Sumertime, summertime, Sum, Sum…
Summertime! And the weeds are taking over! There is no stopping them. Every kind of unwanted plant is thriving in my gardens and yard. It is the middle of Summer and I feel like all that I do is pull weeds! Of course there has been a plethora of other seasonal pleasures…like taking two days every week to mow the six or so cleared acres of yard, constructing a poor excuse for a deer deterrent fence around the veggie plot and waiting for hours at the airport while my niece’s flights were cancelled due to those wonders of nature…afternoon thunderstorms.
We’ve had fun too though…the summer sort of fun, like hiking, picnics in the parks and having bonfires (well we have to do something with the abundance of overgrowth.). One very hot day we went for a swim down at Fairy Stone Lake, and afterwards a leisurely hunt for the crystalline stones along Route 58. The parks department sure makes their money on hot days! When I was a kid, swimming in the lakes and ponds was free. In any case, we found a square of trucked in sand to park our blanket on and made our way to the water. It was colder than the ocean and cooled us off quickly.
After the hour and a half drive and the chilling dip I remembered that I didn’t like swimming in lakes. The idea that below the water used to be a small valley with trees growing and animals running about just creeps me out. After thinking about it, the water feels different to me…thick with muck. It’s psychological but the lack of being able to see the bottom through the water adds to my discomfort. Don’t get me wrong…the lake is a great place to go. They have a cool kiddie area with a huge turtle sculpture to climb and another that squirts water at you, and a few more things that the kids all loved. The paddleboats were cheap enough to rent and the scenery is just beautiful. But I am not my grandmother, no matter what my husband says, and I don’t want to just sit on the beach and look. I want to play too! Give me a water hole in a river any day. Sure it is even colder water, but oh, how refreshing it is to stick your rear end in an old inner tube and loll about in the shadows.
We missed out on fireworks this Independence Day. My niece was visiting from New York and witnessed her first car races at the Callaway Speedway. There were supposed to be fireworks that night, and I suppose there were, but after four races, we’d had enough noise and headed home. The car racket, coupled with the crowd tossing firecrackers and shooting bottle rockets felt enough like a reenactment of war anyway – much more realistic a tribute than the colored lights in the sky are, even if it isn’t quite so traditionally patriotic.
This summer vacation is one my 13-year-old niece will likely remember. This city girl experienced the country and reminded me of how much I love it here. While camping in a tent in the front yard (her first time), an cried in the woods half the night. The eerie sound, like a baby crying, is enough to keep anyone clutching a flashlight. I was surprised that she and my daughter hadn’t come running into the house, and only found out the next morning that they had been too frightened to leave the tent. When my Girl Scout troop girls came over to spend a day making crafts, my niece noted that they all had accents, and worried that she “would return home sounding like that.” An English style horse rider, she enjoyed a long rustic Western trail ride at Slocum’s Appaloosa Ranch, after learning how to clean all sorts of things out of a horse's hoof. And as she bounced in the seat of my Geo Tracker, my mini jeep, going down the rough driveway, she asked me if I don’t get tired of the bumps. Well, yes and no. Sure I would like a nice smooth ride, but it is the bumps in the road that remind me to appreciate where that driveway leads.
So, I suppose those weeds I keep pulling up are a good thing too, for they help me to appreciate the beauty of the flowers, the abundance of vegetables, and they get me involved with the gardens in a real hands-on way. I hope that all of your weeds are wildflowers!
***Originally Written for Senior News, July, 2003***
Friday, April 25, 2008
Thursday, April 3, 2008
June 2003: Indigo Fields
A rose, by any other name…
Would smell as sweet, and home is home, with or without a title. I had always dreamed of living on a piece of land that had a name. Nothing like the posh estates though, nothing like Windham Hills or Pinnacle Peaks, but something like, The Homeplace or Rocky Ridge. I like things simple. However, we’ve been here a year and have not named our place. I wasn’t worrying too much about it, but, the berries are in and I’ve been making jam…lots and lots of jam. Those jam jars need labels. We needed a name for our farm.
The house is on a hilltop but the obvious name is taken…Blue Ridge farm is just too common. Blueberry Hill makes me think of Richie Cunningham singing that lovely song on Happy Days. While I love Ron Howard and his directing, I didn’t want to envision him when thinking of home. We could name the place Briar Patch or Wild Acres, but when we eventually tame the land in its entirety, it wouldn’t fit, and it really isn’t the image one wants to portray on a jam jar label.
Then there was the problem that we are expanding our farming, and I use the term lightly, to include lavender. We put in two good-sized rows so far and are planning on a decent harvest of the sweet smelling herb flowers this summer. Next year we will expand that portion of the farm and will eventually have near equal crops of berries and herbs. All of these plans though, put a damper on using Blueberry in the farm name. Not wanting one crop to feel inferior to the other, I decided it wouldn’t be fair to use the word Lavender either.
So what would lavender and blueberries have in common? Not a blasted thing. Well, except that when you have a field of lavender, it doesn’t really look purple in nature. It is more of a bluish purple, an in-between color, like in the rainbow. Indigo. And I like the sound of that. It isn’t common and it isn’t outlandish such as spelling blue like the cheese…bleu. I didn’t want people coming up and telling me I had a typo on my label anyway.
So Indigo it is. But Indigo what? Being the optimist that I am, I plan on having a field of lavender. I have faith that my two rows will multiply into rows upon rows and becoming a field. And I have faith that our rows and rows of blueberries will be made accessible (yes, Chris HAS got the Gravely running! Did I tell you he has more than one now?) and we will be able to clearly see our four to five acre field of berry bushes. So, it was simple, as I like it, and we decided that the name should be Indigo Fields. Ta da! A farm is born.
It really does fit. As I sit here typing this, I notice that my fingers have become representative of the color choice. Picking gallon after gallon of bluish purple berries and mashing them for jam processing, my fingers have been stained indigo. There it was, right on the tip of my fingers the whole time. Sometimes life is like that.
***Originally written for Senior News June 2003***
Update: I still reap the lavender and berries but I am so tired of them going to feed just the birds and deer, and maybe occasional bear. I am selling the surplus of berry bushes. We’ve dropped plans to open up as a pick-your-own due to insurance costs. These are fully mature, 4-6 feet tall, lovely bushes. Check out my listing on Craig’s List if you are interested. We have hundreds of bushes!
Would smell as sweet, and home is home, with or without a title. I had always dreamed of living on a piece of land that had a name. Nothing like the posh estates though, nothing like Windham Hills or Pinnacle Peaks, but something like, The Homeplace or Rocky Ridge. I like things simple. However, we’ve been here a year and have not named our place. I wasn’t worrying too much about it, but, the berries are in and I’ve been making jam…lots and lots of jam. Those jam jars need labels. We needed a name for our farm.
The house is on a hilltop but the obvious name is taken…Blue Ridge farm is just too common. Blueberry Hill makes me think of Richie Cunningham singing that lovely song on Happy Days. While I love Ron Howard and his directing, I didn’t want to envision him when thinking of home. We could name the place Briar Patch or Wild Acres, but when we eventually tame the land in its entirety, it wouldn’t fit, and it really isn’t the image one wants to portray on a jam jar label.
Then there was the problem that we are expanding our farming, and I use the term lightly, to include lavender. We put in two good-sized rows so far and are planning on a decent harvest of the sweet smelling herb flowers this summer. Next year we will expand that portion of the farm and will eventually have near equal crops of berries and herbs. All of these plans though, put a damper on using Blueberry in the farm name. Not wanting one crop to feel inferior to the other, I decided it wouldn’t be fair to use the word Lavender either.
So what would lavender and blueberries have in common? Not a blasted thing. Well, except that when you have a field of lavender, it doesn’t really look purple in nature. It is more of a bluish purple, an in-between color, like in the rainbow. Indigo. And I like the sound of that. It isn’t common and it isn’t outlandish such as spelling blue like the cheese…bleu. I didn’t want people coming up and telling me I had a typo on my label anyway.
So Indigo it is. But Indigo what? Being the optimist that I am, I plan on having a field of lavender. I have faith that my two rows will multiply into rows upon rows and becoming a field. And I have faith that our rows and rows of blueberries will be made accessible (yes, Chris HAS got the Gravely running! Did I tell you he has more than one now?) and we will be able to clearly see our four to five acre field of berry bushes. So, it was simple, as I like it, and we decided that the name should be Indigo Fields. Ta da! A farm is born.
It really does fit. As I sit here typing this, I notice that my fingers have become representative of the color choice. Picking gallon after gallon of bluish purple berries and mashing them for jam processing, my fingers have been stained indigo. There it was, right on the tip of my fingers the whole time. Sometimes life is like that.
***Originally written for Senior News June 2003***
Update: I still reap the lavender and berries but I am so tired of them going to feed just the birds and deer, and maybe occasional bear. I am selling the surplus of berry bushes. We’ve dropped plans to open up as a pick-your-own due to insurance costs. These are fully mature, 4-6 feet tall, lovely bushes. Check out my listing on Craig’s List if you are interested. We have hundreds of bushes!
Thursday, March 13, 2008
May 2003: Old Blue
Every farm needs…
…an old pickup truck. Old Blue has come home! I am quite excited. She was brought home on the back of a flatbed tow truck, just days ago, and now she rests, waiting patiently in the huge Quonset hut that we thought we would never fill up. She is my dream vehicle, a 1953 Chevrolet 3100 pickup truck, in need of a complete overhaul.
Why am I doing this? It all started when I was learning to drive at age 16. My mom and I were car shopping, in used lots, and came across a classic Mustang convertible. It was white with a red interior. I really wanted that car. For what it was, the price was not unreasonable, but surely out of my range. I walked away and I lost the drive to drive. I ended up with my step father’s old Fairmont and then my sister’s old Chevette. Not the coolest of cars for a teenager. But I no longer cared. I knew I couldn’t have what I wanted, so I drove what I could. In the back of my frugal mind though, were images of a classic vehicle with me behind the wheel.
Over the years my tastes changed, though I always lean toward the classic, broken in styles. True faded blue jeans are my wardrobe, simple silver jewelry adorns my fingers, my golden retriever at my feet, nature’s curls on my head and the rain pouring down on the roof of my log cabin…my life is simple and good. Along with those country features of my life, my dream car changed into a dream truck…the very classic of them all, in my opinion, the 50-s era Chevy.
I knew I would never be able to afford the already restored versions that are out there. Classic trucks are highly collectible. I just cannot compete with the folks who have money to throw away. My only choice was to find a model that was neglected and forgotten, and make her new again. For years we kept an eye out on our excursions, scanning every field for a relic from the past parked and abandoned. It always saddened me to find one, beyond repair, a rusted out shell, stripped of its glory with no hope of rebirth. It is a popular thing to do, restoring old trucks, and the pickings were slim. It seemed that every old barn had already been swept clean, every garage emptied.
Then one day Chris called me from work. He’d just delivered a package to a house for FedEx, and in the barn he noticed an old pickup. It was blue and the body was rounded and smooth. It was just what I’d been looking for, but we’d seen trucks before that the owners just weren’t ready to part with, so I forgot about it. Soon after, Chris delivered another package to the same house, and this time he asked about the truck. Yes, they might consider selling her.
One Sunday we drove down to Danville together to take a look. I took her photo before I got too close. It was a classic shot, as she sat under the roof of a red ramshackle barn. Her roommate was an old wooden wagon. It was just perfect. Her tires were flat and her back window cracked in numerous places, her seat deteriorated and the floorboard covered with a plate of steel. But I could see her in her glory, shiny red and glowing with life. We negotiated and made a deal. It took a month or so to find a towing company willing to drive her home to Callaway for an amount we could afford.
Now she sits and waits for me to figure out what to do with her. I’ll be learning engine repair with hands on experience, but first I need to find a repair manual. The last time she ran was in 1999, but I trust she’ll be back on the road at some point. Why do I want to repair her myself? It will make her mine, truly mine. She already fits like an old pair of jeans, and in fact looks like one too in her faded blue paint. For now, she is at home on the farm in her old blue overalls but one of these days she’ll slip on a red dress, buffed and shiny and hit the town.
Chris likes to tell people that his wife is renovating a classic pickup. Traditionally this is a man’s hobby. I don’t think it is that odd though. I am simply helping the old girl rekindle her youth and I would do that for anyone.
***Originally written for Senior News in May, 2003***
Update: Old Blue is now for sale. She's still waiting to be restored, re-birthed, like Cinderella. But some fairy tales don't always have a happy ending. Her listing can be seen on Craig's List. If you know the perfect Prince Charming for her, let me know.
Update on the Update: Old Blue has left the building! She hitched a ride on a flatbed and is off to her new life. The local buyer promised to drive by when she's up and running, and honk the horn at me. Some dreams are meant to be lived out vicariously I guess.
…an old pickup truck. Old Blue has come home! I am quite excited. She was brought home on the back of a flatbed tow truck, just days ago, and now she rests, waiting patiently in the huge Quonset hut that we thought we would never fill up. She is my dream vehicle, a 1953 Chevrolet 3100 pickup truck, in need of a complete overhaul.
Why am I doing this? It all started when I was learning to drive at age 16. My mom and I were car shopping, in used lots, and came across a classic Mustang convertible. It was white with a red interior. I really wanted that car. For what it was, the price was not unreasonable, but surely out of my range. I walked away and I lost the drive to drive. I ended up with my step father’s old Fairmont and then my sister’s old Chevette. Not the coolest of cars for a teenager. But I no longer cared. I knew I couldn’t have what I wanted, so I drove what I could. In the back of my frugal mind though, were images of a classic vehicle with me behind the wheel.
Over the years my tastes changed, though I always lean toward the classic, broken in styles. True faded blue jeans are my wardrobe, simple silver jewelry adorns my fingers, my golden retriever at my feet, nature’s curls on my head and the rain pouring down on the roof of my log cabin…my life is simple and good. Along with those country features of my life, my dream car changed into a dream truck…the very classic of them all, in my opinion, the 50-s era Chevy.
I knew I would never be able to afford the already restored versions that are out there. Classic trucks are highly collectible. I just cannot compete with the folks who have money to throw away. My only choice was to find a model that was neglected and forgotten, and make her new again. For years we kept an eye out on our excursions, scanning every field for a relic from the past parked and abandoned. It always saddened me to find one, beyond repair, a rusted out shell, stripped of its glory with no hope of rebirth. It is a popular thing to do, restoring old trucks, and the pickings were slim. It seemed that every old barn had already been swept clean, every garage emptied.
Then one day Chris called me from work. He’d just delivered a package to a house for FedEx, and in the barn he noticed an old pickup. It was blue and the body was rounded and smooth. It was just what I’d been looking for, but we’d seen trucks before that the owners just weren’t ready to part with, so I forgot about it. Soon after, Chris delivered another package to the same house, and this time he asked about the truck. Yes, they might consider selling her.
One Sunday we drove down to Danville together to take a look. I took her photo before I got too close. It was a classic shot, as she sat under the roof of a red ramshackle barn. Her roommate was an old wooden wagon. It was just perfect. Her tires were flat and her back window cracked in numerous places, her seat deteriorated and the floorboard covered with a plate of steel. But I could see her in her glory, shiny red and glowing with life. We negotiated and made a deal. It took a month or so to find a towing company willing to drive her home to Callaway for an amount we could afford.
Now she sits and waits for me to figure out what to do with her. I’ll be learning engine repair with hands on experience, but first I need to find a repair manual. The last time she ran was in 1999, but I trust she’ll be back on the road at some point. Why do I want to repair her myself? It will make her mine, truly mine. She already fits like an old pair of jeans, and in fact looks like one too in her faded blue paint. For now, she is at home on the farm in her old blue overalls but one of these days she’ll slip on a red dress, buffed and shiny and hit the town.
Chris likes to tell people that his wife is renovating a classic pickup. Traditionally this is a man’s hobby. I don’t think it is that odd though. I am simply helping the old girl rekindle her youth and I would do that for anyone.
***Originally written for Senior News in May, 2003***
Update: Old Blue is now for sale. She's still waiting to be restored, re-birthed, like Cinderella. But some fairy tales don't always have a happy ending. Her listing can be seen on Craig's List. If you know the perfect Prince Charming for her, let me know.
Update on the Update: Old Blue has left the building! She hitched a ride on a flatbed and is off to her new life. The local buyer promised to drive by when she's up and running, and honk the horn at me. Some dreams are meant to be lived out vicariously I guess.
Tuesday, March 4, 2008
April 2003: Open Arms of Welcome
Out here in...
...my own little world, where I feel safe and content, I choose to view civilization through the window of the internet. I don’t usually buy the daily paper, unless I have an article or commentary in it that day. I look over the headlines, the local news stories and the editorial section while eating my breakfast at my desk, online. It’s easier than holding the large pages up while sipping coffee and I don’t have to worry about recycling the paper. You might wonder why I read the editorials. Sometimes I do too.
There are always opposing opinions on varied topics, which is the way it should be, but it saddens me to read the small minded comment, “If you don’t like it, leave,” at least once a week. If we all thought the same way and felt the same things, this world would be a very boring place. The people who make this comment add flavor to the world, but it leaves a bad taste in my mouth. They should take a cue from Mr. Shakespeare – "There are more things in Heaven and Earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy." Then there are the wise people who write in and demonstrate their intelligence with karmic opinions and the occasional reminder about glass houses, or the line, “to each his own.” These people make me smile and give me hope that the world isn’t really such a negative place to be.
Once a week (sometimes more) we venture back to “civilization” and head into Roanoke. Our daughter, Megan, takes horseback riding lessons in Bonsack on Sunday afternoons.
Slocum’s Appaloosa Ranch is her favorite place in the world. It rates right up there for Chris and I too. Nestled between the parkway and 460, the spread is impressive. The head count of horses is always near 100, but it is the abundance of love for the horses, the dedication to the animals and to teaching the students the joy of it all, that draws us there. While Megan is riding in the ring, sitting tall and going with the flow of her lesson horse, the rest of us go visiting. Sometimes we bring treats for the gang, but the majority of the horses are content with a scratch on the forehead or neck. There is joy to be found in the greeting of a horse… the blow of breath on your hand as they decipher your scent…the inquisitive perk of ears as you speak to them.
It is funny to us that this peace is found, not in Franklin County where you might expect a horse ranch, but back over by Roanoke. It demonstrates to me that the newspaper can never truly be a real window into the world of a city. This kind of tranquility, even in the wild ride that the ranch sometimes appears to be in, just isn’t found in the Opinion pages of the paper. The drive in, through town, is worth it.
Going into town has become an all day thing. It reminds me once again of “Little House on the Prairie,” where Pa would be gone for the entire day, just to get some supplies in town. Usually we plan on having a big lunch before Megan’s lesson or an early dinner afterwards at some place or another. Errands are run to pick up school supplies or project needs, planting materials or baseball glove oil. If we have time we might do some hiking. And after a full day of dining, driving among people who are in a hurry, and having to wait for traffic lights, having our eyesight assaulted by billboards and yard signs, it is ever so pleasant to hit those country roads and wave at the occasional pickup truck driving past.
Maybe that is part of the reason we go into town every week, aside from the joy we feel at the ranch, it is the coming home again, that feeling of relief at coming home. I guess that is why I read the editorials too. I can always log off the internet and not worry about those people who don’t like it when people don’t agree with them, then gaze out the window at the silent hills that stretch wide with open arms of welcome.
***Originally written for Senior News, April 2003***
...my own little world, where I feel safe and content, I choose to view civilization through the window of the internet. I don’t usually buy the daily paper, unless I have an article or commentary in it that day. I look over the headlines, the local news stories and the editorial section while eating my breakfast at my desk, online. It’s easier than holding the large pages up while sipping coffee and I don’t have to worry about recycling the paper. You might wonder why I read the editorials. Sometimes I do too.
There are always opposing opinions on varied topics, which is the way it should be, but it saddens me to read the small minded comment, “If you don’t like it, leave,” at least once a week. If we all thought the same way and felt the same things, this world would be a very boring place. The people who make this comment add flavor to the world, but it leaves a bad taste in my mouth. They should take a cue from Mr. Shakespeare – "There are more things in Heaven and Earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy." Then there are the wise people who write in and demonstrate their intelligence with karmic opinions and the occasional reminder about glass houses, or the line, “to each his own.” These people make me smile and give me hope that the world isn’t really such a negative place to be.
Once a week (sometimes more) we venture back to “civilization” and head into Roanoke. Our daughter, Megan, takes horseback riding lessons in Bonsack on Sunday afternoons.
Slocum’s Appaloosa Ranch is her favorite place in the world. It rates right up there for Chris and I too. Nestled between the parkway and 460, the spread is impressive. The head count of horses is always near 100, but it is the abundance of love for the horses, the dedication to the animals and to teaching the students the joy of it all, that draws us there. While Megan is riding in the ring, sitting tall and going with the flow of her lesson horse, the rest of us go visiting. Sometimes we bring treats for the gang, but the majority of the horses are content with a scratch on the forehead or neck. There is joy to be found in the greeting of a horse… the blow of breath on your hand as they decipher your scent…the inquisitive perk of ears as you speak to them.
It is funny to us that this peace is found, not in Franklin County where you might expect a horse ranch, but back over by Roanoke. It demonstrates to me that the newspaper can never truly be a real window into the world of a city. This kind of tranquility, even in the wild ride that the ranch sometimes appears to be in, just isn’t found in the Opinion pages of the paper. The drive in, through town, is worth it.
Going into town has become an all day thing. It reminds me once again of “Little House on the Prairie,” where Pa would be gone for the entire day, just to get some supplies in town. Usually we plan on having a big lunch before Megan’s lesson or an early dinner afterwards at some place or another. Errands are run to pick up school supplies or project needs, planting materials or baseball glove oil. If we have time we might do some hiking. And after a full day of dining, driving among people who are in a hurry, and having to wait for traffic lights, having our eyesight assaulted by billboards and yard signs, it is ever so pleasant to hit those country roads and wave at the occasional pickup truck driving past.
Maybe that is part of the reason we go into town every week, aside from the joy we feel at the ranch, it is the coming home again, that feeling of relief at coming home. I guess that is why I read the editorials too. I can always log off the internet and not worry about those people who don’t like it when people don’t agree with them, then gaze out the window at the silent hills that stretch wide with open arms of welcome.
***Originally written for Senior News, April 2003***
Thursday, December 6, 2007
March 2003: Our Home Has a Heart
Be it ever so humble…
There’s no place like home. It is hard to believe we have been here a year already (nearly six years now!). I guess that’s how you know you are home; when time flies and you don’t even realize it is passing. Yesterday I was taking a break from some yard work, breaking ground on a few projects, and I sat on the kids' wooden plank swing. It was one of the first projects I tackled upon moving in, hanging that swing. The view is spectacular. Before me was the Blue Ridge in all its spring budding glory. The leaves are just about popping, giving the hills a greenish tinge. Right next to the Tulip Poplar in which the swing hangs, is a perfect dogwood specimen. Perfect to me anyway, in its wildish kind of state. A gray and white bird approached the feeder hanging there. He was cautious at first, chattering away and cocking his head at me. I watched as he called to his friends and soon there was a flock of these little birds, eating away, not more than twenty feet from me. They felt at home, and I do too.
I felt an overwhelming urge to sing then. What song? I couldn’t find one to represent the joy I felt. I just looked around at all that we have done in just a year, and felt again an immense sense of gratitude to the powers that be that led us here. My herb garden, a satisfying plot, where just nine months ago stood an imposing thicket of blackberry bushes, now gives me a sense of peace. I smile at every corner of it, from the euonymus at one end, to the budding lilac that was once a part of my grandmother’s joy…something that heralded in every spring of my childhood.
We have other garden areas taking root now too. Young Eric has a summer bulb garden, backed by a piece of picket fencing from our old home in Roanoke. He checks it often and will be enjoying the feeling of growing something on his own this summer as he practices catching pop fly balls in the yard, careful to not let them near his hollyhocks. Then there is the memorial type rock garden where we’d laid to rest our loving cat, Smokey, last fall. It is a glorious collection of the beautiful white quartz rocks that pop up everywhere, and spring bulbs like crocus and tulips, and later the iris will smile up at us. The flowers make our Megan smile when she crouches there to remember her cat. For that I am thankful.
What about the vegetable garden I complained about last issue? Oh, it is coming along. Chris has tilled it twice and we’ve added some things to the soil. My seedlings don’t look like they will be big enough to plant any time soon though. It looks like I will be forking over some cash to Lowe’s again for some decent sized seedlings. My corn seed and seed potatoes are on their way to me though. I am anxiously awaiting a good-sized order, placed to a nursery catalogue last week. What a garden this will be! And what lessons I am sure to learn.
With all of the plans we have for this place it may seem like we have not done very much in the course of a year, but I know better. No, the logs are not ALL caulked like we want them to be, and we still don’t have a screen door on the front entrance. But things are so much better than when we moved here. Besides, who is ever done with projects around the house? It proves that this is home, to see the half finished abundance of things that need doing.
A few weeks ago I was walking back up the ¼ mile driveway, having been clipping down branches and clearing poison ivy vines, and I stopped to see the view from that perspective. The willow at the roadside was budding and beyond that the hills and fields were greening. My grandmother always wanted to live on a farm. While she is not able to ever be here in person I know that her spirit is. I would so love to hear her say that she is happy for us, but in my mind I can hear the words that she would use and the tone in her voice. It is that happiness that I carry with me while I am at home.
The following Mark Twain poem, adapted slightly, hangs just inside our front door. It suits us perfectly:
Our home has a heart,
and a soul,
and eyes to see us with;
and approvals, and solicitudes,
and deep sympathies;
it is of us,
and we are in its confidence,
and live in its grace
and in the peace of its benediction…
we cannot enter it unmoved.
***Originally Written for Senior News, March 2003***
There’s no place like home. It is hard to believe we have been here a year already (nearly six years now!). I guess that’s how you know you are home; when time flies and you don’t even realize it is passing. Yesterday I was taking a break from some yard work, breaking ground on a few projects, and I sat on the kids' wooden plank swing. It was one of the first projects I tackled upon moving in, hanging that swing. The view is spectacular. Before me was the Blue Ridge in all its spring budding glory. The leaves are just about popping, giving the hills a greenish tinge. Right next to the Tulip Poplar in which the swing hangs, is a perfect dogwood specimen. Perfect to me anyway, in its wildish kind of state. A gray and white bird approached the feeder hanging there. He was cautious at first, chattering away and cocking his head at me. I watched as he called to his friends and soon there was a flock of these little birds, eating away, not more than twenty feet from me. They felt at home, and I do too.
I felt an overwhelming urge to sing then. What song? I couldn’t find one to represent the joy I felt. I just looked around at all that we have done in just a year, and felt again an immense sense of gratitude to the powers that be that led us here. My herb garden, a satisfying plot, where just nine months ago stood an imposing thicket of blackberry bushes, now gives me a sense of peace. I smile at every corner of it, from the euonymus at one end, to the budding lilac that was once a part of my grandmother’s joy…something that heralded in every spring of my childhood.
We have other garden areas taking root now too. Young Eric has a summer bulb garden, backed by a piece of picket fencing from our old home in Roanoke. He checks it often and will be enjoying the feeling of growing something on his own this summer as he practices catching pop fly balls in the yard, careful to not let them near his hollyhocks. Then there is the memorial type rock garden where we’d laid to rest our loving cat, Smokey, last fall. It is a glorious collection of the beautiful white quartz rocks that pop up everywhere, and spring bulbs like crocus and tulips, and later the iris will smile up at us. The flowers make our Megan smile when she crouches there to remember her cat. For that I am thankful.
What about the vegetable garden I complained about last issue? Oh, it is coming along. Chris has tilled it twice and we’ve added some things to the soil. My seedlings don’t look like they will be big enough to plant any time soon though. It looks like I will be forking over some cash to Lowe’s again for some decent sized seedlings. My corn seed and seed potatoes are on their way to me though. I am anxiously awaiting a good-sized order, placed to a nursery catalogue last week. What a garden this will be! And what lessons I am sure to learn.
With all of the plans we have for this place it may seem like we have not done very much in the course of a year, but I know better. No, the logs are not ALL caulked like we want them to be, and we still don’t have a screen door on the front entrance. But things are so much better than when we moved here. Besides, who is ever done with projects around the house? It proves that this is home, to see the half finished abundance of things that need doing.
A few weeks ago I was walking back up the ¼ mile driveway, having been clipping down branches and clearing poison ivy vines, and I stopped to see the view from that perspective. The willow at the roadside was budding and beyond that the hills and fields were greening. My grandmother always wanted to live on a farm. While she is not able to ever be here in person I know that her spirit is. I would so love to hear her say that she is happy for us, but in my mind I can hear the words that she would use and the tone in her voice. It is that happiness that I carry with me while I am at home.
The following Mark Twain poem, adapted slightly, hangs just inside our front door. It suits us perfectly:
Our home has a heart,
and a soul,
and eyes to see us with;
and approvals, and solicitudes,
and deep sympathies;
it is of us,
and we are in its confidence,
and live in its grace
and in the peace of its benediction…
we cannot enter it unmoved.
***Originally Written for Senior News, March 2003***
Friday, September 28, 2007
February 2003: Vegetable dreaming
Spring planting planning has snuck up on me! I can’t believe it. I have been dreaming of the fabulous vegetable garden I want to put in this year for months. I was planning on putting in early crops like peas and spinach (yeah, the kids’ favorites!) and keeping it going all season, rotating crops and taking advantage of every minute of growing time. But here I am, staring out at a bleak span of snow-covered ground. Honestly, by the time you are reading this, the snow will be gone, to be sure, replaced by mud. I know about mud.
Do you know that there are really five seasons in Vermont? Spring is much welcomed and summer is only about a month long, then beautiful fall, and loooong winter, followed by mud season. Mud season: the time of year when all of the snow melts but the ground is too frozen to accept the runoff, save for the top two feet of soil which then turns to mud. It gets everywhere and is a fact of life. In fact, snow tires and four-wheel drive are really needed more for mud season than for the snow.
So I really do know about mud. What I don’t know is how we are going to traverse the mud slick that is now our driveway. (I could really use someone with a grading plow to stop by, followed by a gravel truck. Anyone?[Actually, now that it's 2007, the driveway is just fine and well used.]) I recently had to deal with our family van being stuck about midway up the drive. I really wouldn’t have minded driving around it with my mini jeep but I had just picked up my Girl Scout troop’s cookies and I needed to get them to the girls! It wasn’t pretty, but I finally got the van backed all the way out to the road. It sure made an interesting pattern…red mud splattered all over, and I do mean ALL OVER, the white van.
So anyway, I have all these dreams of fresh salad greens and snap peas, and no garden plot to show for it. Okay, so the hold up with the Gravely is partly to blame. (Hey, whoever wants to grade our driveway, if you have a rototiller too, it would be really nice if you could plow up a garden for me![Again, now that's it's 2007, the garden is well plowed and the Gravely works just fine.]) But in reality, I have been programmed by my years of eking out a garden existence when we lived in Vermont. You see, Mud season, (Late March) notes the time to start thinking about starting vegetable seeds. It wouldn’t do you any good to start them in February when you can’t count on the last frost being until May. Many years I would only turn the soil over in May and once, even on Father’s Day in June.
This explains how I let time slip away from me here. My seed packets are still sealed and my starting trays are still dry. Is it too late? I suppose I could just buy seedlings later on. But where is the thrill of watching the little babies pop out of their peat pots? I have a nice start on my herb garden though. But then I always have done that well. During those long Vermont winters I would crave seeing something green. In every apartment we lived in I had the windowsills covered with pots of herbs. The joy of growing them nourished my soul. Now, I have a window box type pot in my kitchen window, where I water it with the sink nozzle, filling up with sage, chives, oregano and catnip among others. Last summer’s projects included my digging out years of wild growing blackberry bushes and putting in stepping stones and grass seed, surrounded by mulched areas for my herb garden. At least this spring I’ll be able to plant my precious seed-grown herbs!
Through this recent ice storm, I found glimpses of hope for warmer weather in the bluebirds frolicking around and today I am smiling at the literal flocks of robins that are taking advantage of the mushy ground to snatch worms. Yes, these little things make me happy and give me hope. But darn it, there is a sniggling of guilt involved too. I knew I should have been doing something to prepare for planting time. I now cringe when I see the local corn fields tinged brown with manure soup, not from the scent of it, but from the guilt of my not doing the same!
I guess I’ll just have to keep buying produce at the store for a while longer this year. Can’t you just hear my kids cheering for the lack of peas?
***Originally written for Senior News, February 2003***
Do you know that there are really five seasons in Vermont? Spring is much welcomed and summer is only about a month long, then beautiful fall, and loooong winter, followed by mud season. Mud season: the time of year when all of the snow melts but the ground is too frozen to accept the runoff, save for the top two feet of soil which then turns to mud. It gets everywhere and is a fact of life. In fact, snow tires and four-wheel drive are really needed more for mud season than for the snow.
So I really do know about mud. What I don’t know is how we are going to traverse the mud slick that is now our driveway. (I could really use someone with a grading plow to stop by, followed by a gravel truck. Anyone?[Actually, now that it's 2007, the driveway is just fine and well used.]) I recently had to deal with our family van being stuck about midway up the drive. I really wouldn’t have minded driving around it with my mini jeep but I had just picked up my Girl Scout troop’s cookies and I needed to get them to the girls! It wasn’t pretty, but I finally got the van backed all the way out to the road. It sure made an interesting pattern…red mud splattered all over, and I do mean ALL OVER, the white van.
So anyway, I have all these dreams of fresh salad greens and snap peas, and no garden plot to show for it. Okay, so the hold up with the Gravely is partly to blame. (Hey, whoever wants to grade our driveway, if you have a rototiller too, it would be really nice if you could plow up a garden for me![Again, now that's it's 2007, the garden is well plowed and the Gravely works just fine.]) But in reality, I have been programmed by my years of eking out a garden existence when we lived in Vermont. You see, Mud season, (Late March) notes the time to start thinking about starting vegetable seeds. It wouldn’t do you any good to start them in February when you can’t count on the last frost being until May. Many years I would only turn the soil over in May and once, even on Father’s Day in June.
This explains how I let time slip away from me here. My seed packets are still sealed and my starting trays are still dry. Is it too late? I suppose I could just buy seedlings later on. But where is the thrill of watching the little babies pop out of their peat pots? I have a nice start on my herb garden though. But then I always have done that well. During those long Vermont winters I would crave seeing something green. In every apartment we lived in I had the windowsills covered with pots of herbs. The joy of growing them nourished my soul. Now, I have a window box type pot in my kitchen window, where I water it with the sink nozzle, filling up with sage, chives, oregano and catnip among others. Last summer’s projects included my digging out years of wild growing blackberry bushes and putting in stepping stones and grass seed, surrounded by mulched areas for my herb garden. At least this spring I’ll be able to plant my precious seed-grown herbs!
Through this recent ice storm, I found glimpses of hope for warmer weather in the bluebirds frolicking around and today I am smiling at the literal flocks of robins that are taking advantage of the mushy ground to snatch worms. Yes, these little things make me happy and give me hope. But darn it, there is a sniggling of guilt involved too. I knew I should have been doing something to prepare for planting time. I now cringe when I see the local corn fields tinged brown with manure soup, not from the scent of it, but from the guilt of my not doing the same!
I guess I’ll just have to keep buying produce at the store for a while longer this year. Can’t you just hear my kids cheering for the lack of peas?
***Originally written for Senior News, February 2003***
Sunday, September 9, 2007
January 2003: Speaking of cold while it's 90 degrees out
It is just so…COLD! How can I be saying this? How can I, someone who lived through negative 20 degrees in actual Fahrenheit temperature in Vermont’s winters, be complaining about the cold? Because I have work to do outside that HAS to be done. I am one of those people who don’t like to HAVE to do things. I have my own ideas of what I want to do. For instance, I would much rather stay inside, snuggled up to the fire, than go outside and clear blackberry brambles from between the blueberry bushes. I would much rather stay in the warm-ish living room and watch a pay-per-view movie than make the trek in the cold car into Roanoke to sit in a cold theater. If I can help it, I choose to be warm.
But, we had decided to work on the wilderness-that-is-our-property this winter. Why was that again? Hmm yes, because Chris is extremely allergic to poison ivy, and I am not fond of snakes. So unless I want to clear it all by myself in the warmer weather, I have to do it now so Chris can help. But…where is he? In the basement, which really isn’t much warmer than outside, working on his Gravely.
Ah yes, the Gravely. What is it? Well besides being a running joke in our home, besides being a very rusted and neglected piece of machinery, it is my husband’s obsession. It is also, or, will be again, a walk behind motor that you can attach a tiller, brush mower, snowplow and numerous other gadgets to. It’s a man thing, I have been told. Well, yeah, no woman would waste so much time and energy on anything so past its prime. Well there might be some women who would, but I am not one of them.
It all began the day after our first effort at clearing. We’d done quite well and that section of blueberry bush is looking good. Of course it will need to be kept up and that will require mowing. I think that is what triggered the thought in Chris’ mind that he needs a tractor. Ebay is an addicting thing in and of itself. You never know what you might find and luckily for Chris, unhappily for me, he found his Gravely. The first hint at the trouble and time consuming project this thing would become, was in its need for a ride home. It lived somewhere up by D.C. and the shipping would be atrocious. Of course, owning your own delivery truck has some advantages and the relationship began with Chris driving five hours, one way, to pick up the thing.
The kids and I have done some teasing along the lines of junkyard rejects. The Gravely has taken over a portion of our basement. And every weekend Chris is down there fiddling, tinkering, taking apart and replacing things. Yes replacing. Even though this thing was built in the 50’s you can still get replacement parts for it. Good thing too. Likely, when all is said and done, 80 percent of it will be new. Luckily for Chris, there is a Gravely store in Roanoke, and I think he said he found one in Danville too. Oh goodie.
See the thing is, he is working so hard on it, and so often, that the clearing we were supposed to be doing, isn’t getting done. I just haven’t the incentive to go out there by myself. We were supposed to be doing this together. I know that eventually he will get it running (I keep telling myself that) and he’ll be out there at least tilling up my garden space – did I mention that he doesn’t even have a brush mowing attachment yet? So eventually I will be able to walk through the berry bushes and reopen the pick-your-own farm. But for now, if he can choose to stay inside and tinker with the Gravely, I can choose to stay inside and feed the fire.
This obsession isn’t really all that bad. We recently saw someone driving in Roanoke (near that Gravely store) with a personalized license plate (tag, that is) that said, “GRAVELI.” Of course that must mean that someone else in Virginia already had Gravely with a “Y” on his plate, and there are at least those two people who are more obsessed with it than Chris is. However, he has joined a Gravely email list; I couldn’t believe that there was such a thing. And there was the time that he bribed a fellow delivery driver to stop off at the Gravely store for him rather than wait a whole week for a part he needed right away. So I guess that one man’s passion is indeed another man’s obsession.
Now if it were a 1956 International pickup truck, like the one I really wanted to buy a month ago, I can understand looking past the rust and the flat tires, and the months, possibly years, of engine work required. Now that is something to get excited about. So if anyone wants to get rid of an old pickup truck or even an old Gravely, we are willing to take it off your hands. But we do understand that once a person falls for a piece of machinery like that, it is very hard to part with it. You just never know when you might be able to get it running again!
***Originally written for Senior News, January 2003***
***********************
A few notes: Since this was written, Chris got the Gravely, and another one, up and running and has used it a LOT around here. He was right! It was worth it. On the other hand, the blueberry farm we inherited on this property is not worth it and we are selling off the bushes this winter (the best time to transplant those big babies!). Let me know if you're interested. Chris no longer drives a delivery truck, and in fact sold that heap of investment. I've also collected a dear old pickup, that still awaits my attention in the garage. But that's a story for another day.
But, we had decided to work on the wilderness-that-is-our-property this winter. Why was that again? Hmm yes, because Chris is extremely allergic to poison ivy, and I am not fond of snakes. So unless I want to clear it all by myself in the warmer weather, I have to do it now so Chris can help. But…where is he? In the basement, which really isn’t much warmer than outside, working on his Gravely.
Ah yes, the Gravely. What is it? Well besides being a running joke in our home, besides being a very rusted and neglected piece of machinery, it is my husband’s obsession. It is also, or, will be again, a walk behind motor that you can attach a tiller, brush mower, snowplow and numerous other gadgets to. It’s a man thing, I have been told. Well, yeah, no woman would waste so much time and energy on anything so past its prime. Well there might be some women who would, but I am not one of them.
It all began the day after our first effort at clearing. We’d done quite well and that section of blueberry bush is looking good. Of course it will need to be kept up and that will require mowing. I think that is what triggered the thought in Chris’ mind that he needs a tractor. Ebay is an addicting thing in and of itself. You never know what you might find and luckily for Chris, unhappily for me, he found his Gravely. The first hint at the trouble and time consuming project this thing would become, was in its need for a ride home. It lived somewhere up by D.C. and the shipping would be atrocious. Of course, owning your own delivery truck has some advantages and the relationship began with Chris driving five hours, one way, to pick up the thing.
The kids and I have done some teasing along the lines of junkyard rejects. The Gravely has taken over a portion of our basement. And every weekend Chris is down there fiddling, tinkering, taking apart and replacing things. Yes replacing. Even though this thing was built in the 50’s you can still get replacement parts for it. Good thing too. Likely, when all is said and done, 80 percent of it will be new. Luckily for Chris, there is a Gravely store in Roanoke, and I think he said he found one in Danville too. Oh goodie.
See the thing is, he is working so hard on it, and so often, that the clearing we were supposed to be doing, isn’t getting done. I just haven’t the incentive to go out there by myself. We were supposed to be doing this together. I know that eventually he will get it running (I keep telling myself that) and he’ll be out there at least tilling up my garden space – did I mention that he doesn’t even have a brush mowing attachment yet? So eventually I will be able to walk through the berry bushes and reopen the pick-your-own farm. But for now, if he can choose to stay inside and tinker with the Gravely, I can choose to stay inside and feed the fire.
This obsession isn’t really all that bad. We recently saw someone driving in Roanoke (near that Gravely store) with a personalized license plate (tag, that is) that said, “GRAVELI.” Of course that must mean that someone else in Virginia already had Gravely with a “Y” on his plate, and there are at least those two people who are more obsessed with it than Chris is. However, he has joined a Gravely email list; I couldn’t believe that there was such a thing. And there was the time that he bribed a fellow delivery driver to stop off at the Gravely store for him rather than wait a whole week for a part he needed right away. So I guess that one man’s passion is indeed another man’s obsession.
Now if it were a 1956 International pickup truck, like the one I really wanted to buy a month ago, I can understand looking past the rust and the flat tires, and the months, possibly years, of engine work required. Now that is something to get excited about. So if anyone wants to get rid of an old pickup truck or even an old Gravely, we are willing to take it off your hands. But we do understand that once a person falls for a piece of machinery like that, it is very hard to part with it. You just never know when you might be able to get it running again!
***Originally written for Senior News, January 2003***
***********************
A few notes: Since this was written, Chris got the Gravely, and another one, up and running and has used it a LOT around here. He was right! It was worth it. On the other hand, the blueberry farm we inherited on this property is not worth it and we are selling off the bushes this winter (the best time to transplant those big babies!). Let me know if you're interested. Chris no longer drives a delivery truck, and in fact sold that heap of investment. I've also collected a dear old pickup, that still awaits my attention in the garage. But that's a story for another day.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)