behind the pink gingham dress beat the nervous heart of an insecure second-grader whose “good” would never be good enough. I was more settled in by Class Picture Day some six weeks into the school year, and neatly trimmed each wallet-sized photo of my more at-ease and smiling face while mom wrote the accompanying notes to aunts and uncles scattered across the Midwest.

I can show you First Married Kiss, First Sunrise at Canyon de Chelly, First Birthday, and First Plaster Cast of my Five-Year-Old Hand. I remember each one like it was yesterday. Isn’t that sweet, and really, the whole point—to melt away the years if only for a little while? To feel seen and special again?

Happy First Whatever This Day Is For You.

Consider it noted.

Holding Onto Summer

The air is thick with cicada song, clinging to the humidity until a hot breeze carries it across the drying grass to rest near my bare feet.

A handful of goldfinches have found the thistle socks I hung from the mulberry saplings last Thursday, but their feathery weight barely sets the whole dangling enterprise in motion; that hot cicada breeze picks up slightly and sways both bird and seed-filled mesh netting back and forth gently. Not one finch gives up its place at the vertical al fresco table.

I love August. It’s still summer, though the approaching school year makes it seem as if all is autumn and new school supplies.

A woman I knew long ago when I worked as a pastoral associate at a university-based faith community once told me that her theology professor insisted God’s favorite colors were purple and yellow. She put this forth as fact, no room for question or debate. I’m not here to argue that one way or the other, aside from the familiar arrogance of any human who claims to know the mind of God at such a thin level as color preference. But, as I look out my living room windows, I can see a proud cluster of sturdy iron weed in bloom, its purple flowers bursting forth right next to two tall and willowy stands of golden yellow wingstem and veiny hawkweed, close enough as if they were married and shared a root system. Besides the ever-present ombré of green as a backdrop, and the subtle brownish branches of the trees, there are no other colors in view. Somewhere, a retired (and for all I know, deceased) theology professor just rested her case.

Divine favorites now acknowledged and set aside, it’s a lovely privilege to take a break from restocking this week’s varied inventory of granola and pause to receive all of the above as gift—cicadas making their late-summer selves known (though I can’t see them at all, no matter how much I squint into the direction of their ratchety sound), hot breeze and buttery yellow wingstem against the color wheel’s best shades of green, and the crunch of blueberry almond granola pulling it all together in a five-senses celebration. I really do live like this, noticing things and trying my darndest to keep life slow enough most days to do so. I marvel at the way it is both ordinary and profound. And, random thought: I think Dad would have enjoyed our blueberry almond granola.

We recently became supporting members of a local nature preserve, and after Saturday’s market sales were tallied for the week, we traveled the short thirty-five minutes to browse the gift shop and walk through the cypress swamp, hoping a snake or two would slide their heads above the algae to see what we were all about. They didn’t, but their absence didn’t keep us from standing captivated in the midst of such an other-worldly treasure practically in our back yard. And speaking of back yards, why would two city-raised kids turned rural residents need to buy our way into a 2000+ acre nature preserve when we’ve got 41 perfectly fine (and paid for) acres outside both front and back doors? Couldn’t we just go for a walk and call it even?

You’d think.

But to see such a well-tended expanse of native plants, towering trees, waterways, evergreens, and the community’s commitment to it has re-inspired our own caretaker creativity for the humble slice of terra firma we know, where we scatter our dreams at night and park our trucks and stretch out our aging limbs after a day’s worth of weeding. I’ve imagined setting up little conversation area vignettes in the meadow so that visiting friends and family can stop and rest on our after-brunch walks, commenting on the wider creek banks or noting the smooth tawny and grey feathers of a cedar waxwing in that branch right over there. I’ve gotten as far as placing pairs of lawn chairs somewhat strategically throughout the meadows’ seven or so wooded acres, and added “end tables” to our list of yard sale acquisitions for the upcoming Labor Day weekend (a body needs somewhere to set down a glass of Shiraz for heaven’s sake). I scroll through the pages of Flea Market Gardening’s monthly e-newsletter, and see that some clever person has staked out an old wooden door in the middle of nowhere, adorned the now-empty windowpanes with a grapevine wreath and painted it a chippy ocean blue. We could do that easily, and de-clutter the front deck of the two old doors we trash-picked four Springs ago. I think I’d make it so the door could open and close on its hinges, a portal to some mystical and enchanted place where no one could find me for hours. Another project for a growing list that has no period at the end of it.

Is it greedy to wish for a parallel life so I can care full time for our home and land and still enjoy the benefits of employer-supported healthcare coverage and a bi-weekly paycheck? We do what we can on either side of our respective workdays, but time spent outside never feels adequate, and many’s the day I’ve climbed reluctantly into the cab of the truck to head toward that regular paycheck, knowing full well what I’m leaving behind. Please forgive the late summer melancholy. I suppose the school-age child wistfully organizing her notebooks, freshly sharpened pencils and new socks against the memories of a summer well-spent has never completely left this older woman’s soul.

I still love August, though. And probably always will.

It’s still summer.

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.