Before You Was Born, Dude

“Well, that was your mother and that was your father,

Before you was born dude,...”

Paul Simon

Before the dudes and dudettes were born? Whoa, that was a LONG time ago!

The one advantage of all that time is it gives us a chance to tell the stories as WE remember them, with paltry few to gainsay us in matters of truth or tale…

He says he saw this girl wearing a big hat sitting at the desk of the dormitory where incoming MU freshmen checked in for Summer Welcome. And...then they wed, implying he married the first girl he met at college.  My husband makes it sound like a scene from a chick flick...but I’m fairly certain he has never seen a chick flick, so it must be the truth, right?  

I remember that day too.  We had a discussion about Allen Drury...Blake was carrying around a copy of Advise and Consent, a scenario which should surprise absolutely no one….

Well, it can’t be a chick flick without some plot twists.

What Are You Doing New Year’s Eve?

A few months and a couple of dates later, we were both part of an ag students’ group traveling way up north into Manitoba over the Christmas break.  When we stopped in Tarkio on the way south, it seemed like a perfectly logical place to spend New Year’s Eve with friends.  Only later did my mother-in-law tell me she was delegated to tell Blake’s other New Year’s Eve “date” that he was already busy.  

Blake drove a 1974 baby blue Torino.  It wasn’t “Gran”  by any description: the trunk smelled of sale barn, but that was masked by the blue pall of burning oil.  It took a gallon of oil to drive from Tarkio to Columbia.   Blake had a case of 8 track tapes by Charlie Rich, Johnny Cash, Willie Nelson, and Waylon Jennings punctuated by Tompall & the Glaser Brothers (Put Another Log on the Fire) and David Allan Coe (You Never Even Call Me by My Name). The tires were constantly going flat.  When the right side was caved in by another car’s  slow motion slide down the icy hill where we waited at a stop sign, it was a mercy killing.   

The next car was a stripped down sedate red sedan…

...which in due course we turned into a family car.  No more oil spills, no more spinning out around the curves.

We married the year Elvis died. For two days I listened to Elvis tunes while I sat on the floor of our duplex south of Columbia staining the unfinished furniture that, along with a carload of houseplants, was my contribution to our new household.  

Our ‘70s wedding was not a fairy tale concoction.  Neither the bride nor the groom thought it essential to get a decent haircut.  The tuxes were an obnoxious beige, and the groom’s new shoes were not brown nor black but rather on the orange-ish side of rust. They didn’t match then and look even worse in the fading pinkish tint of our wedding photos.  The bride wore heels down the aisle, but went barefoot in the pictures for fear of appearing taller than the groom.  

We drove off in our soaped and creamed chariot for our honeymoon...in Union, Missouri.  But our plans for a romantic toast at the Italian restaurant went awry when the waitress carded us.  Newlywed or no, she wasn’t going to serve us alcohol for our wedding night.  So much for being grownups…if I remember correctly, we even thought it was funny back then.

The next day, we stopped by Daniel Boone’s home in Defiance, then drove back to Columbia to study before class that Monday.

Yep. That’s what we did

“That was your mother...and that was your father...

Before you was born, dude,

When life was great!”....

The Rally Cat and Other Four Legged Friends

A few nights ago, the small grey cat streaked across center field of Busch Stadium like the proverbial “bat out of h***” into...at the very least….its fifteen minutes of fame.  The crowd was riveted to to the big screen struggle between the young groundskeeper and terrified animal, but after those two actors leaped into the stands and vanished into the maw of the stadium, Yadier Molina created an even bigger sensation when he launched a grand slam homer, putting the Cards ahead in a moment that was Roy Hobbs worthy...in the view of ecstatic Cardinal fans, like us!

Wednesday night, #RallyCat shared the spotlight.  Wednesday night, we were all cat people.

But...in general, that has not been the case.  Dogs have been the critters in our family pictures…Nip and Tuck and Skaggs on one side...Frisky and Silver on the other.  Of course, Millie has always had chickens and my dad had cattle as soon as he had pastures for them.  Laura and I were proud owners of Brownie, but even though she was named, it was strictly a business relationship. Nip and Tuck were the Labs that flung themselves, slobbering and barking, upon our Dodge Dart when we pulled into the driveway at Granny’s house. They greeted us in the same way, tackling us with their giant paws and giant jaws as soon as we stepped out the back door of the car. It was always a terrifying experience.

Compared to Nip and Tuck of memory, Juno, our first dog, was as gentle as she was large and calm despite her Doberman/German Shepherd heritage.  She loved Blake and became the consummate farm dog companion when she was transplanted from the duplex we lived in the last year of college to a life of pickup seats, wide open windows, and standing on the tool box in the back with her ears streaming behind her.  As far as I know, she only fell off once and climbed out of the ditch and jumped back into the truck with more damage to her dignity than injury from the tumble.  

Juno’s great doggy friend was Barney, Nancy’s beagle.  He was a wanderer, traveling from farm to farm to visit and staying until Nancy physically hauled him back to their house.  Even after they were both old and gray, Barney would find his way the six or seven miles through the country to our farm to visit his friend. He would stay for weeks while we enjoyed the sight of the two old dogs napping companionably under the shade of the elms.  

When the girls were old enough to be enamored with pets, we tended to acquire puppies in pairs.  Tommy and Holly, two black and white mutts with mirror image personalities: Tommy never knew a stranger and would roll over for a scratching before he was introduced, but Holly, who had been hit by a pickup early in life, was cautious, aloof, with sad black eyes. Tommy and Holly and I had a love hate relationship during their puppyhood.  Every time I planted something in the yard...a tree, a shrub, a rose, a perennial of any kind, they found it and dug it up.  We made our peace, but I spent an intense and angry spring chasing them through the yard, screaming imprecations that they couldn’t understand, and attempting to flail them around the ears with whatever desiccated plant carcass they had literally unearthed.

During these full house years, word evidently went out on the doggie grapevine that we were soft touches when it came to canines.  Every dog dumped heartlessly along our gravel road made its way to our dog dish. And some lovable scamps they were:  Frisky, a beautiful black puppy with a penchant for pulling clothes off the line; Mister, a raggedy long haired black and white critter with a desire to dance; and Bob, an enormous well mannered giant with a passion for fetching fireworks.  All three passed through giving us at one time or another, a population of five dogs on the farmstead along with the unnumbered unnamed cats; no wonder any stranger to our farm tended to wait in the car.

The very last stray appeared, like Mary mother of Jesus, pregnant in the deep of winter.  She was a cautious quiet nervous black dog, that we found hiding in the straw in our old shed very near Christmas time.  And, sure enough, she delivered her puppies in the barn….eight of them...and thus she became Mama Dog for all the rest of her life.  The puppies ranged from cocoa to chocolate to black and were cute as could be.  Ann and Matt fell in love with a chocolate male, and Ike was their faithful, loving, though finicky, family member before Aaron, before Lizzie and before Josh.  Peanut wound up staying at the farm, spooky, gargantuan presence under the front porch; like her siblings, she had personality quirks and a thyroid problem to boot.   Mama Dog was a good friend, following us out to the greenhouses to work, though she was far too nervous to nap inside.  During the summer hours though, she would come down to the mum patches and and rest in the clover nearby, keeping watch over her people as long as we were out of doors.

Like the lyrics from a Lyle Lovett song, these are but a few of the furry friends that spent time with us.  Chickens from Grandma Millie.  Fish that lasted longer than anyone had a right to expect after their people decided cleaning the tank was too gross. Bubbles, the head butting bottle calf. Cats like Magnum, PI, the only pet Blake ever brought home, and Pumpkin, an enormous...yes, you guessed it...orange tabby.  Finally, Baby, the last named and most loving cat ever, who would climb upon my shoulder and curl herself around my neck, giving me both a purring massage and a fur stole.

“And there are more I remember

And more I could mention

Than words I could write in a song..”

Lyle Lovett, Family Reserve

Our Small World

There is a stranger at the back door.  A casual glance would tag him as American Legion or VFW.  With a cheery frank smile, a crinkle in the corner of his eyes and a bushy white beard, he could be Santa Claus.  But his trucker's hat bears the insignia of the ARRL and so does his windbreaker jacket. He's not Santa, he's a ham.

Ham radio operators were part of the "net" before the net was cool, universal, and ubiquitous.   This ham isn't part of the weather net that operates through our part of the Midwest, but when one of the regulars didn't report into the weather net for a week or so, some of his radio friends looked up this local ham and asked him to check first hand on their long distance friend.  This gentleman went out of his way, made the trip, knocked on the door, and touched some hearts....an uncommon kindness.

Only in America.  In a small town Chinese restaurant, a Cuban immigrant and a local diner strike up a conversation in whatever words are common between Cuban and the self taught Spanish polished by Mexican soap operas on DishTV.  Later, the Cuban gentleman visits the Lutheran church of the local, requesting the "coo-ky, coo-ky" of the pastor.  No, no, he's not looking for snacks; he is searching for Communion.  A chance meeting over a Chinese lunch  leads to a Cuban worker receiving Communion in a Missouri Synod Lutheran Church.... an uncommon conversation.

There are no screaming sirens, no flashing lights. There is no ambulance for this emergency, but it is a trip to the hospital and the quiet is scary enough.  They sit, hand in hand, in the back seat, riding together as they have for decades.  On her lap is her hand bag...and a box of cookies.  Emergencies come and emergencies go, but the habits and small kindnesses of a long marriage are so deeply ingrained that they trump any uncertainty.  Whatever comes next, whatever must be faced, someone she loves will need a cookie, and she will be ready.....uncommon devotion.

Roots

All his successors gone before him have done ’t; and all his ancestors that come after him may.

William Shakespeare

It is Independence Day, and we traditionally celebrate it by exercising our freedom to assemble. We feast in our bounty on hunks of sauced and grilled meats, red,white and blue dessert creations, homemade ice cream and whatever the garden gods have seen fit to ripen. We play out of doors whatever the weather, kids and grown ups together, to tide the young ones over as long as possible from the paper bags of things that go boom in the night.

Thus has it been, as Shakespeare would say, for those gone before us...and the memories are so ripe and sweet from year to year, that we hope those that come after us pass their Independence Days in the very same rhythm, growing a family history from deep roots.

The Fourth has deep roots at my folk's farm in Moniteau county.  Aunts and uncles and cousins and grannies gathered from corners round the state beginning back in the early '80s.  There was a volleyball net, and corkball against the wood doors of the building we call 1916.

Lee and Ann were the beautiful women at the lower end of the age bracket (ages three and up); they were celebrated with their very own t shirts, emblazoned HeebieJeebie on the back.

Years passed; kids grew; the family continued to gather for food and drink, merriment and music, hikes and horseshoes.

We grew good roots.  Fast forward twenty or thirty years.  There are still kids like Aaron ready to throw horseshoes for the very first time. And littler kids, like Josh, sulking because the adults think a 2 1/2 pound shoe in his hand could be considered weaponized.

Is there more than one manufacturer of horseshoes? I'm fairly certain these are the same shoes my grandfather and his sons tossed into the fescue at the farm near Holts Summit years ago.  The red and green paint is barely a patina.  The shoes were forged in Duluth.  Lizzie wants to know if they came from real horses...

As it has for lo these many summers, the screened breezeway of the former apple market and current summer resort for houseplants channels the evening breeze and keeps the flies at bay while we eat supper.

But even dessert of anniversary cake and birthday cherry crisp leaves too much daylight before fireworks time...a trip down to the creek behind the 4 wheeler gives the kids a chance to kick off their shoes and tiptoe across the cherty gravel and cool stream looking for rocks to take home.  Chunks of Moniteau county sandstone and limestone find their way up the hill, solid stepping stones and artifacts for Atchison county gardens.

Kids and water and rocks...thus has it ever been....

We remember now...

...and we will remember when.

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A Drone's Eye View

We are at table 3, nothing between us and the music but a cheese plate and a bottle of 1854 wine.  Venue-wise, this qualifies as intimate; just Barbara Fasano, Eric Comstock, Blake and me and maybe forty other stalwart Nebraskans sipping the local wine of their choice, with their coats across the backs of their chairs this chilly evening, greeting acquaintances and waiting decorously for the show to go on. 

They are pros; polished and elegant, they regale the crowd with imaginative arrangements of the standards we do know and others we should.  They are not patronizing, nor do they mail this show in.  Blake and I are active listeners; we tap toes; we sway to the music; we nod at particularly witty lyrics; our eyes meet when we recognize the opening phrase of a particular favorite. But we cannot see anyone else in the audience or measure their reactions....what do the pros from New York see when they look over an audience in Brownville, Nebraska?  Do we look stolid?  Staid?  Old?  Are we like Eulalie Shinn and the ladies of the Dance Auxiliary in the Music Man: "Prudish, ignorant, and outspoken"? Or merely typical small town folks: "taciturn people with small-town values".  

 

Who do they see from the stage ? What do they say about us when they return to their home turf in New York? Should we care?

....And now the tables are turned. 

Its a fine bright Sunday morning in October when the film crew from 'Food Evolution' pulls into the driveway at 502 Spruce.  These are folks attempting, they say, to cut through the crust of mistrust, misinformation and propaganda to tell the story of food and agricultural production.  They come to Hurst farms from the World Food Prize awards ceremony in Des Moines and a visit with George Naylor, farmer, in Churdan, Iowa.   Mr. Naylor came back to the farm in 1976 from Berkeley, and "during the farm crisis of the 1980′s he was active in American Agriculture Movement, the Iowa Farm Unity Coalition and the North American Farm Alliance." More recently, he appeared in Michael Pollan's bestseller, The Omnivore's Dilemma.  

It is quite a stretch from the mindset in Churdan to the reality of our farm. The mood is a little brittle when they ask us if we are planting anything...are there any seeds they can film, anyway they can multitask with this trip during October, anything they can use later on.  They look out onto our backyard and ask if that's my garden....after all, doesn't Mr. Pollan tell us we should be eating homegrown?  Well, no, we grow corn...and soybeans...and they don't grow year round in Missouri...and yes, the backyard is covered with gardens.  But what you see is all flowers.  

The vegetable garden is a goner....just some overgrown basil and underwhelming squishy tomatoes remain. A sinking feeling,  as another line from the Music Man comes to mind "...but he doesn't know the territory! "

But we find common ground and conversation, appropriately enough, in the kitchen. Blake has told me our visitors want to see what we eat, how we eat, and by the way, gather up a few neighbors while you're at it.  Never folks to go halfway when whole hog is an option,  Ryan has smoked some big chunks of meat for pulled pork and the women have divvied up the Sunday dinner responsibilites for a noon time feast in the field. While they film Blake, I am peeling apples for two massive slab pies that will serve as dessert; the apples catch their imagination and we stop talking for a minute or two so the mike can pick up the subtle crunch of crisp fruit slicing. 

 Lee appears on her way to Sunday school to roll out crust.  With the kitchen is full of cameras and equipment, she takes her rolling pin into the dining room and baptizes the carpet with flour.  Gabe is fascinated by the novelty of it all and stays at the countertop til his mom makes him leave.  If they use any footage from our kitchen in the final product, we will hear Gabe's feet kicking the back of the counter, thump, thump...

How do we look from behind a camera?  How do we sound?  It is a fine line, I think, between the safety of talking points and the risk of real conversation while tape is rolling.  How do we condense our authenticity and convey something more than a sound byte?  That camera is a point in time; this film crew has dropped in like a parachute and will carry off for posterity one kitchen, one field, one meal.  Our farm spans acres, seasons, decades, generations; what should we say to convey the past that formed us, the present we juggle, and the future we must adapt to in order to thrive?

I am late to the party by the time the film crew heads to the field and I tie down the sawhorses and plywood that will be our serving table for the meal.  The combines are parked and one of the guys is in the cab with Charlie filming from the floor.  There are pickups everywhere and hungry children focused on food and blissfully unfazed by fim crews. As soon as the board is set, a veritable picnic feast is laid out: Millie's homemade potato salad, deviled eggs, pulled pork, baked beans, corn muffins and, of course, apple pie.  There are just two lawn chairs for seating but there are plenty of tailgates....

...and photo ops of this family farm feasting.

After the meal, back to work.  Family, neighbors: all gather 'round with something to say about farming as livelihood, or calling, or profession.  What will emerge from this question and answer? History, as Charlie and Millie provide the rock solid credibility of a life in this place.

Proficiency?  Blake and his brothers have more than a century experience as producers here and agricultural leaders in our state. The crew gets an earful about our facts and others' perceptions, Will we come off as defensive? Embattled? Or will the act of gathering together, working together and eating together speak louder than any words we say; will the cameras be up to the challenge of portraying what we know life on a large commercial family farm to be?

Some shots are staged....

.....and some are not.....

The party over, the farmers climb back in their machines.  But the film crew has one more trick up its sleeve.  Feeling like the natives when Columbus showed up, we stay to watch their drone buzz up into the sky and hover over the giant harvesters churning through the bean rows.  My first drone experience....

...and later on, I am fascinated to see that our bean field looks hyper real viewed from a drone, more like a HD video game than a photograph.

Is that what we will look like after editing?  Hard to imagine.