Sick Day

I stayed home from work last Thursday, a rare and indulgent treat for me. My PTO bank reached its limit and stopped accumulating hours, so I suspect the cold that knocked me flat was Someone’s way of telling me to take a day off. I hardly ever miss work, and I’m hardly ever sick (all we need for this story now is a Bigfoot sighting and the Publishers Clearing House sweepstakes van in our driveway).

I’ve lamented here before the perpetual ache of having to leave the land behind to work a full time job that gives me money to pay for the land (and the house and a truck and food) in the first place. I take my dreams of an early retirement with me down the road that leads to a parking place and an office with my name on it, and at the lunch table I wonder what the cats are up to back home. Rearranging the throw rugs like they do? Crouching in hope below the bird feeder on the ridge, mouths open and eyes hunter-wide? Who knows? At the end of my day, I’m greeted with innocent faces and evidence of their time spent redecorating the living room. No stray feathers on the welcome mat today, thank goodness.

But staying home AND not feeling well is the height of unfairness, especially in a place like ours, with so many moving parts and spectacles of nature whizzing by nonstop. Shortly after I woke up, I took my thick and congested head for a short walk through the entrance to the meadow, thinking the fresh cold air would chill-kill any residual germs still hanging onto the balance of my immune system for dear life. I opened the door to the chicken hutch and released the last two remaining girls from a flock that boasted 28 layers just a year ago, and stood watching as they pecked their way through some frost-encrusted pigweed leftover from August before rushing to that same bird feeder on the ridge where the kittens wished for breakfast just thirty minutes earlier. As I felt the next round of coughing fits stirring in my dry throat, I turned and went back inside, cranky and resentful that I couldn’t enjoy this paycheck paid-for moment in full health. I knocked back a teaspoon-size slug of some homemade elecampane syrup purchased from our friends’ new apothecary (Old Mr. Bailiwick’s), chased it down with some of their elderberry syrup and parked myself on the couch near a fresh box of Kleenex. Sigh. The view through the front windows would have to do.

It didn’t take long for the show to begin, a series of random (?) one-act plays and improv entitled “This Is What Happens When You’re Not Here”:

The chickens standing perfectly still beneath the needled boughs of the blue spruce while a red-tail hawk circles low and tight overhead. Even with the windows shut I can hear its hungry cry.

A football-sized possum carrying in its mouth one of the stale corn tortillas I had tossed out the back door for the chickens, who apparently never saw it. I don’t know why he felt it needed to travel a few feet before it was edible, but this wasn’t my moment. He chewed his way through nearly all of it as the chickens watched from their hawk-proof shelter. I don’t know if possums and poultry are mortal enemies, but I was observing a simple “Peaceable Kingdom” tableau using the wildlife we had available (not many lions in this part of the state, though our neighbors raise sheep, so we’re halfway there, I suppose). It occurred to me that perhaps a daytime possum sighting was rare. Wonderful—another research project, like hibernating bees (see a couple posts back).

Though I’d prefer to be outside rather than in most days—ok, every day—I did understand that were I outside, much of what I just saw wouldn’t be happening. Most of our four-legged and winged relatives save their best stuff for when we’re not around, or at least not visible to them. It’s sheer luck and gift when the buck rubbing the velvet from his antlers is on the same tree-lined path back to the woods as I am, and he’s so intent on removing that last strip he doesn’t hear my boots crunching through the frosty grass. Or when I snap my gaze toward the movement of a red fox in the cut field to the west, its tail a straight line above the ground as it runs north to the woods.

I watched that possum for a good three minutes while it dawned on me that its face wasn’t screwed up into the defensive snarling expression I usually see; it looked peaceful and content making short work of that tortilla. I’m committing that image to memory for the next time I startle one in the old goat barn—a humble reminder that I’ve made more than a few snarling faces in my day, sometimes without having been startled.

I’m glad my cold is on its way out, of course. I’m back at the office and caught up on most emails. But I doubt anyone would notice if I took a day off work ever so often while I was feeling fine, just to walk the land and pay attention to what this place looks like on a Tuesday at 10am.

Maybe I will. I’ve got the time…

Reconsidering Hibernation

In the guest room downstairs, the south and west-facing windows are framed with whimsical strands of lights in the shape of bees. I like to turn them on at night to soften the sharper edges of the room’s decor (affectionately called Country Accumulation, Twenty Years’ Worth) while I write, or sew, or paint, or bind a journal. It’s a multi-purpose space that our guests don’t seem to mind, and the bee lights round out the eclectic artist vibe. Plus, I like bees for their industriousness. There’s always something to do in the hive. My fidgety soul can relate.

(Funny, these inanimate bees giving me wise counsel from their perch on the curtain rods haven’t moved since I hung them there—the opposite of their buzzing, living counterparts).

Last night, while Patrick was out for a meeting an hour away, I drove a couple loads of clean but damp laundry (bedding, most of his sock-and-underwear drawer, pants I’ll need for work this week) four miles up the road to the small-town laundromat for a luxurious and warm tumble in one of the big commercial dryers. We haven’t had a dryer since we moved here, or a television, or a microwave. It’s ok—we’ve done just fine without them most days. In the spring and summer, line-dried sheets and a single cotton blanket are sheer heaven on a warm evening. But on a cold night in mid-autumn, soft and warm bedsheets straight from the dryer are a damn sight more comfortable than crisp and stiff air-dried ones fresh off the retractable clothesline installed in the upstairs guest room (its decor affectionately called Country Office With A Generous Side Of eBay Items Waiting For Buyers). Between now and April, I’ll probably make a handful of these trips and won’t even mind if the roads are snowy.

It’s these soft and warm sheets that hold us fast in the dark hours of a winter workday morning, after my inner “alarm” goes off around 4;30, announcing that it’s nearly time to become considerably more uncomfortable for the next 45 minutes, bare feet touching a cold floor, muscles and bones reluctantly warming up and into those eventual feel-good hip flexor stretches and 60-second planks. I like how I feel after I exercise, but I also appreciate the indulgence of a good sleep-in. When it’s dark and cold at 6:30 in the morning, I’d rather stay horizontal, warm, and wrapped in laundromat-tumbled sheets. Who wouldn’t?

As I returned home and pulled up to the house in the dark, a strong skunk scent smacked me in the face before I’d even gotten out of the truck; I immediately wondered which of the kittens had had the unfortunate encounter. It’s their inaugural autumn with us, and their curiosity hasn’t found the “off” switch yet. Two weeks ago, Bumper was nose-to-nose with a possum twice his weight beneath the bird feeders, and it actually seemed to be going well, as first meeting go. After a few cautious sniffs and circling about’s, each one went forward with his original agenda, no territorial snarling or furry fisticuffs. And thankfully, none of the cats has ever come home whimpering and smelling of a skunk’s last word, so my next thought was simply that skunks sometimes get startled. As I gazed upward into a clear and star-encrusted night sky, I accepted the fact that skunks are out and about after the sun goes down. Our cats are the indoor/outdoor variety, and life is about taking risks, no matter who you are. I unloaded the still-warm sheets and blankets as quickly and respectfully as I could, and left the wild community outside to its own devices.

At least once a day, I realize that living where we do is a continuous and cyclical parade of who’s awake and who’s asleep and who’s flying overhead to get somewhere warmer. It’s hard not to notice the absence of certain creatures when they call it a season and settle down for the winter. There are days when I so want to join them, sleeping off the relentless pace of an over-filled spring and summer. Autumn slows us down a little, clocks turned back an hour mess with our sleep rhythms for a week or two, and then, when winter fully encircles us with its cold snowy breath, we adjust our routines to allow more time for scraping windshields, shoveling off the porch, bundling up, and leaving extra space between us and the car ahead. As much as I love each season for the unique beauty it brings us, when I finally do retire, I fully expect “winter morning commutes” to top the list entitled “What I Won’t Miss About My Full-time Job”. I’m romantic but I’m no fool.

I don’t know where bees go when it gets cold. As soon as I’m finished posting this, my fidgety soul and I will do the research. I hope they push some instinctual buzzy pause button and take a well-earned and protracted snooze.

If they can do it, I’d certainly be willing to give it a try.

Edible Jewels of Autumn

I’m thoroughly lost in a honeycrisp apple the size of my two fists put together plus one of Patrick’s, and won’t be answering my phone until well after the last bite. Close your eyes for a minute (read to the end of this sentence first) and imagine a crunching sound so clear and crisp you almost need earplugs.

Rethinking that afternoon cookie snack now, aren’t ya?

(Confession: I’ve also got a 12oz slab of halva—Mediterranean sesame fudge—nearby, topped with a rough blanket of crushed pistachios. In case of an emergency. But the apple went in first, for the record).

Since January 2018, I’ve been clocking in at around two apples a day, sometimes three if they’re small. A high LDL number and some research in the opposite direction of taking a statin led me toward pommes as a go-to snack instead of toast or Mounds bars. I was obsessed at first, having no less than five pounds of them in the fridge at all times and sitting down virtuously each morning (yes, weekends too) to a Gala, my favorite for months and months until I accidentally bought a bag of Fujis in a harried afternoon after-work run through the produce section. Now it’s Fujis, then Galas, and then Honeycrisps, but only organic (additional research offered a scary list of all the fruits and veggies most drenched in pesticides. I didn’t sleep well for a while. Apples topped that list, and I’d ingested about a week’s worth until I was enlightened). Now Patrick will come home with a bag without even asking first. What a dear.

I don’t remember as a kid going for apples much unless we were at our maternal grandparents’ place in Tiffin, Ohio. Opa had a couple of trees that bore a variety called “transparent” in his back yard. The fruits were fist-size and golden yellow, and we’d climb the short trunk to pick a couple and eat them with a sprinkle of salt. It’s important to note that Opa brought his extensive gardening know-how with him from Holland when he came to America at all of eighteen years old. Fifty years later, his grandchildren got to wander through a wonderland of a backyard where that botanical expertise had the lion’s share of the real estate. He could cut the small patch of grass at the edge of the slate patio with a push-mower and not even work up a sweat. The rest of the space between the house and the detached garage was filled with pear, cherry, and hazelnut trees which grew next to a row of gooseberry bushes just on the other side of the raspberry canes. Where the canes ended, rows of potatoes, carrots, tomatoes, ground cherries, lettuce and squash were bookended by pole beans at one end and an airy chamomile patch at the other. The latter was so prolific, we knew we’d find a generous harvest of the apple-scented buds drying on an old copy of the Toledo Blade’s “peach” section every time we opened the door to the potting shed. Black raspberries grew next to the kissing gate that opened into the alley, and behind the garage, red and black currant bushes decorated the cinderblock foundation like a thick and festive fringe. We ate well in every season, as Opa’s wife, Opoe, was a master canner. I come by my foodie tendencies naturally, and miss the heck out of those trips north.

In my college days, there’d be boxes of apples at autumn charity walk-a-thons weighing down the folding tables at the finish line, and I don’t recall getting lost in any of them. Picked too soon and trucked across a few states, they were slightly bitter and left my mouth dry. I ate them in hopes that the next bite would yield the sweetness promised by the ruby red skin. It never did (thank goodness someone always brought donuts).

Now I have un-adulterated apples just a few yards from my back door; they’re the humble remnants of a once-thriving orchard but we haven’t kept up and the fruits are misshapen, a little sour, and occasionally wormy. They still do in a pinch, and the ones that fall before we can eat them smell lovely as they ferment on the ground, wasps and hornets swarming drunkenly from one drop to another. In the spring, we hold onto every ounce of hope that these stalwart survivors of winter will saturate the air with that unmistakable and heady apple blossom fragrance. It’s enough to get a body though the wet and final days of April.

Until then, I’m pleased to announce that the two-year, twice-a-day apple practice has been a helpful strategy in a constellation of statin-free options that has brought my LDL down to almost where it belongs (when your doctor says “keep on doing what you’re doing!”, that’s the extra spring in your step as you head out of her office). It’s one of the most delicious and noble pursuits I’ve ever undertaken.

I think Opa would be proud.

Wanted: Fiercely Private Extrovert. With a Blog.

From my comfy perch on the left side of the couch, looking out through the left-hand living room window, I can see between the twisted grapevines and the thick branches of two osage orange trees on the ridge into the neighbor’s now-harvested cornfield. Save for a stray dangling brown leaf here and there, the trees have been wind-stripped down to their bones. Naked Acres is about ready to live up to its name for another winter.

Patrick loves to see the topography that secures and surrounds us as we move through these weeks of autumn, where all that is unnecessary is being flattened down or blown away or cleared by a mighty Hand. We know the slopes and curves of the fields are there on the other side of July’s rich and leaf-dressed woods, but we forget how the land beneath us rolls and heaves until the fields shift to a tawny brown and the tree line goes all stark and vulnerable. I say vulnerable, but those sycamores and musclewoods and black walnuts are the standing champions in our outdoor family. They even shelter and coddle the weaker mulberry saplings when the snowfall is wet and heavy. Not everyone survives, but they do their best, this tall and silent community of beings with roots sunk deep below and arms continually stretching to the blue or cloudy skies above. They take care of each other. Lessons there, my friends. Lessons.

For a hair shy of two years now, I’ve meandered on the pages of this blog with musings and stories that I’d largely kept to myself for far longer than two years, and I’m still getting settled into the awkward passage from timid-hearted to sorta brave when it comes to self-disclosure. As my late psychologist dad used to say, “Self-revelation is not for the squeamish, no matter what side of the couch you’re on.” He was right, of course. I’ve been in both places, sitting across from someone as her moment of truth came crashing forward in a storm of tears or fury, and unpacking my own luggage in the presence of a trusted member of my personal ‘board of directors’, but in those latter episodes, I’ve often walked away doubtful that it was ever the right move. I’ve squeamed often (there’s a new word for you; the autocorrect isn’t having it). But in an unexpectedly reassuring way, the look back at those moments doesn’t include any lasting impressions of deadly fallout. I’m still here, I have healthy, nurturing relationships and a solid set of elastic core values. I eat mostly well and can still put my aging body in service to a variety of heavy-lifting tasks. Whatever I feared would happen hasn’t come to pass.

I understand that I have more choices than the trees do when it comes to shedding layers of pretense and protection. They receive the harsh gifts of the seasons with grace and growth, and while they may lose a few bits of themselves along the way, they’re also experts at repurposing and healing: bark that has embraced and tucked into itself a length of rusty barbed wire (to try and remove that now would do more damage than the original wound), the cut end of a 5” branch once raw and seeping now weathered and smooth. I could learn from that (and I have, truly), but when they deliberately let go of the very dressing that makes them gorgeous and beloved (whether it’s green, fire-y red or glowing orange) and reveal their hard-earned knobs and knots and knuckles, I wince and impulsively want to cover them up in the most compassionate way. I hardly ever choose to show anyone those less attractive parts of my character. It’s nearly always an accidental event, and in front of people I want to impress or whose opinion of me matters.

But on another side of the Liz coin, I am usually the one to put my hand out first, ask the first ice-breaking question, and continue the conversation with sincere follow-up questions. I enjoy speaking to groups large and intimate about topics they’ve requested or I’ve initiated, and punctuate key messages with stories from my own life that connect the dots. I walk the halls at work with my head up, make eye contact, and say “hello, how’s your day?” and stick around to hear the answer. And while I may not volunteer a lot about myself, I respond honestly when asked. In the words of my beloved friend Matt (who spoke them to me just this past Friday as we chatted on my way across the county), I’m a “fiercely private extrovert with a deep need to be known and understood”, to which I added “in my own time”. Measured and edited self-revelation. Through writing. Go figure.

So far, people have been gracious and kind with what I’ve put “out there”, not frightened my introvert back into her cave with harsh critique, and the move from timid to brave continues rather smoothly. Only I know the risks I haven’t taken yet, the stories still dangling from a topmost branch until a seasonal wind pulls them gently to the ground.

There’s no rush. I trust that wind and the unfolding season through which it travels. I’m grateful for the gift of your company along the road.