Why You Do the Things You Do

I'm home just a half hour before dark, but its the best half hour of the day, now that the wind has diminished and the streets of Tarkio are busy with moms and babies in strollers and little children wearing their brand new flip flops. The grass has greened but remains in that limbo state between spring and mowing. There's not really any time to embark on a major project, so I take down one of the garden flags. It happens to be the fall flag....I boycotted celebrating winter after last year, but now the spring flag with butterflies and hyacinths gently lifts a corner on the settling evening breeze. It is so dry that the garden debris I lift into the back of the pickup is light and fluffy; I'll knit in some willow branches to keep the whole mess in one piece until I get out to the farm. This isn't real work; it is an opportunity to exhale and step lightly and stroll slowly watching the pearly evening light fade away from the sycamore heights.

Work happened for enough hours today. Work isn't really the burden; worry is. While I lie awake at night worrying about bugs, a chronic and not irrational concern, bigger troubles await, unbeknownst. The current mantra; "it is what it is" is nothing if not insufficient and "its always something" can hardly be described as more positive or specific. Ah, yes, it is only flowers; how serious can one be? How on earth can one get wrapped up in psychic angst about things as ephemeral and giddy as the lilies of the field? Can a person whose work a day routine could be described as pick em up, set em down, move em here, roll em there and finally, don't let em die, really be taken seriously when feet grow fungus, necks get burnt, shoulders ache and insomnia lurks? To quote Jerry Jeff, 'why do they rope for their money?'

I have purposefully chosen pictures of the kids when they were younger to accentuate the wonder I feel about their existence at all. Captured in an eyeblink of the shutter, they are still instantly recognizable and immediately charming. Ann appeared late this afternoon with Aaron and Josh in tow, ready to pick up Lizzie. Lizzie and Abbie and Gabe were at "work" with Lee and me down in the dirt shed. Abbie and Lizzie had taken their turns putting trays on the conveyor. Gabe, topped with John Deere green, took charge of the wheel stock, manning the skid steer, the golf cart and the immovable 4 wheeler in succession. Aaron and Gabe stacked two by two cardboard Ball plant boxes. Lizzie filled a dozen pots with rocks.

And Josh smiled, blissfully, with slobber dripping from his fist. He is little, but he knows he has me as long as he smiles.

It may be I work for less than the proverbial peanuts (though a well timed Snickers ice cream bar is good incentive); it may be I "rope" for the past smiles of children now grown and the present rewards of grins as toothless as Josh and Aaron's and as irrepressible as giggles of the soon to be four year olds.

'If I have faith to move mountains, and have not love, I am nothing.'

Memo to self: there are days I feel like nothing, I accomplish little, or perhaps I actively make things worse. But.....look above. I do have love.

You Say You Want a Revolution?

The farmers came to the college town first class, in a limo with lots of leg room and complimentary bottles of water. Winter still reigned in the foothills but a watery sun warmed the stone buildings and the tinkling of a fountain belied the chill in the morning air.

The streets were empty; no student to speak of. But evidence of a young energetic population was obvious: a coffee/sandwich shop on the lower level nestled cheek by jowl with a bar advertising happy hour. A running shoe clinic stood across the plaza; a "smoke shop" featured products other than tobacco. Taverns, a downtown book store, arts and crafts and various haggard dirty unshaven hangers on with backpacks or instrument cases defined the downtown as undeniably youthful, mid to upper class, adventurous, and curious, all those characteristics not usually associated with farmers.

The fourth floor office suite throbbed with creativity. A boulder that had necessitated a special exemption resided as spiritual center of the organization. Under a back lit dome, it implied strong ties to Mother Earth for the various food products arrayed on the glass shelves surrounding it. Whether a Kraft energy potion or "Annie's Honey Bunnies" ( no icky additives or pesky preservatives), the foods on the shelves were part and parcel of the creative portfolio of the brain trust on the fourth floor.

We dropped our bags in an office, no, more like a library of cookbooks and knicknacks. Floor to ceiling decals, even Velveeta! Wind chimes of silver spoons, wall art of wine and vine, two hanging planters of herbs, once live, now dried. I took a picture of the month's worth of activities and the raised fist with the (pitch)fork leading the way to the Food Revolution. We farmers know what we know about revolutions. We are heirs to the Green Revolution; we feel threatened by the Slow Food movement. Forgive me if I formed my own opinion of any program including the movies King Corn and Food, Inc. and projected the reception the Missouri corn farmers might get at a brunch get together.

Inklings hardened into suspicions when the breakfast spread included organic this and natural that, gluten free, additive free, pasteurized (good old Meadow Gold), and beautifully out of season berries, blue and red. The coffee was fresh and hot; we were supplied brown paper moleskin lookalikes with plain brown wrapper ink pens to take names and make notes. Chairs filled with the young, the thoughtful, the casual, the curious, the creative minds of the the agency.

The boss was distinguishable only by a few grey hairs. Despite the apparently one sided listing of presenters and programs, he reiterated the aim of a fair and balanced hearing of all sides of the food spectrum. Many of the folks working at the firm had experience with farms, farmers, and some type of agriculture; at lunch later on, he declared us paranoid when we said we felt the accumulated good will of generations of consumers for farmers had dried up just like the thyme in the hanging pot. And, as it turned out, the roomful of creative types did exhibit humor, empathy, and a healthy curiosity about what it meant to be a farmer, a corn farmer, a big farmer and a family farmer. They listened attentively to the notion that organic was not necessarily natural, that natural was not always safer, that modern methods of farming were kinder and gentler to the environment and that we big industrial strength farmers lived in little bitty places and worked hardest of all to protect our land because we loved it. Their questions were thoughtful and sensible even while they showed telltale signs of the fear of the scientific we farmers have grown to dread. Interestingly enough, these young movers and shakers were not terrified by the structure of agriculture, nor was there a single question regarding animal welfare, both subjects we farmers view with fear and loathing. No, the biggest bogeyman in the Tea Room was the unknown, misunderstood, stepchild of Monsanto, the GMO. Yep, that scary GMO and its insidious presence in just about everything was blamed for autism, obesity, asthma, and other dark and dreadful unknown future maladies. GMOs were unleashed upon an unsuspecting public with goodness only knows what terrifying results. Untested and hyper fertile, GMOs, in the mind of the folks at that meeting, would take over the gene pool of the world, rather like the zombies lurking just under the skin of normal appearing humans.

So, what did a roomful of creative advertising folks want to ask of a genuine farmer? What kind of farming? Did we use GMOs? How much time did he spend on the farm? What would he do differently in a perfect world? The farmer explained in detail the balance sheet of nitrogen and the facts of life of inputs and outputs. Why was he a farmer? What about our family? These are the types of questions we love to answer, the kind that allow us to emphasize the bonds of family and community as we demonstrate the generational memory so rare in this mobile and transient era. Yes, we farmers pride ourselves on our dual personalities: ying for early adoption of labor saving, technological and scientific advances, yang for tradition, family ties and loyalty, roots to community, church, school, even when it is not any obvious advantage to do so.

No doubt I have forgotten some vital observation from our day in the college town. But it was encouraging to meet with a group that was truly inquisitive, without hosting an inquisition. So often the sides in the food/agriculture/organic debate are calcified, chips on all shoulders just the tip of the iceberg of willful misunderstanding and disagreement. Are farmers overly defensive? Do we assume the worst in every well meaning inquiry? Are our actions open to misinterpretation while we pile up the factoids for trench warfare? Are we like the leaders of one agribusiness, polling anyone for a way to become loved, just like Sally Fields? Speaking as one farmer venturing into presupposed hostile territory, sometimes, yogurt or not, breakfast can be common ground.

Good Neighbors

In my little town I grew up believing

God keeps his eye on us all

And he used to lean upon me

As I pledged allegiance to the wall

Lord I recall my little town

Many's the time I've been mistaken,and many times confused

And I've often felt forsaken, and certainly misused.

But it's all right, it's all right, I'm just weary to my bones

Still, you don't expect to be bright and Bon Vivant .................

Bon Vivant is the farthest thing from my mind these days. But Paul Simon reaches out from a generation back with cogent lyrics to accompany these dark spring days. "Nothing but the dead and dying back in my little town", joins the headline of a deep and continuing decline in the population of our little corner of Missouri. Our lovely gracious past as personified by some of our leading ladies is laid to rest and mourned by all.

But...God keeps His eye on us all. What can we offer; what ineffable essence persists in our latter days that makes our place special? We still harbor a remnant of America past here, one held near and dear in our mythology past and future; we have good neighbors.

On a simple street in our little town, there stand two old houses. One has been home for an older couple for many years; one has been home for a young family for just a few. The young family's home is spacious, but they are energetic and the little children often spill out of the interior, laughing, biking, swinging, digging. The yards meld seamlessly and the little children are as welcome on their neighbor's driveway, or porch, or home, as they are in their very own. There are "chores" to do and ice cream with which to celebrate their completion. There are exchanges of birthday presents for the little children and the lovely example of the parents for the youngsters of the gifts of time and labor as the young parents rake, mow, and scoop the common snow. What a special relationship between these two families, unrelated but by the ancient ties of common ground and regard. How precious the extra, unexpected, bonus love of old for young and young for old? What a blessing the bond has been for both families, one made more likely by the open minded proximity and generosity of our little town.

Neighorhoods can be miles apart. Out on the country roads, families miles apart grew up like they were just across a fence. Couples played cards; kids ran wild; cattle were mutually put back in whenever they wandered onto the pavement. Gifts were exchanged at Christmas and cake was consumed on birthdays. Everyone's kids were celebrated at weddings and graduations and everyone mourned at funerals. Time passed, and the second generations grew up, married, left town, or settled nearby. Misfortune was no stranger; certainly family rallied around, but so did the good neighbors. Whether days were sunny or dark, unsung, but never unnoticed, the unrelated family, the loving neighbors as close as family, were there. Bereavement is not only the lot of the blood relative. Our Lord recognized this and immortalized the special relationship in the tale of the Good Samaritan. "Which of these men was a neighbor to the man who fell among robbers?"

"the one who had mercy on him".

"Go and do likewise".

We are short on explosive growth. We could use a few new houses and a few less decrepit ones.

But our little town is rich with mercy, with generosity, and with good neighbors.

Only Heaven Knows

"Is this heaven?"

"No, its Iowa."

This poignant sound bite from Field of Dreams is not merely touching visually: the serious young/old face of Shoeless Joe stepping out from history into the uber green of summer and posing this question to Ray, a fan suddenly possessed by past and vision, speaks to the inner longing of us all to know what is beyond the edge of our field of vision. It touches another chord as well. While we wait here on earth, and while we know intellectually and spiritually that heaven lies beyond, yet we have doubts: at our times of greatest happiness or quietest pleasure, we wonder how heaven can possibly be more beautiful than God's earth? If you are Ray Kinsella, or Shoeless Joe Jackson, or perhaps any one of a silent multitude of baseball fans, a day at the ball park may be about all one can wish for in happiness. Is it blasphemous to wish for verdant ball fields surrounded by fans with all the cheerful anticipation of spring training?

Mary Chapin Carpenter has a song about heaven too. "Nothing shatters, nothing breaks, nothing hurts and nothing aches" in her heaven. "No one's lost and no one's missing, no more parting, just hugs and kissing": a fervently desired outcome. But beyond that, "Grandma's there and Grandpa too, in a condo with to die for views" and "your childhood dog in Dad's old chair": homely, homey touches that we ordinary mortals can comprehend. What more comfort can we ask but that we keep our memories and good times and shed the parting, the aches, the hurts. I like the idea that my Granny and Grandpa, who loved the out of doors and travel, are spending their heavenly days looking out the windows at beauty beyond that of our lovely earth.

Years ago, in another season of loss, I came upon a song by Nanci Griffith. A young couple settles in the part of Texas, "the only spot on earth bluebonnets grow, and once a year they come and go, at this old house here by the road." He works the oil fields and she spends the summers alone, but their bond is deep and the refrain states, 'when she dies, she says she'll catch some blackbird's wings and then fly away to heaven, come some sweet bluebonnet spring.' They grow old together, tend their garden, and "set the sun", each year enjoying the all too brief bloom of the Texas bluebonnets, with the final stanza declaring, "when they die, they say they'll catch some blackbird's wings and they will fly awaytogether , come some sweet bluebonnet spring." That image has always brought a tear to my eye as I picture the husband and wife aging in body but remaining as fresh in spirit and faithful in heart as the bluebonnets that come back year after year to their old house by the road. No loneliness, no left behind, no loss, just an ascension together in the sweet season of the year on, not the wings of eagles, just the springtime's blackbirds.

This week the voice of Audra McDonald sang in my head. Here are words of query, of wonder, of hope, of comfort.

Is it warm against your face? Do you feel a kind a' grace inside the breeze? Will there be trees? Is there light? Does it hover on the ground? Does it shine from all around, or jes' from you? Is it endless and empty, an' you wanter on your own? Slowly forgit about the folks that you have known? Or does risin' bread fill up the air from open kitchens every where? Familiar faces far as you can see, like a family? Do we live? Is it like a little town? Do we get to look back down at who we love? Are we above? Are we ev'rywhere? Are we anywhere at all? Do we hear a trumpet call us an' we're by your side? Will I want, Will I wish for all the things I should have done, Longing to finish what I only just begun? Or has a shinin' truth been waitin' there for all the questions ev'ry where? In a word a' wond'rin' suddenly you know; An' you will always know... Will my mama be there waitin' for me, Smilin' like the way she does, an' holdin' out her arms, and she calls my name? She will hold me just the same... Only heaven nows how glory goes, what each of us was meant to be. In the starlight, that is what we are. I can see so far

In deep humility, admitting my complete inadequacy and lack of imagination, I love the idea of the fragrance of baked goods rising from the open windows of friendly kitchens. In the same way that I hope we will have the hearty work of gardening and live in complete certainty that music will fill the air. We know we see "only darkly as a mirror, but then will see face to face," but our loving Father knows our pain and gives us comfort. I smile when I think of those waiting for us, smiling, holding out their arms and calling our names.

But, as the song title reminds, "only Heaven knows how glory goes." The great mystery is beyond and we can but wait. Tom T. Hall had a few words about the heaven too, when he pondered the fate of Clayton DeLaney:

"it could be that the good Lord likes a little picking, too."

" A little picking" surely falls into the category of "every good thing and every perfect gift". Our loved ones know: we can but keep our eye on the prize and ponder.

Where are you going, my little one, little one?

 See her? Like any number of little one year olds on their birthdays, she's sick. Big old runny eyes, a temp, and probably an ear ache. But she's sweet, all dressed up, with a brand new push button blue phone. She has her very own cake, too; I don't remember what kind it is, but, just guessing from the picture, it looks like an applesauce cake with caramel frosting. There's a lot of foreshadowing there!

There's self same little girl in her back yard, pulling dandelions with a great deal of concentration, then lifting her arms for a pick me up and a hug. This is a girl who has always been free with hugs, whether giving or receiving. Generous with smiles, generous with phone minutes, generous with cakes, cookies, pies, pop and chocolate. Need a pick me up? I know where you can find one...

Skip several years, and there's a mop of hair blowing out some candles. Oh, no, on second thought, that's what you saw first thing in the morning in the Hurst household. No talking allowed, even for the morning people, until chores were done, cereal consumed and the hair pulled away from

the face. In this picture, the smoking candles issue in the teens: fourteen candles mean high school, big hair, big glasses giving way to contacts, FFA, a driver's license, a butt ugly white pickup, a wreck, or two, or three....

Off to college. The home body grits her teeth and becomes a Tiger. She meets the love of her life..

..

....well, OK he usually doesn't wear this expression

There, that's much better. 

 Here's the lovely bride to be; the little girl a lovely gracious young woman now. ...

..And now, like the old song goes, turn around, and she's a young wife, with babes of her own.

Uh oh, better set Abbie aright

Enjoy your birthday candles, Lee. God bless you as you've blessed us!

The Girl who Loves Duckies.....

Years and years ago, now, a lovely young girl flirted with a unusually tongue tied young boy at a Christmas party. There was a mom nearby, quietly amused by the first signs of anything but far away puppy adoration.

Time passed, friendship and romance grew and the lovely young lady became more than just a visitor to our big house. There was agony over Valentine gifts, and piles of Hershey kisses. There was a giant map of the world hand painted and carried up three flights of stairs. There were innumerable plates of treats left for everyone in the family.

There were growing pains, separations, the ups and downs that every growing relationship experiences. There were trips together and months apart. I'm sure there were lots of plans and dreams. Finally, there was an engagement and the lovely young woman donned her gorgeous white dress and the young man wore his fancy tails and two toned shoes. People danced, people sang and we were all happy as clams to welcome wonderful Kenzie as a sister, auntie and daughter.

I am tremendously spoiled to have so many of my children and grandchildren right here where seeing them is a normal occurrence. To say that is to admit I miss the far away children and use my chances to visit them as an opportunity to memorize their routines and surroundings so I can picture them at home and play while we're apart. I love getting notes in the mail addressed in little tiny pencil scratches; I always smile when I get a text at odd, usually very early, hours because I know these communications are from Kenzie.

When holidays come around, packages arrive for the little people full of imaginative and invariably fun gifts and gimmicks gleaned from goodness knows where. Kenzie gives often and half the fun is figuring out where on earth she gathered her presents. When we travel to Virginia, there are brochures and plans for restaurants, wineries, and, wonders of wonders, the Noon Whistle! I am appreciative of the consideration, but am happy as can be just drinking coffee and feeling comfortable in their home.

Kenzie is a most fun auntie to all the kids; it took a while for Aaron to forgive her for marrying Ben. She is upbeat and sympathetic when necessary; she is hard working and flexible. We love her because she loves Ben, because she loves life, and because she loves and puts up with us.

Hope you'll forgive me for writing about you, Kenz! After all, you helped me set up this blog in the first place! Miss you, other daughter, and wish you the happiest of birthdays and pray all the wishes on your giant cake come true. .....

A Fine Romance

Two whisper thin young women were offering Valentine's advice this morning on the news talk show I watch while I crunch my cereal and gulp that first cup of coffee.

In their defense, their suggestions did not lean too heavily on commerce and cash. Sure, anyone desperately seeking a date or a mate was going to fork over cash: these ladies advocated dinner, flowers, the whole shebang. But for those "already committed", Valentine's day could culminate in an evening of board games, or a home cooked gourmet meal, or a movie, or a candle and massage, or any number of fairly unimaginative and trite notions of romance.

Am I bitter? Cynical? I don't love Valentine's day as an event or a cause celebre'. Yes, it was fun in grade school to make Valentine's mailboxes; but then I was the kind of kid that liked art projects. I even liked the little folded Valentines and divvying them up among my classmates. I'm part of the baby boom, so my grade school classes way exceeded the current fetish for small numbers. Which Valentine was appropriate for the girls in the class and which would not be too silly for the boys? We had solid notions about the difference between the sexes even in the lower grades, so any hint of sentiment was verboten for the males. Some kids signed their Valentines; some didn't. It was ritual after the exchange of cards to attempt to decipher the scratches on the backs of the card or fronts of the envelopes. I never sent candy, but adored getting the little conversation hearts. Inedible, yes; full of signs and intimations, you bet.

Perhaps I would have been more impressed by a duo of blue haired matrons or balding geezers with hearing aids. Let's ask them about romance and longevity. What do you name the relationship that exists for a half century? After work and children and leisure and pain and loss, after routine and habit is the rule and youth and energy a memory, what do you call the partnership, the bond that remains? Bubble bath and candles seem trivial, if not ridiculous. Is the idea of Valentine's day even viable or appealing? Should it be?

Outside of flowers, outside of steak, I suspect this old house will have to come up with a different construct for romance. Don't get me wrong; I love a good romantic setting! A table for two, a grand piano, a chanteuse? Two glasses, two chairs, a view? A long night on the road with the ball game on the radio? The Pacific from the Cliff House, Irish music at O'Malley's, an open air supper in Hawaii, a starry evening in the combine: there's a hint of conspiracy, separation, distinctiveness, contrariness in the notion of romance. 'Birds do it, bees do it; even educated fleas do it', but we humans want to be one and onlies, even if we're heading to a romantic resort dreamt up by a focus group. Romance is in the eyes of the beholders. Whether its a lukewarm mocha from Starbucks in May, a melted Dairy Queen Blizzard in August, or taking the trash out without being asked, a heart warming gift is the one that says 'This I did just for you'. Does anyone really get a Lexus with a big red bow? Or a diamond something in a remote snowy cottage? In the long run, I'd rather have the sidewalks scooped and the socks put in laundry basket. Flowers will never be a cliche' in this house; an occasional juicy steak out will build up brownie points.....

So, let's cede the Valentines Day battleground to the folks still on the front lines. There is such a thing as too much chocolate. There is life between PajamaGrams and Kay Jewelers....lots and lots of life. Nothing wrong with hearts and flowers, but spread 'em out through the year. Why limit it to a single day? Same goes for Victoria's Secret and Vermont Teddy Bears.....no, never mind, its never time for a Vermont Teddy Bear.. ...

Before I even saw the sweet things hawking the perfect Valentines, I awoke to the strains of Trisha Yearwood in my head:

'There's nothin' at the five and dime that I really need..

Your love is the only thing that means a thing to me....

Give me all your loving, throw the presents in the creek,

Give me all your loving, and I'll be tickled pink...'

Now there's a romantic notion!!