Mystic Chords of Memory

Icons and cliches stack one upon the other like a giant Jenga game in middle America on Independence Day. With bombs bursting in air and bottle rockets providing a snap, crackle, pop, I happily open albums to the past and anticipate the celebrations to come.

No orchestrated extravaganzas await us small town citizens:

Old Glory 1983

....unless you take this invitation's hype to heart! This Old Glory is the flag from my grandfather's funeral; he was a veteran of WWI. My father hung the flag high in the old cedars in the front yard....it is a very large banner....

My sister salutes 1983

Lee and Annie at flag raising circa the 4th in 1987

And as impressive and respected and photographed July 4 2014 as it was a generation ago..

Ben, Kenzie and Levi, 2014

Aaron, Lizzie and Josh, 2014

Levi and I check out the big flag, 2014

The 4th of July is a holiday full of emotion for me. I love the sense of unity, of common cause, in the ways we Americans celebrate our Declaration of Independence. I love the highways roaring with RVs the size of a city lot, of gleaming motorcycles sporting mini Stars and Stripes, the packed parking lots of IHops and Waffle Houses, Casey's and Quik Trips, the rockin' and rollin' giant inflatable gorillas and dirigibles at the fireworks' emporiums.
I treasure the family picnics and barbeques, lakeside, in backyards, in shaded parks or blistering ball fields.

Annie with her patriotic cake, 1987

Abbie, July 4th, 2009

Joshie needs some ice cream, July 4th, 2011

We are All-Americans, young or old, earning our pie or ice cream on the field of play and making the long hot daylight hours of July pass quickly in sweat and laughter.

Hmm..Annie....1990s.  Nice horseshoe form. 

Josh with a patriotic popcorn cake, 2014

Gabe at bat, 2014

Ben throwing shoes, 2014

Ben, taking a swing

Aaron, 2012

Abbie, taking a lead, 2014

Aaron makes contact. 2014

Behind every good sport, there is a crowd. At the end of the game, a shady spot waits...

Lee, Annie, 1986

Grandma and Grandpa watching, 1986

Levi on the "blue tractor, with Mommy and Papa Blake

Lizzie and Aaron watching the horseshoe game, 2014

In the breezeway, 1983

Lee, Annie, Granny, 1983

In the market breezeway, 2014

Josh, Levi sharing a tractor seat, 2014

Central Dairy sherbert, Annie and Kenzie, 2014

This is little America,but our holiday is not complete without a band. If no parade presents itself and no band marches by, we will be our own...

Granny leads the band, 1983

Annie is a band unto herself, 1983

More musicians, 1983

Well, festive, 1983

Levi with a big hit, 2014

And Lizzie is sweet to share, 2014

Lizzie, Thomas, and a rocket

There might be a float..or a juggler....

Ben showing off for Josh, 2014

We cheer and salute our own personal flyover:

Abbie, 2011

Brooks, with the flyover, 2011

The faces change with time and age, but the spirit is the same. The sun settles behind the trees; its falling rays turn the fields to gold....

Aaron, 2011

..and gilds the Lady Who Lost Her Car Keys and the 1912 Redbarn

2014

Leapin' Lizzie, 2014

It's the perfect time of the day for champagne party pops, for sparklers, for smoke bombs and for parachutes. The youngest can participate in the wonder of sound and light; the oldest can see it all over again through the kids' new eyes.

Kenzie helps Josh chase a parachute, 2014

Kenzie and Levi with a sparkler, 2014

Josh has a 'chute!, 2014

party popper, 2014

smoke bombs, 2014

See!, 2014

Gabe loves it, 2009

Lizzie, 2009

Aaron sets a smoke bomb,2011

Gabe in 2011

Have to check.  Redbarn, 

My mama, 1983

Lee, 1983

Here in Missouri, the dewfall and high flying fireworks bring out goosebumps and oohs and aaahs. In between reports, the night noises remind us that each summer night contains its own quiet life and beauty. The shooters are invisible except for the small glow of the punks. The littlest members of the audience are more than happy to cuddle on laps and more than welcome to do so.

Cool 4th, 2010

Levi and Aaron, 2014

2014

Lizzie does a dance, 2014

2009

2009

2009

From our hilltop perches, we are part of a sound and light conversation. Thus has it been for as many years as I can remember, whether we celebrate north or south. It is bittersweet to revisit a 4th of the past, but cause for thanksgiving that our family takes it so blessedly for granted that these get togethers will be part of our family's story from one year to the next. It gives me pause that this is true for our beautiful nation as well. I head to bed after our show is over, after the spent smoke bombs and fountains have been gathered by flashlight, after we see the grand finale of the enormous spheres of sparks over Jefferson City from about 10 miles out, after the last small child settles to bed, scratching his chiggers.
This glorious day of celebration and tradition is now part of the "mystic chords of memory" for us all.

Josh, Aaron, the big flag, 2014

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Gone Fishin'

The Farmer’s Wife has been off fishing this past week and I am filling in.  It seems only appropriate to make fishing the theme of the week.

Oh...its not as bad as it looks….just one of those brilliant photo ops parents stage that exceed expectations, but not in the way intended.

I should be a better fisherman than I am.  Both my grandfathers counted fishing near the top of their avocations. It was assumed that we would learn to fish about the same age we learned to read!  The poles were Zebco, of course, with sturdy nearly jam free reels, and  the shiny metal tackle box was a wonder.  My grandfather’s tackle box was a splendid many layered thing with so many compartments, it was like the magician’s hat that would spit out scarf after scarf after scarf after scarf.  There were spoons and spinners and spools of multi colored line, gooey fluorescent fake worms and cunning little popping bugs and gleaming artificial minnows with staring painted eyes and jigs that were supposed to jump enticingly along the bottom.  There were bobbers of every size and swivels and lead weights to pinch above your hooks.

We learned to cast from the garden wall with rubber plugs on the ends of our lines, aiming for the inner circle of the automobile belts Grandpa laid out in the driveway. But we had no need for all that exotic paraphernalia in Grandpa’s box.  No trolling, no motors, no fancy ties or flies; I learned to fish from the dock of a farm pond. And I didn’t get to drop my line until I caught my own bait.

Earthworms were readily available in the bottomless bucket Grandpa kept buried near his garden, unless the summer was a real scorcher.  I was never a big fan of nightcrawlers; too big and too much guts. I preferred a worm of just the right diameter to stick several times on the hook: that way I wouldn’t be re-baiting if some precocious bluegill took a nibble unawares.  Stinking of OFF, down the path through the fescue we’d go to the pond. We weren’t allowed to catch bass, just sunfish.The bass were set free to grow into lunkers.  Sometimes we’d cast out and watch our bobbers until our eyes crossed. Sometimes we tightlined right by the dock, shedding our bobbers and fishing by feel.  The bullfrogs would grunt around us, get spooked by our casts, and make rings in the still water.  

Dry summers meant grasshoppers for bait.  Not as fun.  First you had to chase the darn things down through the sharp grass.  Then you had to hook them...under the collar and through the head was easiest, but made it more likely that your hopper would fly off before he hit the water.  If Grandpa were around, we were supposed to hook securely through the rear end...but that made the hopper spit “tobacco juice”all over one’s hands.  Why was that brown juice worse than worm guts? I have no idea; it just was.  If possible, I tried to solve this problem by catching little brown and orange hoppers and not the big ones that flew.  They kept their spit to themselves.

Fishing was the tie that bound us to our grandfathers.  I never thought about it then; we were all too happy being kids turned loose for the summer.  But these many years past, I am happy to have those memories of sunburnt summer afternoons fading to foggy humid evenings, of watching my grandfather’s skilled hands tie on leaders or extract hooks from the little silver fish with the blue gills, of learning to wait….and be still.

Lizzie and Josh and Ecclesiastes 3:9-13:

     9 What gain has the worker from his toil? 

10 I have seen the business that God has given to the children of man to be busy with. 11 He has made everything beautiful in its time. Also, he has put eternity into man's heart, yet so that he cannot find out what God has done from the beginning to the end. 

Lizzie and Josh are riding back to town with me after work today.  As we pass the truck parking lot, Lizzie tells Josh, "That's a truck for hauling pigs."  Josh says, "My daddy drives a truck.  He drives a flower truck."  Lizzie: "Josh, you can haul pigs when you're big and I'll haul flowers. Grandma, does it cost to work at the farm? "

Me: "Lizzie, when you work, you get paid; you don't have to pay to work at the farm. You make money if you work."

 Josh: "I will drive the pig truck."

More than a couple of springs have come and gone since Matt joined us at Hurst Greenery and more than a decade since Lee and Ryan got married, came home, and made us a two generation operation.  I won't tell you how many years since Blake and I hauled our stuff home from college in the back of a '74 Ford grain truck.  When I hear the kids in the back seat talk about working in this family business like its a foregone conclusion, like its as natural a progression as winter turning to spring, I  don't make 'em sign on the dotted line, but it does bring a smile and a little prayer of gratitude for an upbringing so transparent that they know at age three what work is and who does it.

Out here on the farm, we can take this particular phenomenon for granted. In no other industry is generational transfer the norm; in no other business in this modern age in this nation do parents routinely "take their kids to work" and children "follow in their footsteps", learning at the knees of not just mom and dad, but grandma and grandpa, too.

Ahh.  But this gradual learning curve is one of those passes not granted to in laws.  As an import myself, I have often thought that marrying into a family farm must feel like being blindfolded and thrown into a trunk, only to be freed in a country where everyone speaks a different tongue that you don't understand.

This is what brings the Ecclesiastes passage to mind.

How else would I take pleasure in all my toil; how else would this "business..to be busy with.." be "beautiful in its time."   There are disappointments and distress; there are sharp words and fatigue;  but there are bonds strengthened under stress and relieved with laughter and the knowledge that tomorrow and tomorrow and the days after we will still work together.

There are the kids helping pick out pretty flowers (he knows what he likes!)...

At seed time there is no guarantee of successful harvest.  We plant the flowers and hope for happy customers and repeat orders, for the winds to be gentle and the checks to clear. We hope to flourish;we want to grow. We pray with the Preacher of Ecclesiastes that, like Lizzie and Josh, we may appreciate God's gift to us all on the land :

 12 I perceived that there is nothing better for them than to be joyful and to do good as long as they live; 13 also that everyone should eat and drink and take pleasure in all his toil—this is God's gift to man."

From Mom

 

Behind the cards, handmade, flowery, sweet and sincere...

 ...are the kids loved from their creation...

They know their mom like the back of their own hands; they shower her with flowers, with baseball, with history..but there is no measure for the endless joy and pride she takes in them.

Now grown with youngsters of their own, they are learning the hard lessons of give and take, when to stand firm and when to give in, when to build fences and when to set free.

 ...as mothers have learned to do from generation to generation.  We rock, we cuddle, as long as we dare...

 ....we take pleasure in what we teach.....

...what we share....

 
 

because you can never hug, listen, comfort, pray, or laugh too much...

I am not the best at the job of being a mom...

...but it is the job I love best....