These are a few of my Favorite Things

Actually, this song is not really among my favorite things, though I like it much more than I did before we played the pit in the Sound of Music. The movie came out when I was a youngster and popular radio stations alternated that tune with 'Climb Every Mountain' and 'To Dream the Impossible Dream'. Remember, it was the Great Society and we could make everything better just by trying.

But I do love the American songbook and familiarity makes that affection stronger through the years. And that familiarity can, to a great extent, be laid at the feet of the Brownville concert series. I don't know what made us first decide to attend a concert in Brownville; its been quite a few years ago now. I know we first heard Herb Ellis play guitar and the concert was in January, so perhaps we had made our perennial New Year's resolution: that is, to listen to more live music. Tough resolution, huh. But we are habitually spur of the moment, and concerts and tickets require planning ahead or driving long distance, so we don't do it as often as we'd like.

Enter the Brownville concert series. It isn't far away and every other month, one has three opportunities to hear the artist of one's choice. We can make up our mind at noon, or four, or five, call over and still reserve our seats. The venue is more intimate than any cabaret or bistro because the performance is the reason and the audience respects the musicians. No clinking glasses or loud cross table conversations. We can talk to our companions any old time but we can't listen to Tony deSare, or Klea Blackhurst, or KT Sullivan, or Joe Cartwright. Well, I guess we can go to Kansas City and hear Joe nearly any time, but those other folks are only in Nebraska because Jim Keene sought them out in their normal haunts on the East coast.

There are a goodly number of regular attendees, mostly Nebraskans, I guess, though we often see folks we know from Rock Port. There is usually a table or two of travellers, in from Omaha, or Lincoln. The crowd can vary from 100 down to 30 or 40. Those smaller numbers make for a great experience for the audience, but its such a shame when that occurs; we are missing major league culture right in our backyard.

We Midwesterners are clearly interesting specimens to the performers. Two appealing brothers who were raised on Broadway melodies made their first trip to a Super Walmart in Nebraska City during their booking in Brownville. They even took pictures. Even without that quintessential outing, all of the musicians note the inarguable smallness of Brownville and the comparative bigness of the country in general and Nebraska in particular. We in the audience laugh in agreement; yep, we know we're small and we know we are odd specimens to them. Wouldn't it be fun to know what they say when they go back? I look at my fellow concert goers and cosmopolitan is not the first word that comes to mind.

We come back from the concerts finely tuned and humming. Refreshed and optimistic again about living where we do. We've never had the chance to see the Christmas extravaganza promised in our email, but this year one of our favorite performers will be there. Even the family Scrooge is looking forward to it! Wonder if he'll buy a CD?......

In defense of Martha

....no, no, no, not THAT Martha! Not the Martha whose recipes either don't LOOK like those pictures, or, worse, don't TASTE like the description. Not the Martha whose Christmas craft we discarded after going to great lengths to find and purchase the accordion paper that was the main component. Not the Martha whose Thanksgiving decorations this year featured a palette of violet and silver. Un-uh.

No, I'm talking about biblical Martha whom the Lord chastised, albeit gently, for not choosing the right thing. Is there a hostess born of man who has not harbored secret empathy for this Martha as she hustled and bustled about the home, trying to make it perfect for her perfect Guest?

That's who I was thinking about this past week as preparations for a family Thanksgiving feast led me to dog ear recipes in magazines, make repeated trips to the HyVee, and leave great puddles of oil, grease and butter on the counters and tile of my kitchen. That Martha would also have counted chairs, counted spoons and forks (had they existed !) lit the fire, turned on all the lights, and lit the candles just for beauty's sake. Probably she also had way more food in the house than anyone could eat as each guest brought a dish that someone in the house liked better than anything. I don't imagine a hush in the house...surely there was the same sound that precedes a concert, the hum and buzz of anticipation that crescendoed as their household welcomed one more guest to meet Jesus.

Our house was happily loud with conversation after our dinner prayer. Gabe came over to hold my hand so we could pray together, then sounded a hearty 'amen'.

After we'd divided the leftovers, sending the rest of the paper plates with meals for the morrow, I waited up to load the dishwasher a second time. I washed the glasses by hand and set them to drain, but ignored the smashed crackers in the dining room. Were we too concerned with the material matters of the day? Oh, I guess. I'm sure no one cared if there were napkin rings, or if the little tea lights in the windows were lit, or even if there were centerpieces at all. Magazine Martha would have blanched at the fact I only have one set of salt and pepper to my name. But trying to make a pleasant evening for those you love is also an act of service in a small way and acknowledgment of what we've been given. I'm not second guessing the Lord's priorities here, don't get me wrong. Rather, sorting the last silverware on Thanksgiving evening and shoving the last Ziploc in the fridge, I felt peaceful, and prayerful, and thankful, and close to the verse that admonishes us to, 'Be still, and know that I am God.'

Grandpa in his overalls 2007

Clothes make the Man

Tonight, as I have for more than thirty years, I folded a pair of overalls and stuffed them into the armoire. The armoire is not an elegant cabinet and the clothes inside are a motley bunch. The first shelf is full of t-shirts and flannel shirts; the bottom shelf has overalls and some shorts. The white t shirts need to be bleached. The colored shirts are bleached by sun and Maytag. The summer t shirts have an 'x' marking the spot where the overall straps protect fabric and farmer. The winter shirts are snagged, fringed, raveled. They are usually consigned to the rag bag when there is more elbow than sleeve.

There is a closet with clothes on hangers; several fairly nice suits, probably a half dozen shirts under a year old with clean unraveled collars. A half dozen more that will pass for casual or family events. A rainbow of 'Farm Bureau' polo shirts. But the closet doesn't tell the tale of the man and his occupation.

I know farmers cannot be lumped together and categorized neatly by a single stereotype. Not every farmer is an overall aficionado. These days more sport jeans as a uniform; my great uncle, a Western rancher, wore pressed jeans with his cowboy hat. Those were his work clothes. But as a generalization, as an illustration in any book you can name, a farmer wears overalls.

There is good reason. My husband's overalls can carry nearly every item essential to almost any situation he's likely to encounter during a typical day. He'll have gloves in one back pocket and a bandanna in the other. His billfold and cell phone and pen and reading glasses are in the chest pocket. Half a roll of paper towels, wadded up, a handful of self tapping screws and a sample of whatever plant tags we are using could be in one deep pocket. During fall, a big enough test of whatever grain we are harvesting. Usually, lots of change, a straw wrapper, maybe a wadded up styrofoam cup, a couple of receipts. A pocket knife, if he hasn't set it down somewhere.

But the business end of the overalls is the pliers pockets...two screwdrivers, one each flavor. Pliers. Vise grips. Box end wrenches. And the hammer in the hammer loop. The pliers pockets on any pair of overalls were never intended to carry the tool box this farmer wields; they are always the first to wear and tear, to much weeping and gnashing of teeth. This farmer will never sneak up on anyone; like a knight of old, the clanking of armor announces his arrival.

I am not doctrinaire with regard to overalls. During these thirty years, I've bought Dickies and Big Mac, overalls from J.C. Penney and Sears, overalls of denim and duck. Overalls with the engineers stripe. The blue and white striped ones always remind me of Grandpa H. His overalls were faded nearly to baby blue and as soft as flannel. His shirts were chambray and soft as well. He could have been tinted like the oldest color photographs were, the colors were so pale and fine.

A well worn pair of overalls is even cool in the summer. Nothing binding with lots of space for the breeze to blow. Overalls are cozy in winter with plenty of room to layer with long johns.

I know the image of agriculture is not always well served by overalls. Our forebears in the 30s looked worn, weary, beaten down in the photographs that are preserved. Some farmers have used overalls as a political statement, defiantly proclaiming their inability to either adapt or succeed with their apparel. But that doesn't keep me from admiring the sheer utility and versatility of the garment: rather like the man who wears them.

Manger scene at Spruce