Happy Birthday, Ben

After a day in the dirt shed filling flats for pansies, then an hour in the garden picking tomatoes and swatting skeeters, it was time for a bath and a good hot one, too. As the tomato fumes lifted with the steam off the water, suddenly I was back two dozen years in memory.....

...We were in Washington, D.C. for a Farm Bureau Young Farmer and Rancher meeting. We'd finished our meetings in the cool offices of the AFBF and had been photographed with the current Secretary of Agriculture. It was hard for me to take this photo op seriously. After all, was I REALLY going to prominently display an 8x10 glossy of Blake, Secretary Lyng, and me, 8 1/2 months pregnant? By that point, packing for the trip had been easy; I had one dress big enough to wear comfortably.

But I had been feeling pretty good the whole time; we had been working on our house and I had a decent garden that summer as well. A walk up to Dupont Circle and a bookstore there sounded like a good idea; we had lots to talk about with our friend in D.C. That expedition was followed by another walk to the Market Inn for a much anticipated seafood meal with our group.

Once there, though, the menu didn't look that good. I decided to skip the entree but couldn't shake an overheated feeling. Instead of a pleasant evening with friends, I finally asked Blake if we could just go back to the hotel without making too much of a fuss.

Once out of the restaurant, I told him what I thought was the source of the sudden discomfort: I thought baby three was on its way. That pressure, that weight, that pain: even though it had been six years, it felt like labor to me!

An hour in our room, two hours passed, but no peace, no quiet. I took that bath and worried. We were in DC without a car, without a doctor, without that little bag you're supposed to have ready, without a plan. It was long before cell phones, but Blake called anyone we might know on the hotel phone in hopes of advice. No one would answer. Finally, he called our Congressman, explained the situation and asked for a hospital number and recommendation. The good Congressman was aghast. I had an even bigger sinking feeling, visualizing the call to the grandparents.....and Lee and Ann at home. We felt isolated and alone in the Capitol Holiday Inn. Finally, sometime after midnight, we turned off the light and left the consequences, the mom, dad and baby in the Hands that care for all.

.....And then! It was morning! We were still in our room and I was still a pregnant lady. That particular morning, I was one of the happiest pregnant ladies around. Our tale didn't sound nearly as harrowing in the light of day, but our friends were still impressed. We decided to keep the whole episode on the qt from the folks at home. We flew back to family and farm with no further incident.

Polite and prompt and organized as can be, John Benton Hurst waited until after breakfast, on his due date, to start his birth. Blake was just outside, building a grain bin with his dad and brothers. We waited quite awhile to leave for the hospital, stopping for stamps at the post office. No rush at all when you are just ten miles from your friendly Community Hospital and the doctor coming to meet you has already delivered your other children. Ben took his sweet time, meeting his dad for the first time at 5:24 that afternoon. But, after that initial scare three weeks before, we already knew the best way to bring this child into the world was to take a walk. And walk I did, for four hours, up and down the hallway of the solarium, until he was ready.

And I was ever so glad that time came in Missouri and not the District of Columbia.

A Princess, a Pea, and Dust Bunnies

Short Cuts.....

...for hot days. Back in town in mid afternoon on Primary Day. Aaron and Lizzie came to vote with me, as they often do. Lizzie wanted to help, but seemed to take it in stride when I told her she would have to be older. She undoubtedly hears that often. Aaron asked first if he could put the ballot in the box. Thankfully, none of the poll workers shouted 'Voter Fraud!!' or ripped the ballot from the six year old's hand. Voter confidentiality is but thinly veiled in our little town. The workers do their duty, check our IDs and ask which ballot we want. But they not only know who we are, and which ballot we want, they could cast our ballots for us if we were deaf, dumb and/or blind. Blake is poll watching today. When we received the email with the unknown name and title "all you need to know for August 3", I opened it. What it included was a map of Atchison county with capital letters at the airport, Tarkio, Fairfax......you get the picture. I thought, perhaps some dignitary is coming into the airport and the map is being sent as an unnecessary courtesy. Nope, the map is to direct Blake to the polling places. Really now!!! Sometimes the machinery of politics gets a little ridiculous when transposed to our very elementary level. Calling results in four times today is also probably overkill.

The Color Purple

Or, more accurately, that dark blackish hue of purple fountain grass, or 'Royal Tapestry' alternanthera, or 'Dark Star' coleus, or 'Black Pearl' ornamental pepper.....it is the irreplaceable hue of hot summers. Without that color, every other plant would look washed out by the time it has endured two weeks of ninety plus days and night temperatures that stay above 75 degrees. Chartreuse? It's looks chlorotic. Reds? Sunburnt. Blue? Ha! Find any blue flowers beside scaevola. But if you plant anything with a 'Black Magic' colocasia, it looks brighter as the deep velvet just soaks up all that sun. All of a sudden, your garden has contrast again, just as if you put polarizing sun glasses on.

The Shows Go On

We took a nostalgic family outing to Omaha earlier this month to hear Lyle Lovett and his band (Its not big, its large) at the Holland Center. The audience was composed primarily of folks well into middle age for which we could find just two possible explanations: either they are season subscribers, or Lyle, whose first recording came out the year Ben was born, looks younger than his primary audience!! But then again, if you have looked like a caricature of yourself for your adult life, you deserve the compensation of agelessness. The venue was spotless, the seating spacious and artistically curved. The performers were not just mailing it in and the star was entertaining and thoughtful. There was no intermission so we certainly got all our money's worth; it was a marvelous mix of new and old tunes.

And yet, and yet.....we have also spent the whole summer practicing and now performing in a community theater production of a musical; like music can, it has infiltrated our unconscious as well as our conscious moments. We dream the tunes from 'Thoroughly Modern Millie'; particularly catchy or difficult licks run over and over as I water like a scratch in a record. Sometimes I can't even remember which song I'm humming, but I can't think of anything else; it takes physical effort to sing any other melody in my memory. And we're just members of the pit orchestra, not actors, not singers, barely footnotes in the program! That commitment of brain power, dexterity, concentration is what music is really about...down at gut level, toe tapping level, shake the stage level. It is wonderful to hear the pros perform and I admire the perfection produced by mere humanity. But I wouldn't miss any opportunity to pick up my motley assortment of woodwinds and tackle the same score the pros play on Broadway. What a blessing to be part of the artistic community, even a peripheral part! I can't appreciate the genius that produces some art, but I know just how difficult some fingerings are. Thus am I joined to the marvels of musical theater by the common language of flats, sharps and rests. I will always recognize the score of the shows I've played and be thankful for the direct link from Rock Port, or Shenandoah to the genius of American theater in New York. Its great to be in the audience, but its better yet to play!

Heat Wave

Lightening in the distance...far north about a hundred miles. This is the August weather I remember as a kid. Lightening leaping from cloud to cloud in silence; maybe part of a thunderstorm, maybe just what we called 'heat lightening.' Whatever the meteorological cause, the bottom line was more heat, no rain, another day just like the day previous. I don't remember it raining during the summer when I was young, except for a double header at Comiskey Park that was rained out. But I clearly remember dry brown grass, running the sprinklers and the soaker hose, and fighting the horseflies and grasshoppers. For whatever reason, my genetic or cultural make up is such that I dread droughts more than overly wet weather. And believe me, while this year I have ample reason to change that predilection, I just can't... When I see the lightening up north, I still have to check the weather forecast and the radar. I just do.

Rain on the 4th

Garden Thoughts

So discouraging.....all my best efforts. All the best efforts, the right ingredients, the proper timing. I wish I knew what to do next to beat the invisible natural enemies and the inevitable antagonists of your average fall garden mum.

They look so tidy when you line them out. Every one is tagged, fertilized; every leader is checked. Still, if temperature gets too hot or it rains too many days, various nasty organisms take charge and the little plants wither and die instead of growing wild with the vigor your average modern garden mum will exhibit. Even an application of protective fungicide has been insufficient to keep those neat rows uniform.

For a dedicated gardener, its a real bummer. As a farmer of sorts, I feel like an abject failure. And that's after applying the usual chestnuts about the vagaries of weather, blah, blah, blah. I want to see plants spreading their lobed green arms over the walk paths, meshing and intertwining before unfolding a myriad of tiny green buds that pale and swell with the passage of August until they explode with the hues of fall as the soybeans behind them yellow and drop their foliage.

I hate falling back on the timeworn excuse of growers everywhere and at every time: If its not one damn thing, its another.

Elsewhere this late July, the seasonal parade of produce proceeds. This morning Blake and I picked a half sack of tomatoes; they aren't huge, but summer has blessed them with enough warmth that they are sweet and juicy on sandwiches and off. Tonight I made BCTs instead of BLTs. No lettuce from the store, so I searched the vines for a cucumber to crisp my sandwich with green and crunch. We had cukes and tomatoes on the bread and on the side. So many yummy ways to augment a cucumber!! A little vinegar, a little dill, a little Miracle Whip, a little ranch.....simple salt and pepper. I always hate throwing the big boys on the compost pile, but its part of being a cuke; if they were orange, we'd be overrun.

Aaron's gourds are so wild and vigorous, they make me laugh. Each leaf is the size of a platter and hiding beneath them on the fence are cunning little golden teardrops. The curlicues claw and grasp at the air in search of more altitude. The tendrils without fence are duking it out with the cardinal climber on the little windmill. I had better enjoy the flowers while I can; the gourds are encroaching and will meet in the middle from their original planting on opposite ends of the garden. I saw the first swallowtail caterpillar today on the dill; I love smelling dill in the garden, but I have no luck making dill pickles; the primary consumers of dill are the striped inhabitants, the only caterpillars I'll tolerate and even welcome. Soon they will worked their way through the dill and begin on the parsley. There is plenty of parsley to go around. I still haven't had a tasty plate of Ann's bruschetta yet even though the basil is abundant. Blake rescued some of the herbs where a large tomato plant had blown over in last week's storm.

Got the clippers out tonight. I know there are probably lots of weeds in both vegetable and flower beds, but I can no longer really see them. However, the tree sprouts are an entirely different matter. Their 4 foot stems threaten to become trunks in the back border and front border alike, so I must wade through the prickly coneflowers, the knife edge grasses, the fragile hibiscus and daylilies, to take them down at the roots. Mulberries, mulberries, a bane right up there with elm sprouts. I love song birds, and I understand the attraction those purple berries must present. I won't tutor the Creator of all, but it does seem that crab apples are both tasty and less invasive?? Just sayin'.

We put up sweet corn today. Its a family affair with the men walking the rows and pulling the ears, then sitting in the shade husking and silking with old pale dish towels. The corn is plopped into giant starchy boiling pots, blanched, and cooled in the sink before coming back up the stairs to the ladies standing at the tables armed with a potpourri of knives, glass pans, roasters and freezer bags. Zip, zip, zip, zip and a juicy stripe of kernels is separated from the still warm cob. When the Pyrex is piled high, we scoop the corn up into baggies with metal cups, plastic spoons or our bare hands. Corn flies everywhere and sticks to everything; legs, hair, iced tea cups, and especially eyeglasses. A big exhaust fan keeps the workers free from all but the most persistent flies. I watched, but none of us cuts corn like Grandma Hurst used to, holding the ear and cutting toward her. She never left a kernel on the cob. This year Gabe, Abbie and Lizzie spent a little time at the corn table, scooping a few bags before going on to other play times. I got smart, too, and skipped everything but the freshly boiled roasting ears for dinner.....til it came time for German chocolate cake that is. We'll eat corn every day, with luck, until the magical season ends.

On Monday we have blackberries waiting in the fridge....two gallons worth from Barb's garden. Blackberries are huge....and have huge cores. But we've got lots of sugar and Surejell and cooking blackberry jam is just about the best canning smell in the world. I love making jelly and jam even though squeezing the jelly bag is both hot, messy, and probably verboten in the terms of making jam really the right way. Just hate to waste any juice at all!

A good week ahead for summer gardeners: the heat and miasma have parted for a few days and husbandry is more appealing. Best take advantage while we can. August is just around the corner.

Some Help Makin' Trail Mix

Public Servants

Its an election year. If we aren't focused on our public servants already, soon we will be forced to by the barrage of billboards, television ads, mailings, radio spots, polls.....the list goes on and on. The vast expenditure of time, talent and dollars; the necessary outpouring of opinion; the splitting of hairs and targeting of messages; all these combine to have a Chicken Little effect on the populace. We become jaded, lethargic, and downright irritated by the attention demanded by our elected representatives and their messengers.

But this is also the month before our Missouri primaries and the giant general election is relatively distant. So its a good time to take note of the more gentle, local, unrewarded volunteers all around us. Take sandpaper to our thick skin and rub down to our soft heart. Lower our demands and our expectations to bread and butter rather than cake and ice cream. When we do that, we may not see results, but we'll notice and appreciate effort.

Thanks again to all those who maintain, who paint, weed, pick up, and mow. There is a whole literature devoted to the 'broken window' theory. It applies to small towns and neighborhoods no less than inner cities. Wish we could make everything new and spiffy. Wish we could rehabilitate what we still have with some magical source of multi millions. But happy for a fence and barberries. Happy that tearing down makes us look up.

Thanks for local talent. Warm up those vocal chords. Dig the winds out of the bedroom closet. Practice like fiends; wear out your lip, your lungs, your butt. Play something that's way too hard. Work into a team, an ensemble and bring music, laughter, song and dance to empty halls. Sure, its fabulous to travel to the big city and listen to the pros in the lap of a luxury entertainment palace. To have your culture handed to you on a silver platter. But learning your show note by note and entrance by entrance is like gardening; the show doesn't look like much when planted but eventually fills in until no one notices a weed or two and your canvas could be a Monet. I'm sure producing a show gives lots of folks gray hair, but I think I keep a few brain cells and add some dexterity that I would otherwise lose during the months we practice. And perhaps someone in the audience will get the opportunity to indulge a love of theater or hear a type of music not readily available on the airwaves these days.

Finally, thanks for all the folks who put in their time for the little children. When I see the ladies helping fearful young 'uns put their face in the water for nigh unto the second generation; when I they travel miles to put in another year at the Tarkio Pool; when my children are signing their children up for Red Cross swimming lessons, I say a prayer of appreciation.

Thanks to coaches and parents who patiently put up with dust and noise and lost weekends on the ball field to introduce kids to the Great American past time. Thank you for the finest examples of sportsmanship and leadership.

Our church has been transformed into a dude ranch for the week. Lots of folks have contributed to make a fun festive atmosphere and to bring the joy of love of God and man to the kids and each other for the week. From the ladies in the kitchen offering seconds, to the young adults teaching games on their summer vacation, to the hilarious skits, thoughtfully prepared crafts and individual attention and greetings for each child, the admonition of Jesus to 'suffer the little children' and to come to Him as a child would is played out dozens of times each evening. Bless them all.

Each time we volunteer we make our little town a better place, but we really make ourselves better citizens and better people. No one keeps score and no one keeps a time card; no one makes a commercial like the Liberty Mutual people do, or the Foundation for a Better Life. It's just another gentle reminder that time spent away from our own work and worry is not wasted time.