In Our Dreams

In the luscious quiet of a new morning, I tiptoe past the garden on my way through the field to the woods. She’s asleep beneath her blankets of compost, mulch, and flattened cardboard boxes I repurposed from the recycle bin at work. The 6 x 6 planks that frame the raised beds are stoic and patient as the space above them flutters with the ghosts of last year’s harvest. We’ve already mapped out the area where we’ll plant potatoes and onions this spring, garlic is in and out of sight, doing whatever garlic does in mid-January, and a pile of woodchips from the grandmotherly silver maple we trimmed last November is looking forward to covering the paths between the rows of future strawberry spinach and amaranth. In the middle of it all, a young volunteer mulberry sapling pauses its stretch toward the sky, saving its strength for a spring growth spurt. Tucked into the morning’s latest winter scene—bare trees dusted with a confectioner’s sprinkling of snow—the garden looks peaceful and trusting, willing to hold on carefully to the tender roots of whatever starts we truck out on planting day in the two-wheeled garden cart that still holds the top spot on our “Best Purchases for Outdoor Projects” list. She’s counting on our careful planning and discretion and we’re determined not to let her down.

And…the seed catalogues have started to arrive, in nonstop glorious full-color succession.

Some of them are just too indulgent to be allowed, with their vibrant and precisely staged layouts of rich purple cabbage and pole beans, twelve varieties of basil (I want them all), melons with neon orange or red insides wrapped in dark green striped or speckled outsides, and those Atomic Grape tomatoes that almost change colors as you watch them ripen (we have a couple of strategically-placed lawn chairs in the garden’s paths so we can do just that). As much as I love winter’s muted palette of greys and whites interrupted by tawny browns and deep evergreen, I freely admit to leafing through the pages of the catalogue du jour on the top of the stack to soak in the electric colors of this year’s zinnias and cosmos. My eyes drenched in such ocular delights, even for a few moments, helps me push on through some of the rougher days. I encourage you to try it.

Today, under a moth-eaten blanket of clouds and slow-motion snowfall, the warm breath and cheerful technicolor displays of spring aren’t even visible on the mind’s horizon. I’m fine with that—you know, live in the present—but at night I can set my dreams to a different station, and so I do. In the dark behind my eyelids after midnight, I imagine those raised beds bursting with kale and corn mache, tender French Breakfast radishes and Bull’s Blood beets (the dark blackish-purple leaves an excellent shot of color for any mixed salad). Butterflies and bees flit about pollinating anything they can get their little feet on, and the row of cattle panels bent into curved trellises anchored with t-posts are dripping with Lemon cucumbers and three different kinds of plum tomatoes. I walk through this tunnel of lush green in a flowing cotton sundress and eat the warm fruit right from the vines (this girl knows how to dream).

I can hear Patrick’s garden dreams as he slumbers by my side, though his imaginings lean heavily toward soldier-straight rows of everything we’ve planted, each seedling in its place and perfectly spaced per seed packet directions. He built all those raised beds so he’s entitled to a vision of precision and orderliness (I’m quite fine with a more higgledy-piggledy layout, letting our green children run wild and barefoot in their formative days until my inner adult tries to tame them after its far too late. One of the many reasons I don’t have human offspring). When we both wake up after a long and delicious night of such meanderings, it’s a harder task to transfer these images to paper, drafting a Garden Plan that each year, we swear we’ll abide by no matter what. We write down what goes where and in which raised bed, who’s in charge of what garden sections, and a daily maintenance schedule that resembles arriving and departing flights at O’Hare. Being mere mortals, however, our ambitions can easily dissolve in the weariness at the end of our day jobs (which help fund this whole botanical enterprise) and we make a less-impassioned promise to get out there tomorrow and dig the rows for those Ruby Crescent fingerlings we’ve been eager to grow. Thinking of those potatoes on our plates, roasted and drizzled in just the right amount of olive oil and pink Himalayan salt, is enough motivation to follow through.

Given the current state of affairs, these garden dreams have sometimes been hijacked by others, manifesting our worst fears (more violence and riots, a virus that has no “off” switch) and creating nightmares that don’t end when we open our eyes. We keep falling asleep anyway, night after winter night, tucked trustingly in the arms of hope, holding fistfuls of seed packets and tiptoeing past the promise of spring asleep in the humble field behind the house.

A Tired Soul Still Knows

Somewhere deep within me, underneath the motions of a daily routine committed to muscle memory, the what’s for dinner and did you get the mail and how was your day churns a sob so thick and wide, a storm of tears that will have its time above ground and soon. I’ve been sitting on it since Wednesday, January 6 at 3:11p.m. or so, but when doesn’t really matter. All I know is I’d best let it loose, get out of its way. I heard it somewhere (don’t recall when or from whom) that one can either walk with the Creator or get dragged. Well, you know how much I like to walk. And while I appreciate the surface sentiment, I thoroughly reject as abhorrent the theological notion of any higher power that would drag its oft-times reluctant and frightened creations around. The One I understand is much more patient than that.

So I wring from that bit of limited wisdom the importance, indeed—the necessity—of giving way to the surge of emotions that carries healing with it on its rocky tides. No, it won’t feel comfortable at first, or at all, but I’ll be better for it, less burdened and afraid. Any first-year psychology student knows that what we ignore between our ears, behind our rib cages and in our guts simply bides its time until it becomes bigger than what our skin can contain. I love my friends and family and co-workers too much to let unattended rage or sorrow come splashing madly at them sideways. And I love myself enough to forego that interior damage. So there it is—a grief manifesto and playbook, all wrapped into one small paragraph. Writing it was easy; implementation will be less so. We’ve got enough Kleenex. I checked.

Maybe this is similar to how you’ve taken in the events of the past four days (as of this writing): shock, repulsion, deep deep sorrow, disbelief, anger, perhaps even rage, roiling fear, relentless anxiety and a small glinting sliver of hope that we can push through this, our arms entwined and heads up, gaze planted firmly on a horizon that wobbles but stays within sight. I’ve not slept well, have you? The couple of hot baths I’ve taken didn’t wash away anything except the day’s sweat and dust. Apples still bring comfort in their simplicity and nourishment, but my appetite is shot otherwise. I must learn to put down my phone, to strap on my hiking boots more than once a day and get out there where whatever’s stirring within me has room to spread out and maybe even dissolve in the tolerant space around me. But that rumble of a sob is still waiting for its right and proper moment. I listen and wait. Listen…and wait. What else can I do?

Well, for one, I can let you know that I’m not in that “got it all sorted” place. That I’m frightened, even when I take those recommended deep breaths for a count of four on the inhale, eight on the exhale. I felt flat and bland when I closed off my work day for the week last Friday. No relieved anticipation of the weekend like I’d usually feel. For now, I blame Wednesday and a weary spirit that has held up its hand, saying give me a minute. Give us all a minute.

But I am tired.

Tired of waiting for something to be over.

Tired of waiting for something to begin, for people to come to their better logic and senses, to choose wholeness instead of fractioned factions.

Tired of evil mislabeled as mental illness, or worse, patriotism.

Tired of the hate…the hate…the hate.

I’ll keep wearing a mask until it’s no longer necessary, but I’m tired of what it now represents.

And tired as I am, I still can’t sleep. Isn’t that odd and wrong? Just…wrong.

And yet, somehow and in almost tender defiance of my fatigue, one of my feet keeps moving forward, followed by its trusting companion. I cover ground and find myself in a different place after moments or hours or days; the view is different enough to feed my hungry curiosity and pull me forward. A blue heron, out of place and way too early for its usual spring arrival, glides gracefully past the upstairs home office window this morning as I’m hanging laundry on a retractable clothesline, and I stop to admire its beauty. Wish I could fly. Half an hour later as I’m suiting up for the morning walk and glancing out the kitchen window, I see it slowly stepping its way past a bend in the creek. I don’t think the fish have returned yet, but what do I know? Not as much as a blue heron, apparently. I let the chickens out and place my trembling ungloved hand on the rough grooved bark of a black walnut sapling along the path to the woods. Maybe the weather-guessers will be right, and the sun will come out today.

Until then, I carry that sob with me and reassure myself I’ll survive its tsunami. The creek has told me on more than one occasion that she can handle some excess water, so I’ll be ok. We will be ok. Don’t ask me how I know that. I just do.

Truckless in Homer

Thirteen miles from our doorstep, wrapped in the cold steel arms of an auto body shop parking lot fence, the blue Tundra sat minus its front grillwork and sporting a random-looking collection of florescent green circles that marked dents and dings in need of repair and new paint. We arrived on the first day of our shared holiday vacation, Patrick and I, to transfer the truck’s contents into two much smaller cars—one a white four-door rental, the other a small pre-owned SUV we’d purchased two days prior. Out of our vehicular element by a mile and nearly two decades, we worked with few words between us and a mutually tender understanding of our shared sadness over this particular loss filling the episodic silence.

In late October, we’d managed to total both of our trucks after two deer strikes one week apart. Patrick went first, driving the red Tacoma to work one dark and rainy morning, and I returned the favor as I drove to a friend’s farm to pick up a small batch of laying hens on a Sunday morning in broad daylight. The buck was a majestic 22-pointer, as long as the Tundra’s grill was wide, his rack visible well-above the hood (remember—Tundra. Toyota’s largest. 5200 lbs that can tow up to twice that. BIG.). I stayed center, didn’t swerve, practically stood on the brakes seconds before impact—that sickening crunch still echoes—and watched as this beautiful relative stumbled over to the guardrail to thrash out the final moments of its life under blue autumn skies in a wooded roadside gulley. I called 9-1-1 to ask if someone could come out to end his misery, then drove back home in my own to let Patrick inspect the damage. Both trucks were drivable in the short term, so we went on to pick up the chickens that Sunday morning and Patrick drove the Tacoma to work a few more days before the insurance claim came through with the rental (a white Toyota Corolla, four-door and way too low to the ground for our pockmarked gravel driveway). We worked one claim at a time, dropping the red truck off for assessment and repairs while I drove the blue truck to the office on Mondays. For ease of reference in the rest of this story, we’ll call them Red and Ol’ Blue.

Red was my truck at first and for a long time before Patrick laid reasonable claim to it. I’d had a gold Tacoma for years until the company recalled it for unfixable defects and we got to turn it in to be shredded (I still want to see the machine that can shred a truck). The payout was generous enough to allow for the purchase of Red when she was brandy-new, maybe sixteen miles on her when we drove her off the lot. I bought vanity plates that read GRYFNDR (an homage to Harry Potter’s house) and a vinyl decal for the tailgate, “My other ride is a Firebolt”. Hey—when your nieces turn you onto a franchise, you go with it and earn your “Coolest Aunt” title with every mile. Someday, if I ever come into money, I’ll own one of those Hello Kitty-wrapped Volkswagen bugs, you just watch.

We hauled everything in Red, from the weekly trash to rocks and tree limbs and auction finds, and I think one of our nieces had a go at learning to drive in it, taking the hairpin curves in our agri-hood with her elbows locked, corkscrewing her arms until Uncle Pat showed her the hand-over-hand steering method. On balmy summer evenings, we’d toss sleeping bags and pillows in the back for an easy overnight camp-out in the flat part of the meadow beneath the Old Man sycamore tree by the creek and look for falling stars until morning found our heads asleep on our dew-dampened pillows (inevitably, one of the cats would join us somewhere in the night, and what a jolt awakening that would be, as we own tuxedo kitties and at first glance in a groggy state, they faintly resemble skunks). Once I chased a poacher’s hunting dog off the land in such a fury I didn’t pay attention to the thicket on the driver’s side and scratched the length of Red’s flank. Patrick would not let me forget that; we never touched them up with any matching paint. Some scars are best and most helpful left in the rough.

Then Ol' Blue came along after an unexpected windfall (we don’t play the lottery, honest. These things just seem to happen to us at the most perfect opportune moments). Patrick wanted a truck that fit him in the seat and shoulders and would be sturdy enough to cover the miles it took to deliver him and two weeks’ worth of supplies to Sundance grounds in South Dakota every June for ceremony (while I stayed home most years with Red). The Tundra fit the bill; I’d help Patrick load up the night before and wave goodbye before heading back to the house to dress for a day of early summer gardening work. I accompanied him out west in 2018 and 2019—Ol’ Blue’s last trips to that sacred place. It was cool for this 5’2” gal to ride shotgun and way high above the little sedans and sportscars to our right and left on the freeway. We could each rest an elbow on the console between us, and I think last time I counted, there were a total of fourteen cup holders in the cab. No one needs more than two at a time of course, but the other twelve never went unemployed; we packed them with a first aid kit, lint roller, tape measures, road maps of Indiana and Iowa, bottles of hand sanitizer and Armor-all, nail clippers and handmade cloth drawstring bags of loose tobacco. Fast food napkins still had their place in the glovebox on top of the envelope that held our registration and proof of insurance. Patrick bought a matching cap for the bed after the first year, making our eventual trips to the farmers’ market to sell granola an easier haul—folding tables, canopy and storage totes of inventory fit neatly back there and were well out of the weather.

Red was totaled first. I didn’t cry, but I was hard to cheer up for a few days after we got the call from the insurance agent. We took bets on what the payout would be and made cautious plans to purchase a new vehicle, knowing that even a used truck would be out of our financial reach. Patrick is a negotiating genius so I left that to him, tossing in a few bits of logic now and then about the finer points of our mobile lifestyle needs. We landed on an SUV that would have just enough driveway clearance when the snow fell in drifts and be economical enough to handle Patrick’s longer work commute (I’m working from home most days, so my gas footprint is smaller for the time being). We were just about to close the deal when we got the call about Ol’ Blue. The cost of repairs was more than the insurance wanted to pay, so another total loss. Patrick isn’t often speechless, nor am I for that matter, but this one made us go still for a couple of hours. While we’re not one paycheck away from being homeless or in over our heads with the most basic of daily living expenses, we certainly can’t replace two trucks in as many months. Hard decisions lay before us, modifying our options and calling to task our preferences for travel, taken for granted up until now.

We are looking down the road of being a one-car household for the indefinite future. Borrowing time from the pandemic’s strange gift of working from home for one of us, and banking on a smooth handing over of the keys in the late spring when Patrick no longer reports to work to drive his students when the school year ends, we think we can make this work. But on the day we unloaded Ol’ Blue of his burden as he sat between two equally-pitiful banged up and dismembered cars in that auto body parking lot (the market supplies and equipment still in tow in the capped bed), it was the end of an era for us. We reached back in our collective memory and confirmed that we were truck owners for at least eighteen of our twenty years here, and made unintelligible sounds at the prospect of not having at least one on the land to haul the trash to the end of the driveway. Even with a reasonable payout, we’re still miles and months away from being able to add a second vehicle of any sort to complete the fleet we need. The word “need” has changed now, and we’re learning to be ok with that. We consoled ourselves with carryout pizza before heading home, the two cars packed to bursting with stuff we had to repatriate in the barns. Ol’ Blue was also a storage container on wheels. We’d forgotten that.

We do realize—immediately and continually and deeply—how lucky we are not to have added personal injuries to our respective deer strike claims, that we’re still employed and all family members are COVID-free, there’s food in the fridge and the sump pump is working as it should during a rainy week. The list of “thank goodness” is still longer than our temporary woes and will always be that way, based on how we choose to look at things. But as we both prepare to end our holiday vacations and return to a familiar work schedule, we occasionally glance out the front door to see if Red and Ol’ Blue have reappeared in their former shiny glories. They haven’t, and we wince a little, grateful for the memories of road trips and summer camp-outs and nieces taking hairpin curves…

There are some stories only trucks can tell.

Deep Freeze(r)

An alignment of the best possible circumstances and necessary variables led to a spontaneous pre-dawn defrosting of the freezer Saturday morning. I was only two days into my vacation, six inches of snow and drifts on the driveway kept us happily homebound, and the high that day didn’t even clear 28 degrees. A look ahead showed Sunday’s temps soaring all the way up to 41, so now was the time; we’d best be quick about it. While Patrick slept off a quiet Christmas upstairs, I got to work.

Thirty minutes later and emptied of its contents, the harvest gold Montgomery Ward Signature Deluxe sat with its rectangular mouth open, spitting droplets of chilled water onto a thick layer of old bath towels strategically placed on the floor as chunks of ice melted randomly from each bright silver coiled shelf. Earlier in the fall, we’d smartly set up plastic bins to hold our arctic larder by category—meats, fish, poultry, grains, ice cream/desserts—making it easy to unload it all and carry it to the front porch defrosting staging area. For the better part of six hours, the deck resembled an impromptu rummage sale of edibles for which we had no customers. Surrounded by a half-foot of snow drifts, it was almost Country Living photo shoot-ready. Almost.

As farm auction purchases go, that upright freezer we lugged home on a sunny August afternoon some sixteen years ago holds a proud place near the top of our Most Excellent Auction Scores list, a bargain at $125. It’s been with us so long, I can’t recall the grunting logistics of unloading it from whatever truck we owned at the time, sliding it across the front porch, through the carpeted living room and finally pushing it into the far corner of the bathroom/storage area where it has hummed away since. Like she was born there.

A note about our home’s layout and room arrangement is necessary at this point. The bathroom fixtures used to share space with an old massive coal burner until the previous owners upgraded to a modest modern form of propane-fueled somewhat-central heat. It only reached the rooms on the first floor, so we quickly learned the value of a few strategically-placed space heaters in the upstairs bedrooms during our early years here. After a series of unfortunate furnace events of our own, we’re now on our third one and haven’t regretted shelling out the extra cash to bring a measure of that warm air into the bedrooms upstairs. Somewhere in the house’s construction evolution, a half-wall was installed to separate the old coal burner from the “business” side of the bathroom, providing at least the intention of privacy, and resulting in more than a few guests scratching their heads when we’d direct them to the facilities and the first thing they’d see was the freezer. Now when folks come to visit, they know the closed door to that space is the Signal that someone is in there, tending to the necessary. A few years ago, we slid a primitive flatback cupboard up against the freezer side of the half-wall, thinking it would blur the appearance of keeping food in the bathroom. So far so good.

It seems silly to even write the words, but that freezer has given us some great memories, and (if such a thing were possible) has become a beloved and reassuring member of our family. When we raised meat chickens, that retro golden food locker kept our poultry harvest safely stored until Patrick found a way to make it delicious (now we let Costco manage most of our inventory, and as I type this, there are five one-pound packages of pork belly waiting for a Korean garlic marinade spiced with fresh ginger to land atop a bowlful of long grain brown rice). When he was in school for his suture technician certification (to be used at the emergency room of our metropolitan children’s hospital), Patrick stored his practice pigs’ feet in there, making dinner prep a “double-check what you’re thawing” adventure until he graduated. We stocked the wire basket at the bottom of the unit with a summer’s worth of wild berries and shredded zucchini, and two summers ago with frozen grapes and washcloths for our niece’s 50-mile charity bike run that conveniently cycled past our driveway. There could be an entire chapter on ice cream alone (which reminds me, honey, we're out of spumoni).

Occasionally we’ll talk about getting a new one, but that idea soon loses steam in the presence of such reliability and nostalgia. How can something so cold make us feel so cozy? One look at her as we pass through the living room to the kitchen and we’re back in the moment when the auctioneer banged the gavel in our favor. Then more memories of other auctions and our good fortune come surging to the surface and soon we’re chatting happily from our view of the past, making note of how something that once belonged to someone else graces each corner of our home. We can only begin to wonder how many people she fed, how much venison was stored next to the peas and carrots, and whether her previous custodians kept cartons of chocolate or vanilla on the top shelf (we don’t torture ourselves with choosing; we stock them both).

Six hours after I turned the dial to “off”, the ice was gone from the shiny silver coils on the shelves, the walls and door pockets wiped clean and the tubs of food returned to their precise locations. She hummed back to frozen life overnight, greeting me with her mechanical song this morning before the daily walk, our cauliflower pizzas and green beans tucked safely in her icy embrace.

Let winter keep coming. Old Gold Montgomery is on the job.