The thunder storms boomed; our poor dog ran away,
Last seen -- a white blur heading over the hill.
We do have shelters under which she could stay,
But when the storms strike, she can’t seem to be still.
With creeks running over and trees thrown around
We feel rather safe in our wooden shelter.
We throw open the windows to enjoy sounds
Of the fierce storm throwing things helter-skelter.
We found our dog huddled under a tractor;
She knows something about shelter we do not
Could tractors being made of iron be a factor?
We thought that our work shed was such a safe spot.
Maybe our puppy accepts something we fight
Should we be seeking another place to sleep?
Our hillside root cellar – would it be just right?
As the storms raged, we would hear nary a peep.
I can see us now, on our cots between cans
Of pickled beets, beans, tomatoes and what not.
This could maybe seem like a workable plan
If only there was space for a chamber pot.
Monday, May 17, 2010
Sunday, May 16, 2010
Don't Take Leisure Time Lightly
Summer vacation is only a week away, and I’m all aflutter. Rachel had Friday off due to a doctor’s appointment and Sarah stayed home sick, so I got a jump on summer by going to Rachel’s house this week-end. This facilitated just a bit of practice snuggle and leisure time spent with the grandgirls and their mom as they slide into home plate of the end of the school year.
While at Rachel’s, I finished a book that my niece Nikki sent me called Life Is a Verb. It is about living intentionally, as if you may be dead in thirty-seven days. The overarching message is that we must be more careful to cultivate and share the parts of us we want to leave behind when we go. Twenty-one years ago, when I was going through some very serious life changes that caused me to feel completely out of control my destiny, I was exposed to a similar philosophy in a series of audio cassettes that posited the question,”How would you spend your time if you knew that you only had six more months to live?”
Twenty-one years ago, I knew that if I was in that position, I’d want to quit my job, take my children out of school and spend my last six months celebrating life with them as we traveled the world together. Unfortunately, this doesn’t work in reality, as my children have people in their lives other than me. Even if I was dying, my children would still want to see their people.
I seem to always be living as if I only have a few weeks left to live, hence my wanderlust. I’ve always been greedy for time with the people who mean the most to me. I hunger for all the dynamic energy that surrounds the still growing, still discovering young people in my life. Now that my children are grown, I have to fight the same impulse to smother my grandchildren. They change so rapidly, I fell like they become different people between each set of visits.
I have always lived for week-ends and summer vacations, when there’s more time to simply be together. This is when I really get to know my people. Those early morning hours in our pajamas are the most precious times of all -- the reconnecting after a night of separation and sleep and the easing into the new day’s activities. I also love the bedtime rituals, especially when the children want to have a story read or a back rub or a special song before closing their eyes for the evenings escape into dreamland.
One has to practice relaxation skills when most of one’s life is lived in overdrive, as Rachel’s family's is. I’ll be going back to Atlanta for Rebecca’s sweet sixteen party next week-end, so we’ll get in a little more practice. All of this is building up to a summer promising lots of leisure, love and laughter with Scott’s brood, Rachel’s family and various other members of our extensive tribe.
While at Rachel’s, I finished a book that my niece Nikki sent me called Life Is a Verb. It is about living intentionally, as if you may be dead in thirty-seven days. The overarching message is that we must be more careful to cultivate and share the parts of us we want to leave behind when we go. Twenty-one years ago, when I was going through some very serious life changes that caused me to feel completely out of control my destiny, I was exposed to a similar philosophy in a series of audio cassettes that posited the question,”How would you spend your time if you knew that you only had six more months to live?”
Twenty-one years ago, I knew that if I was in that position, I’d want to quit my job, take my children out of school and spend my last six months celebrating life with them as we traveled the world together. Unfortunately, this doesn’t work in reality, as my children have people in their lives other than me. Even if I was dying, my children would still want to see their people.
I seem to always be living as if I only have a few weeks left to live, hence my wanderlust. I’ve always been greedy for time with the people who mean the most to me. I hunger for all the dynamic energy that surrounds the still growing, still discovering young people in my life. Now that my children are grown, I have to fight the same impulse to smother my grandchildren. They change so rapidly, I fell like they become different people between each set of visits.
I have always lived for week-ends and summer vacations, when there’s more time to simply be together. This is when I really get to know my people. Those early morning hours in our pajamas are the most precious times of all -- the reconnecting after a night of separation and sleep and the easing into the new day’s activities. I also love the bedtime rituals, especially when the children want to have a story read or a back rub or a special song before closing their eyes for the evenings escape into dreamland.
One has to practice relaxation skills when most of one’s life is lived in overdrive, as Rachel’s family's is. I’ll be going back to Atlanta for Rebecca’s sweet sixteen party next week-end, so we’ll get in a little more practice. All of this is building up to a summer promising lots of leisure, love and laughter with Scott’s brood, Rachel’s family and various other members of our extensive tribe.
Saturday, May 15, 2010
Sarah's Soccer Games
Going to Sarah’s soccer games
And shopping and such
Gives me little time
For writing much.
And so,
I have
To go.
And shopping and such
Gives me little time
For writing much.
And so,
I have
To go.
Friday, May 14, 2010
Scared Silly
Louise Barnes wrote in her blog about things to be scared of at night in the forest. I'm such a scaredy cat about all those things that go bump (and howl and shriek) in the night that I won't even put our dog away at her bedtime. Richard does it for us. I did buy some night vision goggles, just in case I ever need to go out alone after dark, but it's probably hard to control a Great Pyrenees with one hand while holding goggles with the other.
A normal person may love the pitch dark for all the stars that are visible without any ambient light. A normal person may also love the night sounds of woodland creatures that are heard but seldom seen. All I can think of is all the scary tales that were told to us as children in an attempt to make us want to be at home for supper as soon as the street lights turned on, like the one about the old man with the big sack that he put all the bad children in as he sneaked into their rooms at night. And don’t forget about Dorothy wandering through the woods with the lions and tigers and bears. Oh, my!
We may not have tigers, but we certainly have bears, although I’ve only seen one in our yard since we arrived here. And I’ve been told that there are mountain lions. While I like living close to nature, I prefer to have a less up-close-and-personal encounter than coming face to face on a dark night with a predator on the prowl.
My grandchildren and their parents love to run through the woods at night playing hide-and-seek. I would no more walk into the dark and wait for someone to sneak up on me than I would do oral surgery on myself. I don’t even drive after dark unless it’s on a well-lit multi-lane highway.
I know I’m a large woman, but I am still delicate about a lot of things. I have to regularly remind Richard of this fact. He does most of the heavy lifting and runs the tractor and any other power tools more dangerous than a vacuum cleaner. I stick to planting and picking and cooking and canning as he continues to do the more “manly” things. And I certainly don’t want him to stop braving the dark for me and our Pyrenees puppy, who is also delicate, even if big- boned.
Mamie asked me to drive her to Chattanooga to see her daughter who had been hospitalized there. I had to admit that I don’t drive the mountain roads after dark (with the exception of Richard’s recent emergency hospital visit – and we all know how I felt about that escapade). Richard to the rescue! He was our chauffeur for the trip there and back. This gave Mamie and me a chance to chat without having to watch where we were going. I was able to hear more stories of Mamie’s multiple adventures. There are benefits to being girly.
A normal person may love the pitch dark for all the stars that are visible without any ambient light. A normal person may also love the night sounds of woodland creatures that are heard but seldom seen. All I can think of is all the scary tales that were told to us as children in an attempt to make us want to be at home for supper as soon as the street lights turned on, like the one about the old man with the big sack that he put all the bad children in as he sneaked into their rooms at night. And don’t forget about Dorothy wandering through the woods with the lions and tigers and bears. Oh, my!
We may not have tigers, but we certainly have bears, although I’ve only seen one in our yard since we arrived here. And I’ve been told that there are mountain lions. While I like living close to nature, I prefer to have a less up-close-and-personal encounter than coming face to face on a dark night with a predator on the prowl.
My grandchildren and their parents love to run through the woods at night playing hide-and-seek. I would no more walk into the dark and wait for someone to sneak up on me than I would do oral surgery on myself. I don’t even drive after dark unless it’s on a well-lit multi-lane highway.
I know I’m a large woman, but I am still delicate about a lot of things. I have to regularly remind Richard of this fact. He does most of the heavy lifting and runs the tractor and any other power tools more dangerous than a vacuum cleaner. I stick to planting and picking and cooking and canning as he continues to do the more “manly” things. And I certainly don’t want him to stop braving the dark for me and our Pyrenees puppy, who is also delicate, even if big- boned.
Mamie asked me to drive her to Chattanooga to see her daughter who had been hospitalized there. I had to admit that I don’t drive the mountain roads after dark (with the exception of Richard’s recent emergency hospital visit – and we all know how I felt about that escapade). Richard to the rescue! He was our chauffeur for the trip there and back. This gave Mamie and me a chance to chat without having to watch where we were going. I was able to hear more stories of Mamie’s multiple adventures. There are benefits to being girly.
Thursday, May 13, 2010
Planting Our Produce
Richard on a tractor -- a welcome sight --
He got the ground ready so that I might
Finish our planting before night could fall.
With Mary’s seeder there’s no need to crawl;
I rolled along the rows with many seeds;
This was so much less work than hoeing weeds.
It seemed much like magic as I planted;
A reprieve from bending I was granted.
Twelve tomato plants now stand in a row.
Lots of potatoes have begun to grow.
Lettuce, beets, and carrots all peeking out.
All the other seeds are waiting to sprout.
With a bit of rain, sun and a God’s favor
We’ll be eating veggies with more flavor
Than the offerings coming from afar.
Many tomatoes will soon be in jars.
Our grape vines now sport tiny grape bunches;
We like them for jams, but not for lunches,
Except with peanut butter and some bread --
No better lunch sandwich is to be had.
The fruit trees were not bitten by a freeze;
There will be jellies under Christmas trees.
Now we weed and watch and wonder and wait
For all these goods things to end up on plates.
He got the ground ready so that I might
Finish our planting before night could fall.
With Mary’s seeder there’s no need to crawl;
I rolled along the rows with many seeds;
This was so much less work than hoeing weeds.
It seemed much like magic as I planted;
A reprieve from bending I was granted.
Twelve tomato plants now stand in a row.
Lots of potatoes have begun to grow.
Lettuce, beets, and carrots all peeking out.
All the other seeds are waiting to sprout.
With a bit of rain, sun and a God’s favor
We’ll be eating veggies with more flavor
Than the offerings coming from afar.
Many tomatoes will soon be in jars.
Our grape vines now sport tiny grape bunches;
We like them for jams, but not for lunches,
Except with peanut butter and some bread --
No better lunch sandwich is to be had.
The fruit trees were not bitten by a freeze;
There will be jellies under Christmas trees.
Now we weed and watch and wonder and wait
For all these goods things to end up on plates.
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
Richard's Beloved Bronco II
Exercise class really kicked my butt, as in I couldn’t get my big butt off the floor. I don’t know what was different; I don’t think I gained any poundage in my posterior pouch. All I know is that, try as I may, my arms and belly muscles couldn’t get my derriere to moon the ceiling. I think I’ll blame it on all the hoeing I did the day before.
Greta had us all in stitches complaining that Deborah was asking an awful lot of us in commanding that we tuck our butts, suck our guts and breath – all while completing these various contortions. We’ve decided that Deborah must have escaped from a circus, so we’re considering starting Cirque du Coker Creek with her as the headliner. The girl is as limber as linguine after it’s been overcooked. I, on the other hand, feel more like an uncooked lasagna noodle.
After exercise, I arrived home to find a frustrated Richard. He was still trying to work out how to start the tractor. Richard calls this kind of situation “the infinite regression of steps”.
At first,we couldn’t fertilize because the ground was too wet. When the ground dried, we couldn’t plant until we turned the fertilizer into the soil. We couldn’t turn the fertilizer into the soil because the tractor wouldn’t start. We couldn’t start the tractor because the battery was dead. The battery was dead because there’s something wrong with the generator. So, Richard headed to the tractor dealer to purchase a manual on repairing a 1952 tractor.
He came home with the tractor manual, but he had other issues. His beloved Bronco II is acting up again. This is the last of his belongings from our pre-hurricane Katrina days (if you don’t count me, that is). He loves that truck like he loves our dog, and the truck is even useful (unlike our pretty puppy). The truck has been with him for twenty-one years and one hundred, seventy thousand miles. It is a part of who he is.
He’s always said that he’d get rid of it if it got to where it needed more repairs than it was worth. It’s been greasing our gravel driveway with oil for years; this was okay because it only cost a little bit to keep feeding the engine oil. The ignition and the alternator recently gave out, so he had them replaced – after all it was still a very reliable truck. Now, his new ignition is giving him fits, and the mechanic says it’s because his engine seals are failing so badly that they are flooding the ignition with engine oil. He can either decline life support in the form of five thousand dollars in repairs or bleed more money into his beloved Bronco II. What’s a daddy to do?
He called Charlie, who really knows and loves classic cars. The Bronco II is now officially a classic, having survived the crusher for over twenty years. Charlie’s going to give Richard a second opinion when he returns from his latest Antique Automobile Club of America event. Is it proper to pray for a possession that one feels is like a person?
Greta had us all in stitches complaining that Deborah was asking an awful lot of us in commanding that we tuck our butts, suck our guts and breath – all while completing these various contortions. We’ve decided that Deborah must have escaped from a circus, so we’re considering starting Cirque du Coker Creek with her as the headliner. The girl is as limber as linguine after it’s been overcooked. I, on the other hand, feel more like an uncooked lasagna noodle.
After exercise, I arrived home to find a frustrated Richard. He was still trying to work out how to start the tractor. Richard calls this kind of situation “the infinite regression of steps”.
At first,we couldn’t fertilize because the ground was too wet. When the ground dried, we couldn’t plant until we turned the fertilizer into the soil. We couldn’t turn the fertilizer into the soil because the tractor wouldn’t start. We couldn’t start the tractor because the battery was dead. The battery was dead because there’s something wrong with the generator. So, Richard headed to the tractor dealer to purchase a manual on repairing a 1952 tractor.
He came home with the tractor manual, but he had other issues. His beloved Bronco II is acting up again. This is the last of his belongings from our pre-hurricane Katrina days (if you don’t count me, that is). He loves that truck like he loves our dog, and the truck is even useful (unlike our pretty puppy). The truck has been with him for twenty-one years and one hundred, seventy thousand miles. It is a part of who he is.
He’s always said that he’d get rid of it if it got to where it needed more repairs than it was worth. It’s been greasing our gravel driveway with oil for years; this was okay because it only cost a little bit to keep feeding the engine oil. The ignition and the alternator recently gave out, so he had them replaced – after all it was still a very reliable truck. Now, his new ignition is giving him fits, and the mechanic says it’s because his engine seals are failing so badly that they are flooding the ignition with engine oil. He can either decline life support in the form of five thousand dollars in repairs or bleed more money into his beloved Bronco II. What’s a daddy to do?
He called Charlie, who really knows and loves classic cars. The Bronco II is now officially a classic, having survived the crusher for over twenty years. Charlie’s going to give Richard a second opinion when he returns from his latest Antique Automobile Club of America event. Is it proper to pray for a possession that one feels is like a person?
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
Tractor Troubles
We went to Mamie’s to beat the rain. Richard was going to really zip through those tilled areas, turning the soil and manure into a rich, smooth palette for our vegetable garden. I was going to follow along with the nifty rolling seed planter that Mountaintop Mary had offered to lend me after seeing the Mennonite farmers planting with a similar device. We were geared up to go -- and the tractor wouldn’t start.
I could bemoan the use of technology, waxing poetic about the reliability of horse-drawn plows and harrows, but I’d be willing to bet there are days that horses don’t feel up to their tasks of plow pulling and such. Here we were, ready to finish getting the garden in, and big clods of horse poop were impeding our progress.
Mamie informed me that it was time to hoe the weeds from between the potatoes, while creating the mounds that help potatoes to thrive. As I went down each row with Mamie’s special weeding hoe, I realized that Richard had insisted that the rows be spaced for running a walk-behind tiller between them. What the heck was I doing with this hoe in my hand?
On one of Richard’s visits to my area to let me know that he was leaving to retrieve tools and other needed tractor repair items from our house, I asked him about the possibility of simplifying my task with Mamie’s tiller. Since Mamie’s tiller is as old as the tractor, it also has seen better days. After complimenting me on the fine job I was doing, Richard let me know that I’m much too delicate to try to wrestle that tiller into submission. I kept hoeing while Richard went to Wal Mart to have the tractor battery tested.
By the time Richard returned, the rain had begun, which was okay because the tractor still couldn’t be used. The battery was still dead -- so dead, in fact, that Richard had been advised by Charlie that it would probably take two days to finish bringing it back to life. What’s a farmer to do? I took a nap while warming up the chili for the second-Monday Ruritan supper meeting.
I was jealous when Dave told me that he and his wife had spent the day sowing sixteen rows of corn. We only want about a fourth of that, but not a seed is yet in the ground. The ground is now too wet to run a tractor over; it will be a few more days of waiting. At this rate we won’t be harvesting until Labor Day. Now, I know Jack planted corn four different times last year. Maybe we’ll get early corn from him and we’ll be able to share our late corn at community suppers.
The plants I bought from the Future Farmers of America, meanwhile, are waiting to be placed in their rows. Mountaintop Mary has found a new source of FFOA seedlings in close-in Tellico Plains. My best bet may be to go to their greenhouse rather than attempting to sprout our own seeds.
I could bemoan the use of technology, waxing poetic about the reliability of horse-drawn plows and harrows, but I’d be willing to bet there are days that horses don’t feel up to their tasks of plow pulling and such. Here we were, ready to finish getting the garden in, and big clods of horse poop were impeding our progress.
Mamie informed me that it was time to hoe the weeds from between the potatoes, while creating the mounds that help potatoes to thrive. As I went down each row with Mamie’s special weeding hoe, I realized that Richard had insisted that the rows be spaced for running a walk-behind tiller between them. What the heck was I doing with this hoe in my hand?
On one of Richard’s visits to my area to let me know that he was leaving to retrieve tools and other needed tractor repair items from our house, I asked him about the possibility of simplifying my task with Mamie’s tiller. Since Mamie’s tiller is as old as the tractor, it also has seen better days. After complimenting me on the fine job I was doing, Richard let me know that I’m much too delicate to try to wrestle that tiller into submission. I kept hoeing while Richard went to Wal Mart to have the tractor battery tested.
By the time Richard returned, the rain had begun, which was okay because the tractor still couldn’t be used. The battery was still dead -- so dead, in fact, that Richard had been advised by Charlie that it would probably take two days to finish bringing it back to life. What’s a farmer to do? I took a nap while warming up the chili for the second-Monday Ruritan supper meeting.
I was jealous when Dave told me that he and his wife had spent the day sowing sixteen rows of corn. We only want about a fourth of that, but not a seed is yet in the ground. The ground is now too wet to run a tractor over; it will be a few more days of waiting. At this rate we won’t be harvesting until Labor Day. Now, I know Jack planted corn four different times last year. Maybe we’ll get early corn from him and we’ll be able to share our late corn at community suppers.
The plants I bought from the Future Farmers of America, meanwhile, are waiting to be placed in their rows. Mountaintop Mary has found a new source of FFOA seedlings in close-in Tellico Plains. My best bet may be to go to their greenhouse rather than attempting to sprout our own seeds.
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