Good Times Then and Now

Our family gathered to celebrate our son's 27th birthday this past Saturday night.  I'd worked all week organizing and preparing our meal:

slow cooked roast 

cheddar topped twice baked potatoes 

pureed butternut squash sweetened with honey and spiced with cinnamon

confetti corn 

apple salad 

hot rolls

homemade German chocolate cupcakes 

frozen vanilla yogurt

We had a blessed family time as our son, who was the inspiration for Marshal Rosencutter in The Children Are Tender, opened his gifts.  He had asked for and received a banjo--a banjo--perhaps with an eye to the time when his swing dancing skills fade. He can play in the band instead!

The family gathering came to a close, and our daughter and her husband strapped our grandsons into their car seats. They pulled out of the driveway as John and I waved goodbye with fervent enthusiasm from our customary stations on the front porch.  I was still waving as we navigated our way back into the house, and caused my husband brief irritation when my hand moved in front of his face and blocked his view. He had pressed his face close to the storm door glass, evidently wanting to assure himself that our son-in-law had navigated out the driveway and onto the gravel road safely. Awhile later our son and his wife gathered birthday gifts and the granddogs (a black lab and an adorable corgi), and we went through the same ceremony again (only this time I was careful not to block John's intent gaze as he watched them drive away). 

It doesn't matter that our daughter lives just ten minutes away and our son and his wife visit once or twice a month. The days when there were four toothbrushes in the cup by the sink instead of just two are long gone, and we can't help that our hearts pine after our children each time they drive away.  Make no mistake--we are thrilled that they have happy lives of their own, we love their spouses, and grandchildren have brought us joy of a caliber that blesses our hearts.  Nevertheless, a Monday morning following a weekend family gathering often finds me moping about and pining after the sound of my children's laughter from the days these walls provided them home, and we were their primary sources of comfort.  The little yellow house seems too empty on Monday mornings, and a little sad.  

However, I have no business nurturing sadness when God's been so good to us.  And the truth is I would certainly not choose to keep my kids at toddler or grade school age forever. In the first place, I like the solitude and peace of my days, even rainy Monday mornings. And in the second place, our lives hold lots of joy right where we are.

Our daughter's birthday is in a month.  I'll probably do another roast and perhaps mashed potatoes and gravy this time, she likes that.  There will be peach cobbler for dessert, her favorite. We'll have lots of joy, perhaps to the accompaniment of banjo music (!).  And when everyone leaves, Farmer John and I will wave goodbye, maybe shed a tear or two...and then we will enjoy a quiet evening together.

And that's good. 

Out With the Old...Or Not

The messy "870" is a recent addition, hastily applied one morning before our unhappy postman arrived. But our names were painted onto the box 40 years ago. 

We knew for quite some time that our local mailman did not like our mailbox.

Farmer John and I were sentimentally attached to that mailbox.  When we were newlyweds John had bolted it to an old pump, and I had painstakingly lettered our names on the side.  I must have used very good paint, because 40 years later our names remained legible, and although the box had survived being backed into by a fine array of vehicles over the years, it was still serviceable.  Or so we thought.

One day about a year ago a little slip of paper fell out from between a credit card application and the water bill in our morning mail. It was a form entitled "mailbox needs attention" and it had multiple boxes checked including "does not meet regulations" and "house number needs to be printed on both sides," and most upsetting at all, "mailbox needs replaced."  John and I were offended.  The mailbox was a bit battered and worn, that was true, but then, so were we.  We took the critique of our old box personally.

I am usually anxious to please everyone, and under normal circumstances would have been quick to make the suggested repairs.  But I had lettered my married name on the side of that box as a 20-year-old bride.  I hated to think of doing away with the box that had received wedding and birth announcements, Christmas cards, newsletters, college diplomas, copyright certificates, and a wealth of other missives over forty years of time.

But, a few months ago, the little slips of paper began arriving more regularly.  The last one we received had a check mark by the line stating "mail delivery may be discontinued unless repairs are made." 

I hurriedly painted our house number on each side of the old box, and then John and I sadly agreed to replace it.  I gave the old pump a fresh coat of paint and John mounted the new box, which weighs less than half of it's predecessor and has plastic fasteners and flags.

"This one won't last 40 years," I said, as we looked at the finished job.

"Well, we don't really need it to," said Farmer John.  

I put my hand in his and we returned to the little yellow farmhouse, which is a little battered and worn but still serviceable.

Just like us.

We etched our initials into the concrete step the fall after we were married.  Don't think I'll discard that old mailbox--maybe I'll use it as a planter next spring.  I think I can scrub the messy, recently applied numeral off and preserve our names.  

OK, I admit this one looks tidier.

The "Right" Light

Living on our farm necessitates a suppression of ideas about how things "should" be.  Farmsteads should be pristine, mown, and free of debris.  The air should be filled with the scent of new mown hay with just the lightest scent of bovine sweetness (never a heavy stink of feed-lot manure).  If Farm and Home Magazine reporters show up on our premises, we should be ready to provide them centerfold spreads depicting bucolic bliss.

Well.  My farmer is also a mechanic and his father is a flea market fan and collector.  I think the word "hoarder" might possibly be accurate.  He collects everything from old washers to small electric motors, which he keeps in a five foot high pile around the light pole in front of the shop.  Farmer John periodically clears a path through the center of the shop to do major overhauls on tractors, combines, and the like. 

Our yard isn't much better.  I have fibromyalgia and Farmer John has an aversion to mowing.

But this morning I noticed that the morning light rendered even our weedy garden and unmown yard beautiful.

It's important to focus on what is important.  Relationships are important.  People are important.  Putting the Lord at the center of our lives is VERY important.  Other things, like tidy farmsteads, not so much.  There's still beauty to be found if I'll look at things in the right light! 

Farmer John Witticisms

It is a blessing that, after 40 years of marriage, my husband still has the ability to make me laugh.  But then, he's quite the entertaining guy.

For example, today he came to the back door mid-morning and requested a banana for a snack.  I hurriedly broke a ripe fruit from the bunch I'd stashed in the cupboard, and the end came open a bit.  "Sorry," I said.  It broke open.  Eat it soon." And I handed it to him.

He didn't immediately turn and head out the door as I had expected, but stood looking at the banana sorrowfully.  "Now the handle won't work."

I was bustling around the kitchen in an attempt to complete morning clean-up before I was due at a church meeting but this comment stopped me.  As always, with Farmer John, I suspected a practical joke of some sort.

"What are you talking about?"

"Well"--he held up the ripe banana-- "The curved end is the handle and it's at the top.  You open it from the bottom and then you have a handle."

I stared at him.  Over four decades of living with this man I've learned many of his idiosyncrasies: for example the twisty tie on the bread wrapper is turned three times, no more no less. And, refrigerator magnets are arranged upside down in a sort of "Kilroy was here" ritual.  I could go on and on.

And on.  

But this was a new one on me.  Bananas have handles.  Okaaaayyyyy.....

Later in the day I hopped in the pickup beside my farmer and off we drove through a bumpy pasture to where our ailing swather was parked.  I walked laps through the hayfield as John and his father repaired the machine, then John and I drove away, leaving his elderly dad happily making rounds in the big field, cutting neat swaths of fragrant hay.  We had gone just a half mile down the dusty gravel road when John suddenly swung the truck into a U-turn.

I grabbed the door handle for support and exclaimed, "What in HEAVEN's name are you doing now??"

"I left my cold chisel and claw hammer on the reels of the swather," he replied tersely.

We roared back into the field at high speed, John lept from the truck and began taking long strides through the field, zigging and zagging methodically.  I'd seen that cold chisel; it was about 12 inches long and was the exact color of the brown shadows cast by the tall grasses in the field.  I trotted behind my husband in a vain attempt to catch up, "You are never going to find that chisel," I said, just as he plucked it out of the grass and held it up in triumph.

"Here it is!" He grinned at me then turned and waited for his dad to roll up beside us in the swather.  As soon as the reels stopped turning, John fearlessly dove in amongst them, and almost instantly retrieved his hammer.  He waved his father on and returned to the truck holding the hammer high like a banner of victory.

He held it in one hand as, with the other, he turned the steering wheel and guided us back through the pasture gate.  He looked at the oddly shortened hammer fondly.  "This is the steel-handled hammer I threw so hard that it broke the handle.  I was mad because the cattle had broken down a brand new fence, and I grabbed the hammer and threw it at a fencepost.  It hit just right and the handle broke."  He smiled reminiscently.  "Amazing that a steel handle broke. But now this short hammer is handy for working in tight spaces."

White puffs of cloud sailed through a cerulean sky, and clouds of brown dust boiled behind us as we sped down the road; all was right with Farmer John's world once more.

"The cold chisel was no big deal," he said, "But this hammer has sentimental value."

The Winter is Past--Finally

I admit our winter trials here in the little yellow house were nothing compared to those chronicled in Laura Ingalls Wilder's The Long Winter, but the challenges we faced were daunting nonetheless.  Our grandchildren were sick with one virus after another beginning in November and just when we thought we were beyond winter's grasp, every family member in succession was stricken with a horrific cold virus that kept us croaking and coughing throughout a dreary April.  I shuffled dispiritedly into May, still half-sick and oppressed by neglected paperwork and housecleaning.

One morning in early June I crept out to the old red pickup and climbed into my too-long vacant seat next to Farmer John, and all seemed right with the world once more.  We drove to one of our rental pastures, and while John sprayed musk thistle (a noxious weed), I tromped through the prairie weeds and grasses and took the photos below.

Rose verbena

Some farmers frame pasture entrances with tall posts attached at the top with a wire.   

These pretty little daisies bear the ignominious name of "Annual Fleabane."

Farmer John fights an ongoing battle against the non-native, invasive musk thistle.  Cattle will not graze around the painful, spiny plants, and untreated musk thistle will take over an entire pasture.  Victorians thought the blooms pretty and introduced the plant in the U.S. in the 1800's.

Stark beauty in the sculptural branches of a dead tree.  

The cattle like to congregate in this sun dappled corner of the pasture and have tromped the grasses flat.  

A Barn Cat by Any Other Name....

Miss Kitty, who has her superior feline expression down pat. 

My mother's overweight, indoor cat once had a name, but Mom--who was the inspiration for the character of Ruby Mae in The Children Are Tender--has Alzheimer's.  She can't remember the animal's original name,  so she simply calls her pet "Miss Kitty."  

Miss Kitty is a sleek, gray tabby with a superior attitude.  She considers Mom's apartment her exclusive domain, and casts an irritated eye at any intruder.  She loves Mom but dislikes me, even though I faithfully deliver her daily ration of low fat, indoor formula cat food. 

Imagine Miss Kitty's chagrin when, early one morning, a big male barn cat hopped up and peered through Mom's picture window.  Miss Kitty arched her back and hissed, but then curiosity got the best of her and she jumped into the window seat for a closer look.  The yellow striped tom insulted Miss Kitty further with a display of exaggerated disinterest, in fact, he stretched out on the deck railing with his back to to us and refused to look Miss Kitty's way.  She was deeply offended and has ignored him ever since (though it is difficult to ignore someone who has ignored you first). 

I began feeding the big tom that morning and, unlike most barn cats, he was affectionate and appreciative; his indifference was reserved for Miss Kitty.  I was immediately smitten because he is such a big, pretty boy.  Since our indoor cat was a Miss, I decided to call our new outdoor pet "Mr. Kitty."  A few mornings later I was stroking Mr. Kitty's big head and crooning his name when I noticed Farmer John peering out at us through Mom's screen door with something like disapproval on his face. 

Nearly a month later, our one-year-old grandson came to visit.  He climbed up into the window seat in Mom's room, teetering precariously as he pushed to his feet.  John kept hold of the back of the little guy's shirt to keep him from falling, and they looked out the window together.  I heard John say in a soft voice, "Do you see Chuck?  Can you say hello to him?  Hi Chuck!"  

I looked out the window and there was Mr. Kitty.  "Who's Chuck?" I asked.  

John looked guilty.  "Didn't mean for you to hear that.  It seemed to me that critter was embarrassed to be called Mr. Kitty so I gave him a better name." 

Chuck/Mr. Kitty does not seem to mind his changing name so long as the human who calls him has access to the big sack of cat food John brought home from Murphy's (the local elevator). I don't think I'll turn over pet-naming responsibilities to John; after all, he is the one who once named a defenseless puppy "Mortimer."  But, next time I name a pet perhaps I will try a little harder to take the animal's personality and feelings about the matter into account. 

Mr. Kitty/Chuck, who despite my urgings would not lift his head from this food dish to have his photo taken. 

A Funny Fellow

Farmer John and I were driving home from a parts run recently when we saw the critter pictured below, digging busily alongside the road.  We had never before seen a live armadillo in our area of Kansas:   

My husband has a delighted interest in all wildlife, but when confronted with this unique-to-us sight he exhibited even more than his usual amount of enthusiasm.  He slammed on his brakes right smack in the middle of the country highway, cut a U-turn, and rolled up just a few feet from the hapless varmint, who exhibited no alarm at the approach of a human being.  If had known my husband as I do, he might have shown a little more concern.

But the armadillo ignored us and continued his foraging.

John whistled shrilly and the little guy jerked upright, then froze.

He held this position without moving, perhaps thinking himself camouflaged.  "Ohhhh, if I only had the cooler in the back," said John longingly.  Danny (our grandson) would be the only kid on the block with his own armadillo.

I spoke sternly, "I am certain it is against the law to capture an armadillo (I am certain of no such thing but at need I am a convincing liar).  In the same tone (and with the same lack of background knowledge) I continued, "And armadillos carry salmonella in their, um, plating."  I stumbled a little here and John recognized uncertainty.

"I'm going to pick him up!" he proclaimed.

"You are not!" I said.

At that moment we heard the approach of another vehicle and we both got back into the car.  As we pulled away John was still expressing regret, "He was such a cute little guy."

"A funny fellow," I said.

"Me, or the armadillo?" John asked.


"Both of you," I said.  "Definitely both of you."

Note:  Several comments on this post's link on my Facebook page have warned that infected Armadillos can carry leprosy.  Please recognize that Farmer John's goal was to tease his wife, and that he did not seriously intend to pick up or transport wildlife, leprous or otherwise.  No armadillos were interfered with in the creating of this blog post. 

Great Bargain on E-book

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Kansas Beauty: Depression's Cure

 I have cycled through some emotions that are close to depression in the wake of giving up my teaching job two years ago.  I hadn't considered retirement, and it came as a shock that I had enough years of service to do so.  My job description changed in the wake of budget cuts, my mother's needs increased, and it seemed logical for me to retire early.  And so here I am, back home on the farm; writing, caregiving, and being a grammy; all jobs I love.  But some days that depression cloud hovers.  It is usually comprised of fibromyalgia aches, caregiving stress, and a sense that my life is winding down to a journey's end rather than gearing up toward some new goal. The idea that I've been demoted from a position of authority and respect to the roles of housekeeper and caregiver adds to my angst, but I figure this is good for my humility (a reference to family lore; once when I was bemoaning some cosmetic deficiency my then six-year-old daughter said, "Welp, that's good for your humility, Mom..."). 

When one is depressed, the inclination is to pull the shades, turn out the lights, and lay on the nearest soft surface, escapism-book in hand.  I manage to resist these pulls, but as I putter about the house  procrastination attacks, and my sad/bad feelings increase as I accomplish little; the silence pressing in about me.  I'm too tired to seek company, ache too much to volunteer my services as a babysitter, and tend toward short-temperedness with my mother's dementia related behaviors.  What I am able to do, however, is to step outside. 

Fresh air and light are curative. A few nights ago I snapped this phone photo of the setting sun's colors over our little yellow house and found there's no room for depression when one's senses are filled with this kind of beauty.  Again today I'm feeling so grateful for the restorative peace that's always just outside my front door simply because I'm privileged to live in rural Kansas: 

Ridiculous!

I don't watch a whole lot of TV (I know, everyone says that), but in my occasional sessions with Food Network or news programs, a relatively new expression has caught my ear:

"Ridiculous!" exclaims a commentator as he tastes a delicacy prepared by a five star chef.

"Ridiculous," says an actor who is being interviewed about filming a movie in New Zealand.  He's gazing at a mountain range behind him as he whispers his assessment of the beauty.  "Just ridiculous!"  

I've come to understand this word is being used to express emotion over something so amazingly delicious or beautiful that no adjectives in the language can adequately describe it.

With these thoughts in mind here are some views of our Kansas skies taken within a mile of the little yellow farmhouse, all pretty much just ridiculous! 

The intersection west of our house is appropriately named Homestead Road

Evening walk with Farmer John

Sunrise over the lake on the hill above our house.

Sunlight through cottonwoods along the road.

...another Farmer Johnism...

I am riding in the pickup with Farmer John.  We have counted cattle at a pasture that is nearly ten miles away, and are driving back home.  The morning has been relatively cool, but afternoon temperatures are predicted to reach 102 degrees. 

As we approach, two turkey vultures swoop away from the unidentifiable remains of some small animal that did not make it across the highway successfully. 

Farmer John:  Oh look.  This morning they are having cold cuts but if they come back at noon they can have a hot lunch!